Page 95 of Reach Around

“I’m not giving up,” he adds. “I just… I want a plan. Something more than chasing goals and hoping the contract comes through. A plan B if you will.”

I force a smile. “That’s smart. Responsible.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, bare chest distracting as hell. “I can’t be a player forever.”

“But you haven’t even had your shot yet,” I whisper. “Your real shot to go after your dream of the NHL.”

His gaze lifts to mine, soft. “Joely…”

“No, I get it. I do.” I push off the doorframe, grab my boots, anything to look away. “You want to be realistic.”

“I want to be ready,” he says, voice low.

“Right.” I nod, stuffing my feet into the boots with a little too much force. “Well, I should get going. Thanks for the… you know. Everything. You can stay as long as you want. Help yourself to snacks whatever. Just lock up when you leave.”

He stands, walks over, brushes a kiss to my temple. “You okay?”

“Totally,” I lie. “Just need to run an errand before my shift.”

He watches me too long. I feel his stare like a touch.

Pausing in the doorway, I watch him stretch out in my sheets like he belongs there—and he does, in every way that counts. My heart’s pounding with all the things I want to say, but I don’t trust my voice not to break. I want to tell him he’s not done. That his dream isn’t dead, just changing shape. But the words get tangled up with everything else—fear, longing, the kind of reckless hope that makes you do stupid shit involving ladders.

So I grab my coat and step into the cold.

And I know exactly what I need to do.

If Brogan’s dreams are fading, I’ll just have to burn brighter for both of us.

By the time I pull up to Lynsie’s house, the plan is solid in my head. A full-on covert mission, Operation Pep Talk. I just need my partner in crime.

Lynsie answers the door looking like a moody housecat in all black, mascara flawless, nails… not so much.

“You’re dressed like a cat burglar again,” she says flatly. “That’s never a good sign.”

“I prefer the term stealth goddess,” I reply, holding up the oversized black duffel like it’s a baby. “I brought supplies.”

She squints at me. “Is that… Saran Wrap?”

“It’s waterproof and windproof,” I say, like I’ve done this before. “And festive. And it did the trick the last time like a dream.”

She folds her arms. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no, as in: not again. Not after the last time you convinced me to scale a ladder like some deranged spider monkey. I almost died.”

“You stubbed your toe.”

“I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

“You were on the second rung.”

She points at her foot. “My nail split. Down the middle. It still haunts me.”

I blink. “We had a deal.”

“I thought you were my friend.”

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