Brooks’ face transforms, pride replacing the lingering fear in his eyes. “That’s amazing, Syd. You deserve it. You’re the most talented reporter I know.”
“You’re biased,” I say, echoing our conversation from before everything fell apart.
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” He completes the exchange.
The air between us is a charge building like the electricity before a storm. Brooks looks at me,reallylooks at me, his eyes clearing, determination replacing the last traces of fear.
“I’m proud of you,” he says, his voice intense. “For going for your dreams. Adjusting the plan when you see what it is your heart wants.” He takes a deep breath. “You’re just… everything.”
My pulse quickens, but I’ve been here before, believed in possibilities that evaporated. I can’t let that happen again—not without knowing it’s real and whatever secret he has. “Brooks—”
“Syd, I need to tell you something,” he interrupts, his voice charged with emotion.
I clear my throat and try to ignore the way my heart is beating a desperate, stupid rhythm in my chest. I know where he’s going with this, and I absolutely cannot let him get into it right now. I put my hand on his chest. “You know you still have a game to finish, right?” I keep my voice light and not betray how badly I want to pull him into another hug. Or a kiss. Or maybe both, then never let go. “I’m not getting blamed for ruining the playoffs. We’ll talk after.”
Brooks’ mouth curves into that dangerous half-smirk. He looks down at our hands, still tangled together. “My place after?”
“Count on it,” I whisper, breathless. Brooks gives my fingers a last squeeze and then turns, slipping back into his game face as he gears up and skates past the trainers and through the tunnel toward the rink, helmet dangling from one hand.
The noise of the stadium slams into me at full volume. The crowd is a living, breathing animal—a cacophony of stomps and claps and unfiltered, feral hope. After the hit to Brooks, The Trout clearly want blood. Or at least, a win.
I’m back reporting, and it’s tough keeping my voice steady.
The game clock blares as the last period resumes. The Trout and Blizzards circle each other, sizing up weaknesses, trash-talking, baiting. Brooks’ first shift back is a little shaky—he wipes out on a hard stop and nearly slides into the boards face-first, but instead of staying down, he pops back up with a snarl aimed squarely at the closest Blizzards. The crowd goes berserk, a standing ovation for not dying on impact.
He makes it to the bench after a minute, dripping sweat and cursing under his breath. One of the rookies tosses him a water bottle, and Brooks drains it before they both start laughing. I can see the tension start to melt off him, layer by layer, as he remembers that for all the crap he’s dealing with off the ice, here is where he is most himself. In the chaos, the contact, the speed.
Next shift, he’s better. He checks a Blizzard so violently the guy’s stick goes spinning into the stands, showering a group of Girl Scouts in nacho cheese. But the crowd’s too busy chanting Brooks’ name to notice. The King is back, and every single person in this arena knows it.
It’s 3-3, and there’s a minute left in regulation.
I can see the determination in every line of Brook’s body. He’s not coasting anymore; he wants this. He wants to beat Jonah. He fakes a pass to McDavid, just long enough for two Blizzards to bite, then lasers a no-look rocket to Carter, the rookie that none of the rest of us notice. But he maneuvers the puck around to confuse the defenders before faking a shot. Instead, he passes it back to Brooks, who takes the shot, a perfect wrister that goes top shelf and hits the back of the net so hard it makes the goal lamp shudder.
The arena detonates. I think I lose my hearing for a second. Some kid behind me starts screaming, “He did it! He did it!” and I realize I’m screaming too, tears sliding down my face and blurring the chaos into a watercolor of blue and gray.
Brooks doesn’t throw his gloves or leap into the glass like he usually does. Instead, he just stands there, helmet off, eyes closed, breathing it all in while his teammates mob him from behind. I watch, pulse still galloping, as the panic and pressure drain out of his shoulders and, for a split second, he looks at peace. Not just happy, but actually okay. Like maybe, for once, the future doesn’t terrify him.
He finally skates to the bench, and the first thing he does is glance around until he spots me. Our eyes meet, and it’s as if the entire stadium’s roars become a low thrum. He grins and taps his stick once to his heart and then to me.
I’m not crying, you’re crying.
The locker room post-game is a madhouse. Reporters swarm, cameras flash, and the Trout’s coaching staff is already babbling about “comebacks” and “true grit” and “never doubted him for a second.” Brooks endures the attention for about six minutes, then ducks out with a towel around his neck.
And he’s heading straight for me.
He laughs and picks me up in a bear hug, spinning me once before setting me back down. “You did this,” he says, voice scratchy with exhaustion and something else.
My heart, already a disaster, completely skyrockets. “I just did for you what you did for me.”
Brooks leans in, his forehead pressed to mine, the whole world shrinking to just this moment. Then he kisses me, soft and reverent and just a little bit scared, and I kiss him back, anchoring us both to this very real, very messy, very alive moment.
The King is back, and he’s not the only one with something to fight for.
35
Truth with a View
BROOKS
