She lets out a nervous laugh at the camera, which is pointed right at us, its red light blinking. How many people are watching right now? Is Dad seeing this? Dammit, is Coach Barrymore watching? I didn’t think about that—the guy already thinks I’m not taking my recovery seriously.
Sydney keeps her professional mask in place as she addresses the camera. “And now we have a special guest joining us. Pro hockey player Brooks Kingston, who’s currently recovering from his injury, is taking his chances today.”
“I’m not taking chances. I know the precise locations that are safe to skate.” This is the property I grew up on. The lake my great-great-grandfather dug by hand, according to family legend. I face the camera. “Uh, but kids, you don’t know the soft spots, so stay off the ice.”
“Care to comment on the unusual early freeze, Brooks?” She thrusts the microphone in my general direction, though all it captures is my heavy breathing.
“No.”
One syllable that comes out more like a grunt than a word. Dad always says I have the communication skills of a caveman. But what am I supposed to say?Yes, it’s cold. Ice happens when it’s cold. Thanks for the breaking news.
Sydney shoots me a look I know all too well, and it means she’s going to kill me if I don’t play along. Kermit is doing the splits as he has the camera angled on me, and a fresh wave of cringe washes over me. I hate being on air when it’s not a game—hate the scrutiny, the way people dissect every expression, every word. On the ice, I’m The King. Off it, I’m just a guy who’d rather be left alone.
I’m dying to escape, to push off and disappear across the lake. But something keeps me rooted to the spot—maybe it’s the knowledge that Meema would skin me alive if I was rude to any guests, camera or no camera.
“And we’re live on Channel 2, Brooksie,” Sydney adds with a tight smile that clearly means,stop being an asshole on camera.
Thanks for calling me Brooksie on air. My mouth twitches—for all her annoying qualities, Sydney has backbone. I remember her standing in the principal’s office, no tears, chin held high, refusing to let ten-year-old me see how much the ponytail incident had wrecked her.
“Right, Syd the Squid,” I clap back with a nickname she hates, aware that thousands of people across Beaver County are watching this awkward mess. “I’m on this ice because I know every patch of it, but please don’t do what I’m doing. It can be solid in one place and thin in another, making it dangerous.”
Syd picks up where I leave off, rambling about checking on elderly neighbors and proper equipment for ice activities. It’s hard to take her seriously with one raccoon eye.
The beavers finally finish their business and waddle away, apparently satisfied with their on-camera performance. At least someone’s having a good morning.
Sydney wraps up her broadcast with practiced ease. “This has been Sydney Holt, reporting live from Kingston Lake. Remember, Beaver County, stay warm and stay safe. Back to you, Rick.”
The red light blinks off, and we both rush over to help Kermit. Up he goes. Once he’s standing safely and has thanked us profusely, Syd’s shoulders drop slightly, her TV persona fading just a fraction. She’s good at what she does—I’ll give her that much.
Kermit blinks. “That was...”
“A dumpster inferno?” Sydney offers, and I raise a brow. Maybe she’s not as confident as she seems.
“It’s got viral potential.” Kermit packs up all his camera equipment into a fancy pulley-thing with wheels, then checks his phone, chuckling. “What’d I say? This is getting more views than the time Mayor Martinez got attacked by that goose during the spring festival. It must’ve been the beav porn and the scorching chemistry between you two.”
Chemistry?Great. Just fucking great.
My dumbstruck stare at Sydney’s going viral. Of course it is. Jonah’s going to have a field day with this when he visits this weekend.
I stand awkwardly to the side, waiting as Kermit wheels his gear to the station’s van. The pain in my shoulder settles into a dull throb, a constant reminder of everything that’s uncertain in my life right now.
Four months ago, I was on track to lead the Boise Trout to take home the Stanley Cup for the first time in history.
Now I’m back in Beaver County, living with my grandmother, arguing with my parents about a future that’s increasingly out of my control.
I study Sydney for a moment—reallylook at her.
What I saw before was spot on—she’s not the same awkward girl she was. She’s confident, determined. And she just maneuvered my spraying segment with more composure than most seasoned reporters I’ve dealt with.
“You handled that—” I gesture to her icy face and body, “—decently.”
She curls her lip. “Wow, thanks. Truly.”
“But you shouldn’t be here.” I run a hand through my hair, now damp with sweat despite the cold. “The ice near the edges is too thin for all this equipment.”
“We got permission from your grandmother to be on the property.”
Of course Meema invited them. I wouldn’t put it past her to be sitting in her armchair right now, laughing her ass off at me being caught on air. Despite the chemo weakening her, my grandmother hasn’t lost her mischievous streak.
