Page 84 of Reach Around

It was about the kids.

And it was about her. About how a normal life can bring joy in the little things.

I glance down the line of locker room doors and see a row of tiny hockey sticks leaned up against the wall, each one labeled with names written in crooked Sharpie. Tommy. Devon. Ellie. Max.

One of them, maybe all of them, could be great.

Hell, even if they’re not, I still want them to love the game. To believe in themselves the way nobody really taught me to. Not until Joely.

I hear Coach Duff’s voice in my head from earlier this season:Figure out who you are when the cheering stops. That’s what matters.

Well, damn.

I might actually be figuring it out.

I want this. The chaos. The noise. The mess.

But more than anything, I wantpurpose.

Skating with these kids… it’s the first time in months I didn’t feel like a screw-up. Like I was spiraling or flailing or just trying to stay relevant.

This was me. Whole. Grounded. Maybe even a little happy.

A hand claps my back. Virgil. “You did good today, kid.”

“Thanks,” I murmur.

“Didn’t think you had it in you. Guess I was wrong.”

“You’re wrong a lot.”

He grunts, then hands me a beat-up beanie. “One of the kids dropped it. Said it was their ‘lucky hat.’ Wanted you to have it.”

I stare at it like it might bite me.

“That a problem?” Virgil grumbles.

“No. Just—no one’s ever called me lucky before.”

He shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time they start.”

I look back over at Joely.

Maybe it is.

Yeah, I want this. All of it. Her. This town. This chaos. Maybe for good.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Joely

If you’re up before sunrise here, odds are you’re either a farmer, a hockey player, or up to something mildly illegal. Tonight, it’s door number three. The only thing quieter than the empty streets is the trouble brewing on Miner’s Arena’s sign—because love confessions don’t come in bouquets. They come in Saran Wrap, zip ties, and a couple of best friends hellbent on making sure the guy finally gets the message. On my signs, the letters might be crooked, but the intentions are straight from the heart.

Playlist: Signs by Tesla

This time, the letters are secure. Tight. Not even a rogue Sorrowville gust could pry them off. I take a step back on the narrow catwalk ledge circling the sign and admire my handiwork like it’s a Banksy mural and not a mildly deranged act of public vandalism.

“Can we leave now?” Lynsie’s voice is three octaves higher than normal and shaking. She’s halfway down the ladder and clinging to it like she’s on a free solo documentary. “I am one stiff breeze from death.”

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