Brooks executes another sharp turn, and his powerful stride is unmistakable, even at a distance. He moves like he was born on the ice—which I’d never admit to his obnoxious face.
Then it happens. He glances up, notices the camera, and our eyes lock across the lake. Even from twenty yards away, I can see the exact moment recognition hits him.
His eyes widen. His jaw sets.
He stares me down, and in a way that does things to me—things I will absolutely ignore because there’s no way I’m attracted to Brooksie hair-butchering Kingston.
A year is clearly too long without a good romp in the hay because if I’m evenconsideringseeing him as hot, I’ve clearly lost my mind.
And… I’ve stopped reporting.
Wait a minute…
This is The King—he can boost the ratings of this floundering report. Here’s the moment where I can show off my sportscasting skills.
I wave him over. “But let’s hear about the ice conditions from one of Beaver County’s biggest hockey stars.”
I plaster on my biggest smile as he barrels toward me.
2
Busted
BROOKS
I’m flying across the ice toward Sydney, and I can’t tear my gaze away from her. It’s wild—like some primal magnetism.
Maybe it’s because my blood’s running hot? Ten minutes ago, I stormed out of Meema’s house, my dad’s email ricocheting through my head like a bullet in a barrel.
“This recovery needs to be lightning fast, Brooks. The team can take home the Stanley for the first time, but they can’t without you. Push harder.”
Push harder.
The Kingston family motto. Like I haven’t been pushing myself since I was five years old, when Dad first put me on skates and told me I had Kingston blood, which apparently means I was born to dominate theice.
So I grabbed my skates. The lake has always been one of my two escapes, a place where I can breathe. Here, it’s just me, the ice, and the silence.
Except now, there’s Sydney Holt standing on the bank wearing ridiculous faux fur boots, microphone in hand, waving me over.
Fucking perfect.
She wants me on her segment, something Ireallydon’t want to do, but I’ve already been caught on camera, so I’ll look like a dick if I skate off.
Fine—I’ll do it, but I better make it a good show so viewers don’t see me as weak and injured.
I maneuver around Floyd and Fiona enjoying their morning quickie, going for a flashy hockey stop, skates digging in hard. The familiar burn in my thigh as muscles engage, and the world tilts sideways as I execute a cut that would make my skating coach proud, if not concerned for my recovery timeline.
My rotator cuff sends a bolt of white-hot pain down my arm—fuck. The doctors said it was healing well, but “well” is relative when your entire career depends on being able to swing a hockey stick with precision while two hundred-pound guys try to crush you into plexiglass.
Crystals fly into the frigid morning air, spraying the side of Sydney’s face.
Whoops—wasn’t trying to do that.
Okay, not thatmuch.
I’m breathing hard, partly from exertion and partly from the rush of adrenaline that comes with intense pain as I skate over and brush off the side of Sydney’s face with my huge gloves. All I end up doing is smearing her mascara down one cheek.
Shit.
