1
Ice Breaker
SYDNEY
“Ten seconds, Sydney!”
I adjust my blue KBVR Network beanie and nod, inhaling the icy air.
My teeth chatter like a wind-up toy as I stand at the edge of Kingston Lake, and it’s not just from the penguin resort temperature. It’s also because I have to knock this weather report out of the park.
The head of our network, Marcus Steele, is scrutinizing it as he decides who’ll become the next sportscaster at KBVR. And although the network has seen better days, that's my dream job.
“Five, four, three...” Kermit, my tattooed Santa Claus cameraman, mouths the last two numbers and points at me.
“Good morning, Beaver County!” I overdo it, sounding like a Girl Scout on a sugar high. “Sydney Holt here, reporting live from the beautiful Kingston Lake, where we’re wakingup to record-breaking lows today—minus four degrees at sunrise, with the wind chill making it feel like negative infinity. As you can see—” I gesture to the sheet of ice behind me, “—everything froze solid overnight, Rick.”
Viewers are watching me and anchor Rick Chesson on a split screen. However, I can only hear him through my earpiece when he says, “Now that’s what I call a sheet of ice, Sydney.”
The cue cards in Kermit’s hand flip in the wind, but I don’t need them. I’ve been reporting the weather for three years now, working my ass off since I was twenty-five to land the sportscaster position. “With temperatures plummeting so low in early October, this marks the earliest freeze in Beaver County’s recorded history. Local wildlife experts are concerned about—”
A flash of movement in my peripheral vision makes me falter for a microsecond.
“—concerned about the impact on local wildlife, particularly our beaver population, which usually has more time to prepare their lodges for winter.”
Oh. My. God.
Beside me, about five feet out on the ice, two fat, brown, unmistakable beaver shapes are moving up and down, engaging in nature’s intimate dance. I’m pretty sure it’s Floyd and Fiona, those horny beavs.
My cameraman’s eyes widen, and he subtly tries to adjust the angle to exclude the X-rated show happening behind me. But the lake is wide open, and there’s probably no hiding it completely.
In his movement, Kermit’s legs slide apart on the ice. Miraculously, he stays standing, but from his current lopsided angle, I’m halfway off camera.
Heat rushes to my face despite the arctic air.Professional. Be professional.
And if I’ve learned anything, it’s tackling awkward head-on because avoidance only makes things worse. I step over, careful not to slip on the slick, wet snow until I’m back in the camera frame. “And as you can see behind me, the Kingston property resident beavers, Floyd and Fiona, are still feeling the heat despite the cold.” I gesture with my free hand to the couple moving together, their tails slapping rhythmically against the ice. “Beavers, as we all know, mate for life.” I can practicallyfeelMarcus’s eyes roll as he’s watching me back at the station. “And nothing, not even freezing temperatures, can keep them apart.”
Um, nailed it?
“And speaking of freezing temperatures,” I pivot desperately, “Maisie Kingston, the property owner, has informed us that county officials said that although the ice is approximately four inches thick in most areas, it’s patchy, which means—”
The image of Maisie flashes in my mind—her thin frame wrapped in a knit blanket during our last poker game, the chemo port visible beneath her cardigan. Almost seventy, she cleans me out of my spare change every Friday afternoon.
I shake the thought away, focusing. “—which means it’s not safe. So please, Dickens residents, the lake is one hundred percent not ready for skaters yet—”
A dark figure streaks across the far side of the lake, moving with impossible speed and grace. My words die in my throat as I squint against the morning sun. The figure cuts sharply, ice spraying in its wake, executing a perfect crossover turn that only years of training could produce.
My stomach drops to my frozen toes.
Brooks Kingston.The King. Star player for the BoiseTrout.
Maisie’s grandson.
And best friend to my older brother, Jonah.
Brooksie, the jackass who chopped off my ponytail in fourth grade and got suspended for three days while I spent a year growing out a bob that made me look like a mushroom.
“As you can see,” I stumble on, “some locals are taking dangerous risks given the conditions, Rick.”
