“Holiday shooters!” she announces with the enthusiasm of someone who has definitely been sampling her own creations. “This one’s Elf Juice, this is Santa’s Little Helper, and this shiny one is—wait for it—Christmas Spirit!”
Brooks’ mother, Lisa, eyes the concoctionswarily. “Maisie, what’s in these, exactly?”
“Oh, nothing that’ll kill you,” Maisie waves. “Probably.”
Brooks’ father, Rob, usually stoic, actually cracks a smile. “I’ll try the green one,” he says, surprising everyone, especially Brooks, whose eyebrows shoot up.
“Dad—” Brooks starts.
“What?” Rob shrugs. “We’re sleeping in one of Mom’s guest rooms.”
And just like that, the intimidating Robert Kingston—the man who once made Brooks practice hockey drills until his hands bled—downs a shot of radioactive-looking liquid and declares it “not bad” with only minimal facial contortion.
The shooters don’t look good, but admittedly, Maisie’s spiked spicy hot cocoa is to die for, and unlike my brother, I’m going to cut myself off because I don’t want to be hungover on Christmas day.
The room erupts in laughter, and I find myself marveling at how much has changed. Not just for me and Brooks, but for all of us. Growth, healing, and finding our way back to each other.
My job at KBSN has become everything I hoped for—challenging, rewarding, mine. I still get the occasional comment about being “the blond” or questions about my hockey knowledge that wouldn’t be asked of male reporters, but now I just smile and eviscerate them with stats they didn’t even know existed. Having Brooks and Jonah as inside sources doesn’t hurt, but it’s my preparation, my passion, my voice that’s earned me respect in the booth and among fans.
And Brooks—my rock, my home, my heart—has found his stride again too, playing with a freedom and joy I’ve never seen before. The Trout are in a good position to make the playoffs this year, largely thanks to his leadership on and off the ice.
“Earth to Sydney.” Zoe waves a hand in front of my face. “Your nostalgic internal monologue is showing.”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring dreamily. “Sorry, just thinking about how much has changed this year.”
“Speaking of change,” Jonah interjects, slinging an arm around Zoe’s shoulders with practiced casualness that fools absolutely no one, “did I mention I bought a place in Back Bay? Four bedrooms, rooftop deck, and—” he pauses dramatically, “—a hot tub that could fit the entire defensive line.”
“Gross,” I say automatically. “I’m nevereverusing that.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “I’ll clean it! Sometimes.”
“Hard pass.”
“I’ll use it.” Zoe’s cheeks flush. “For journalistic research purposes, of course.”
“Of course.” Jonah’s grin widens. “I’m very supportive of thorough journalism.”
I make gagging noises, which Brooks silences with a kiss to my temple. “Be nice,” he murmurs. “Your brother deserves someone who clearly wants to bang him.”
“Eww.” I watch as Zoe not-so-subtly leans into Jonah’s side. “But it better be a one-night thing. A drunken holiday boning.”
“Merry Christmas to that.” Brooks laughs, and there’s an intensity in his eyes, a charged anticipation that sends a shiver down my spine.
Before I can question it, Maisie clinks a spoon against her glass, calling for attention. “Everyone! Everyone! Brooks has something he wants to share.”
The room quiets, all eyes turning to us. Brooks straightens beside me, his hand finding mine again, squeezing once—our signal for “I’ve got this.”
“So,” he begins, his voice steady despitethe emotion I can feel thrumming through him. “Most of you know that this year has been... a journey.”
Understatement of the century. From fake engagement to real love, from career implosions to rebuilding, from the shadow of Huntington’s to...
“I got my test results back yesterday,” he says, and the air in the room suddenly feels too thin, too still. I hold my breath, though I already know what he’s going to say. He told me first, as promised, in our kitchen last week. But this—sharing it with our families, making it real—feels momentous in a different way.
“I’m negative.” His voice breaking. “No Huntington’s gene. Clean bill of health.”
The collective exhale is audible, a room full of people who love Brooks releasing a year and a half of fear in a single breath. Maisie bursts into tears first, her hands flying to her mouth. Lisa is next, reaching for Rob’s hand as tears stream silently down her face. Jonah whoops, pumping his fist in the air like Brooks just scored a game-winning goal.
“I knew it,” Maisie sobs, clutching her chest. “I knew my boy would be okay.”
