Page 9 of Reach Around

Bennett snorts, “I feel like you should know how this is going to work then. Whatever you say, Madeline.”

I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of their expectations and my own dread. “My brother’s right. I don’t dance.”

Bennett claps me on the shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips, “Yup. I’ve seen you. You don’t need to convince me.”

Madeline glances at her phone, then nudges me toward the bench. “Go get suited up. You’ve got warmups in ten, and we’ll need you ice-ready before the TikTok.” I nod, ducking into the back hallway where the rest of the guys are pulling on pads and snapping on helmets. I go through the routine—gear up, tape my socks, snap the chinstrap.

By the time I’m lacing up my skates, the tension in the locker room is peaking. The music’s louder, the jokes sharper, but it’s all noise as I move on autopilot, muscle memory from a thousand games kicking in. As I shrug into my warm-up jersey, Madeline and Harper reappear—Harper, at least, waiting just outside the main locker area with her camera and a nervous grin, only stepping inside once everyone’s fully dressed. Even she knows there are boundaries, and the locker room before a game isn’t the place for a photoshoot.

Despite the laughter from some of the others, anxiety twists in my gut. This isn’t just about a dance per se. I know I have to fight to keep my spot on the team and get my already pitiful contract renewed. I need to prove I can bring more to the table than just recent stats and missed shots.

“Tell me you have my back,” I say, locking eyes with Bennett.

He meets my gaze squarely, the earlier jest gone. “I have your back. As long as you’re not flat on it.”

Madeline steps closer, her voice commanding, “With feeling, Bennett. Your brother needs you right now.”

Bennett’s response is louder, for the benefit of the room, “I have your back!”

The guys echo him, a chorus of support that buoys my spirits slightly. Harper, the social media girl, edges into the room with her camera, her smile encouraging.

She catches my eye, nodding as if to say,You got this.

I take a deep breath, the cool, recycled air of the locker room filling my lungs. Around me, the team’s energy morphs from humorous to supportive, their faces set into determined lines that mirror the resolve I’m trying to muster.

As the guys file out onto the ice for warm-ups, I hang back with Madeline and Harper, stomach churning like I’ve just chugged a week-old protein shake.

The arena lights dim.

The PA crackles to life, and my blood runs cold.

“Ladieeeees and gentlemen... put your hands together for the one... the only... BroFetti!”

What the actual fuck?

A spotlight hits center ice, catching Slammy the goddamn Mascot already shimmying like his life depends on it. He’s got a giant glittery chain around his fuzzy neck that says #BroFetti, and the crowd loses their minds.

I glance at Harper.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, already holding up her phone like she’s about to catch the greatest content of her life.

I lean toward Madeline. “Bro-Fetti?”

She shrugs, beaming. “Marketing gold.”

I’m gonna puke.

Harper gives me a double thumbs up, mouthing, “Get out there, BroFetti! Show ‘em how it’s done!”

I want to crawl under the bench and die.

Instead, I push off toward center ice, praying to every hockey god I’ve ever ignored that I don’t faceplant in front of eight thousand people.

“Alright, let’s do this,” I say, more to convince myself than them. As Harper sets up her equipment, I square my shoulders, focusing on the natural rhythm, determined to turn this into something that might just save my contract and my pride.

The stadium around me is a blur of anticipation and the cheering from the home crowd kicks in, echoing off the rafters. I nod to Harper, who gives me another thumbs up from behind her camera, and then there’s no turning back.

Desperate for some sort of approval, I turn toward the bench, expecting to see the guys ready to jump in or at least throw me a lifeline.

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