Page 91 of Reach Around

I lean back against the boards, watching Virgil descend into another profanity-laced monologue. It’s chaos. Dumb, ridiculous, only-in-Sorrowville chaos.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I’m heading toward the locker room when my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. Not Joely—Britt. Her name on my screen makes my stomach clench.

“Hey, boss lady,” I answer, trying for light.

She skips pleasantries. “Just a quick update before Franklin corners you—contract talks are still stalled. He’s got demands, I’ve got counter-offers, but he’s not budging. I thought this would be easier, Brogan. He’s… harder than I expected.”

I rub my forehead, tension crawling up my neck. “Do I need to be worried?”

She sighs. “Not yet. But don’t do anything to draw attention off the ice, okay? Lay low. Let me work. And for the love of God, don’t end up on TikTok unless you’re scoring goals.”

“No pressure,” I mutter.

“It’s just business,” she says, but I can hear the exhaustion in her voice. “We’ll get there. I promise. Just… don’t let your head go sideways. We need you focused.”

“Copy that.”

She hangs up, and I stand there for a beat, the cold suddenly sharper. My contract. My whole damn future, hanging in the balance. I squeeze my phone and try not to spiral.

And that’s when Joely’s call comes in—like a lifeline, the one person who can pull me out of my own head.

I swipe on her face. Just seeing it lights me up in places I probably shouldn’t acknowledge in the locker room. Suddenly, I need her. More than I want to admit. More than I want to need anyone. I step into the hallway because I’m not about to have this conversation with Shep eavesdropping.

“Good morning,” I say, voice still ragged from skate. “What’s going on?”

There’s a pause. Then, “I have a dress I need help getting out of…”

Every single nerve ending in my body goes on red alert. “Really?”

“No,” she deadpans.

I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Why would you do that to me? I’m surrounded by men. Sweaty, half-naked men.”

“I live to torment you.”

“Mission accomplished.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward—never awkward with her—but thick. Charged.

“I’m coming over anyway,” I say. “As soon as practice ends. I’m there.”

“I hoped you’d say that,” she replies softly, like she’s smiling.

I hang up and lean against the wall for a second, trying to remember how to breathe. Her voice does something to me. Grounds me. Ignites me. Wrecks me in the best way.

When I head back into the locker room, Bennett’s waiting with one eyebrow cocked. “You’ve got the look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says your blood’s all southbound and you forgot how to blink.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s fine,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “I’m wrecked.”

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