“Was for an emergency flight home from an away game when Meema was in the hospital with her gallbladder surgery,” he finishes. “Dad refused to send money because I’d missed a practice that same week. Said I needed to learn about priorities.”
I’m stunned into silence. All these years, I’d painted Brooks as the villain in every interaction between us. The rich, entitled hockey star who went out of his way to make my life difficult. But maybe things weren’t as black and white as I’d thought.
I think about his parents now, living in Boise but rarely visiting their son or Maisie, despite her illness. It clicks into place why Brooks seems so comfortable here with his grandmother, why he came back to care for her instead of hiring nurses or sending money.
“Fair enough,” I say. “I guess I can forgive the pennies thing.”
“Magnanimous of you.”
I smile, andthe silence that follows is less tense than before. I lie back down, staring at the ceiling, my mind retracing our shared history with this new perspective. Which brings me to the original sin of our mutual animosity.
“Any good reason behind the haircut you gave me?” My voice gets an edge. Some wounds, even almost twenty years old, still sting when poked.
Brooks sighs, deep and heavy. “No. I was pissed and just being a dick.”
I fight off a smile, appreciating his blunt honesty. No excuses, no justifications. Just owning his ten-year-old assholery.
“You told everyone I wet the bed at Jonah’s birthday party,” he adds after a moment.
“Yikes—sorry about that.” Jonah and I had placed Brooks’ hand in a glass of warm water while he slept. “Used the oldest trick in the book.”
“Which is not the same asactuallywetting the bed.”
“Close enough for grade school gossip.” I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice now. “I cleared it up the next week, and it was a pretty good prank.”
“So was cutting your ponytail.”
“It was not! For all of fourth grade, I looked like a mushroom.”
“A cute mushroom,” he says quietly.
I turn to stare at him, but he’s resolutely focused on the ceiling. Did Brooks Kingston just call nine-year-old me cute? Even as a mushroom?
The world has officially gone mad.
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “I can’t say I forgive you for the hair thing, but I’ll shelve it. For Maisie’s sake.”
“Fair enough.”
We lie in companionable silence for a few minutes, and I find myself relaxing, the rigidity slowly leaving my muscles.
Another thought hits. “I’m going to tell my parents the truth tomorrow.” I’m tight with them, and they have to know everything.
“Sure.” Brooks sighs. “If it’s okay, I’d rather let mine think we’re dating. Maybe it’ll give them some hope.”
“Okay.” More surprising information about Brooks’ parents. I’ve always been pretty indifferent to them, but now, I’m starting to dislike them. Moving on from that, I say, “We should probably try to get some sleep.”
I pull the covers up to my chin. Brooks does the same, and we’re back to our original positions, rigid and careful not to touch.
“Goodnight, Syd.” His voice is soft.
“Goodnight, Brooksie.”
As I close my eyes, I still can’t believe this day. I’m seeing glimpses of a man I never knew existed beneath the arrogant hockey star exterior. And on Saturday, during our broadcast from the Trout game, we have to convince the world we’re in love.
A lock of my hair falls across my face, reminding me that my hair grew back, longer and stronger after Brooks cut it. Maybe this fake relationship will be like that—a temporary setback that ultimately leads to something better.
Or maybe it’ll be the biggest mistake of my life.
