My bedroom here hasn’t changed much since high school—hockey trophies still line the shelves, posters of NHL legends on the walls. The only difference is the king-sized bed that replaced my twin when I hit six foot three and my feet started hanging off the end.
“Wow.” Sydney looks around. “It’s like a hockey museum in here.”
I shift on my feet. “Meema says it keeps me from forgetting where I came from.”
She runs her fingers over a frame on the dresser—a photo of thirteen-year-old me and Jonah in our first travel team uniforms, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, gap-toothed grins on our faces. “Jonah had that same picture in our house growing up. Used to stare at it for hours, planning your NHL careers together.”
The mention of Jonah sends another wave of guilt crashing over me. The guy who’s been by my side through everything. The guy I’m about to piss off so much I’m putting our friendship in jeopardy. But he’ll understand. I think.
Shit, I hope.
Sydney must see the look on my face because she says, “Don’t worry. Once he knows it’s for Maisie—”
“It’s not just about her,” I interrupt, sitting on the bed. “It’s about you, too. I know this helped you get the job you wanted, but Jonah will do anything to keep you from getting hurt.”
“Well, that’s not happening, so he can chill.” Sydney sits beside me, careful to maintain space between us. “We need to tell him before KBVR leaks our relationship Saturday morning.”
“We’ll do it in person when he gets here on Friday evening for Meema’s party,” I say, but the guilt doesn’t subside. There’s more to all this than Jonah, who’s protecting Sydney from a hockey star fuckboy. Only he, my parents, and Meema know the life-obliterating thing I’m forced to keep from everyone else.
“That works. I’m going to grab a shower.” Sydney stands abruptly. “Long day.”
“Towels are in the hall closet,” I say, grateful for the subject change. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
While she showers, I change into sweatpants, struggling with my T-shirt. The shoulder injury makes it nearly impossible to lift my right arm above my head, and after a minute of contortion that leaves me sweating and swearing, I give up for now.
When Sydney comes out of the bathroom, I nearly swallow my tongue. She’s wearing Smurf pajamas. Actual cartoon Smurf pajamas, with little blue characters all over the pants and a matching blue top. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head.
She looks ridiculously young. And ridiculously hot.
“Nice PJs.” I try to sound sarcastic instead of intrigued.
“Shut up.” She tosses her clothes into a corner. “They’re comfortable.”
“I didn’t say they weren’t.” I shift, self-conscious about sleeping all night next to her in the same T-shirt I’ve worn all day. “I, uh, was having trouble with my shirt.”
Sydney sighs, but there’s no irritation behind it. “Turn around.”
I obey, feeling strangely vulnerable as she approaches. Her fingers are cool against my neck as she helps me out of the shirt, careful not to jar my shoulder. The sensation sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature.
“It’s pretty bad, huh?” Her breath’s warm against my bare back.
For a moment, I think she’s talking about my reaction to her touch. Then I realize she means the bump where my shoulder separated. Thank god, it doesn’t require surgery.
“It’s getting better,” I lie. The truth is, the doctors aren’t sure I’ll ever regain full range of motion.
Sydney helps me into a clean T-shirt, her movements efficient but gentle. It’s the most intimate moment I’ve shared with anyone since my injury, and it’s withSydney Holt.
“Thanks,” I mutter when she’s done, not meeting her eyes.
“No problem.” She steps back quickly, putting distance between us. “Consider it practice for our convincing couple act.”
We both climb into bed from opposite sides, lying rigidly on our backs. The ceiling fan turns above, casting moving shadows across the walls.
She shifts onto her side, facing me. I can feel her eyes on my profile but don’t dare turn to meet them. “This is weird, right?”
“Top five weirdest moments of my life. And I once found the mayor of Dickens skinny-dipping in the hotel pool after a win.”
Sydney laughs softly, the sound pleasant. “Tell me you have photographic evidence of that.”
