Page 83 of Reach Around

For all of it.

“Who wants to rideSleetwood Mac?” Virgil shouts like a carnival barker with a nicotine addiction.

A dozen hands shoot into the air. One kid actually dives belly-first onto the ice like he’s sliding into home plate to improve his odds.

Virgil’s already standing proudly next to the Zamboni, one hand on the hood. He’s wearing a trucker hat that readsICE ICE BABYand a pair of aviators despite being indoors. I’m almost impressed.

“Alright, you degenerates. One at a time. This ain’t a Lyft.”

“Can I drive it?” one kid asks.

“Not unless you got a CDL and a death wish,” Virgil grunts. “You canpretendto steer. Just don’t touch the blade.”

“What happens if we touch the blade?”

“You won’t be playing hockey, or piano, or eating McDonald’s French fries for a long, long time.”

The kids gasp like he just told them Santa Claus is fake and also sells meth.

Joely laughs behind me, full and unfiltered. I glance back at her. She’s got a pen in one hand and her other shoved in the pocket of her puffy red coat, which is way too big for her but somehow makes her look even cuter. She looks happy. Really happy.

I can’t stop watching her watching me.

One of the kids finally climbs up next to Virgil. The moment he sits down, the horn honks—purely by accident—but the arena echoes like the damn Titanic’s coming in for docking.

Every single kid screams.

Virgil clutches his chest. “Jesus on ice skates, ya little gremlin! I thought I was gonna meet my maker.”

“You honk that thing again,” Coach Duff says from across the rink, “and you’ll be resurfacing the ice with a kid’s snow shovel for the rest of your damn life.”

Virgil glares at him with the elegance of a man twice his age and half his patience. “Relax, Duff. You’re just mad no one wants to ride on your shoulders.”

“Because I’m not a motorized deathtrap.”

Pru looks mortified. “Did everyone sign the release form?”

The banter flies, the kids lose their minds, and I… I actually feel good. Relaxed, even.

No pressure. No scouts. No plays to memorize or stat sheets to stress over.

Just… joy.

Pure, chaotic, juvenile joy.

The event winds down slower than I expect. The rink’s gone from chaos to calm—just a few kids skating lazy circles, their parents wrangling gear, Coach Duff nursing a juice box like it’s a post-game beer.

I should be tired. My back’s killing me from tying a million skates, and I’m pretty sure one kid sneezed directly into my mouth. But I feel… good.

Likereallygood.

Joely’s over by the snack table, deep in conversation with Madeline and my mom. She’s laughing again, and even though I’m too far away to hear, I know it’s that breathy kind of laugh she does when she’s flustered but flattered. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, then catches me watching and gives me a shy little wave.

And just like that, I’m wrecked.

I lean against the boards, arms crossed, heart doing that stupid drumroll thing it always does when she’s around.

This day wasn’t about my contract. Or impressing Coach. Or stacking points.

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