She clinks her rim against mine, her eyes never leaving my face. “New beginnings,” she echoes, taking a sip. “Mmm, good. Fancy.”
“Came with the house,” I joke weakly. “Along with the pretentiousness.”
She laughs, and for a moment, everything feels normal. Just two people enjoying wine and a sunset, not a conversation that might end us before we’ve really begun.
“So,” she says after a moment, “how’s the shoulder now?”
“Sore as shit, but it’s fine.”
“Good. You’ll need it for the playoff push.”
“Yeah. Team needs all hands on deck.” I stare into my glass. “How about you? Ready for KBSN?”
Sydney’s whole face lights up. “Beyond ready. I’ve already started prepping segments, researching players. They want me to cover the college basketball tournament in the spring, maybe even travel with the team.” She leans forward, animated in a way that makes my chest ache with affection. “And get this—they’re pairing me with Paul Meyers for the hockey broadcasts. Paul freaking Meyers, Brooks! The guy’s a legend.”
“He’s a fossil.” I grin. “But he knows his stuff. He’ll be lucky to work with you.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.” A hint of her old insecurity peeks through. “That I’ve earned this. That I’m good enough.”
“You are,” I say firmly. “The best.”
She holds my gaze. “Thanks for believing in me. Even when I don’t believe in myself.”
The perfect opening. My heart kicks into overdrive, my mouth suddenly dry despite the wine. “Sydney,” I say, setting my glass on the coffee table. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Her expression becomes more guarded. “Okay.”
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to hold her gaze. “Let me finish the whole thing before you speak.”
She nods, her body angling toward mine.
“I’m in love with you.” The words rushout. “Completely, utterly in love. I have been for years. Even before this whole fake engagement thing. Since the time you climbed that tree so far, I lost a bet to Jonah.” I laugh shakily.
Sydney’s breath catches, her eyes widening, glistening with unshed tears. She opens her mouth to speak, but I raise a hand, stopping her.
“But there’s something else you need to know.” I swallow hard, fighting the urge to look away, to protect myself from her reaction. “I most likely have Huntington’s disease.”
Her face goes blank with shock, and I hurry on, needing to get it all out before I lose my nerve. “It’s a progressive, fatal brain disorder. No cure. Both my parents are carriers, which gives me a 75% chance of developing it. I’ve never been tested because...” My voice cracks. “I’m terrified. Terrified of knowing, terrified of how it might change everything. How I play. My career if the NHL found out. My life... us.”
Sydney sits perfectly still, her face a complex map of emotions I can’t fully read. We go quiet, filled by the sound of our breathing and the distant hum of the heating system keeping the cold mountain air at bay.
“So that’s why you pushed me away,” she whispers, understanding dawning in her eyes. “When I mentioned LA, you saw an easy out.”
I nod, shame burning through me. “I was trying to protect you. From me, from my mess, from a future that might include watching me deteriorate.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with my own cowardice. “What kind of life is that to offer someone? What kind of selfish bastard would I be to ask you to sign up for that?”
“Brooks,” she says, her voice achingly gentle. “I can’t believe the impossible burden you’ve been carrying.” She shakes her head, tears finally spilling over, trackingdown her cheeks in silver lines. “How long have you known? And who knows?”
“I found out last year when my parents went and got genetic testing to deal with other health issues. The bloodwork came back, and the doctors notified them so they could tell me. So… my parents know, obviously. And Meema and Jonah. That’s it. Well, and now you.” I clear my throat. “If the league finds out I’m at risk and kept playing anyway...” I trail off, the implications clear.
“Brooks, nothing about this sounds easy.” Disbelief colors her tone.
“Easier than watching people look at me differently. Like I’m already gone. Like I’m something to pity.”
She reaches out, taking my hand in hers. “I love you,” she says, her voice pure emotion. “And I could never see you differently.”
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by her words, by the way she’s looking at me—not with pity or fear, but with a fierce, protective kind of love that takes my breath away. “You don’t have to say that,” I whisper. “I don’t expect... I just needed you to know. Before we go any further. You deserve the whole truth.”
“And now I have it,” she says simply. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”
