“And there you have it, sports fans,” I say, recovering quickly. “I’m Sydney Holt with Brooks Kingston, signing off from Boise. Join us next week for more hockey action as the season kicks into high gear.”
The red light blinks off, and Kermit gives us a thumbs up from behind the camera. “That was gold, you two! Pure gold!”
Marcus appears beside us, vibrating with excitement. “The phones are already ringing off the hook! Viewers love you guys together. The chemistry, the banter—it’s exactly what I was hoping for!”
Brooks and I exchange glances, and a blush creeps up my neck. “Thanks, Marcus, Kermit.” I gather my notes. “We had a good time.”
“Good? It was fantastic!” Marcus claps his hands together. “This’ll boost our ratings through the roof. The relationship leak from this morning has already been picked up by the major gossip sites. The King and the Sports Queen, together on and off camera.”
I wince at the nickname, but Brooks manages to sound sincere when he says, “Glad it worked out.”
As we make our way out of the arena, I say, “That was...” I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
“Not bad.” A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “For a weather girl.”
“And you were almost human.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Who knew?”
Once we’re in the SUV, the weight of the past couple of days settles over me—the Jonah mess, the successful broadcast, and most confusing of all, the lingering memory of that kiss and the strange chemistry we found on air. I’ve spent years convincing myself that Brooks Kingston isan egotistical jerk who’s impossible to like, let alone love. But the last few days have cracked that certainty, revealing glimpses of someone I’m not sure I ever really knew.
And that terrifies me more than any fake relationship ever could. Because pretending to fall for Brooks Kingston is one thing. Actually falling for him? That would be the biggest disaster of all.
13
Shredded
BROOKS
Istandin front of Meema’s bathroom mirror, tie dangling uselessly from my fingers. A few hours ago, I was Television Brooks—articulate and charming. Now, I’m back to being regular Brooks—the guy who just got off the phone with my parents, lying to them when I told them I was in a real relationship with Sydney. Might as well please them, at least momentarily, which I did. For a second, until Dad pivoted to wanting every detail of my recovery plan.Yes, Dad, I’m in great hands in Dickens—they have state-of-the-art everything at their clinic. It’s even better than what I was getting in Boise.He knows this—athletes from Boise travel here all the time because it’s so phenomenal.
The high from the broadcast is gone, and reality has settled back in. I’m so royally fucked on multiple fronts, and I give up on the tie, tossing it onto the counter. Tonight’s party hardly calls for it, anyway.
My shoulder throbs as I reachfor the button-up hanging on the door hook. The blue one Meema insists brings out my eyes. “Ladies love a man in blue,” she’d said this morning. I don’t think I need anything more to tempt Sydney.
The image comes back full force: her wet, slick, hot body pressed into mine, the feel of her mouth moving over mine. The way her ass fit into my hands.
Jesus Christ. That really happened.
I look around my bedroom, a museum to a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore—confident, unbreakable, full of promise. The King. What a joke. Kings don’t hide at their grandmother’s, avoiding calls from their agents and popping pain pills like Tic Tacs.
My eyes land on the framed photo on the dresser—me and Jonah. Both of us grinning like morons, futures stretched out before us, bright and limitless. My chest tightens. Twenty years of friendship, and I might have torpedoed it all for what? A fake relationship that’s feeling less fake by the hour.
I can still hear his voice.You had your hands on my sister’s ass, Brooks. Jesus!And the worst part? I don’t regret it. Not even a little. My body remembers exactly how perfectly Sydney fit against me, how she made that little sound in the back of her throat when I tugged on her hair. How right it felt, even though it was so monumentally wrong.
This can never become real.Jonah’s eyes full of betrayal cut deeper than his anger. He’s right. Of course he’s right. Even if this thing with Sydney wasn’t built on a foundation of lies, I can never offer anyone anything real.
My phone vibrates against the nightstand for what feels like the hundredth time today. I glance at the screen—my agent, Garrick. Again. Three missed calls in the past hour, not counting the five I ignored yesterday. I let it buzz until it stops, guilt and relief battling for dominance in my gut.
He doesn’t understand. None of the team does. To them, this is just a shoulder injury, a temporary setback.
Get back on the ice, Brooks. The team needs you, Brooks. Millions of dollars on the line, Brooks.
Like I don’t know that. Like I’m not acutely aware of exactly what’s at stake.
But how do I explain that every time I close my eyes, I feel my body crumpling against the boards? Hear that sickening crack that silenced an entire arena? Talking in a word salad as the medical team rushed over?
Just like I did when I got my first concussion. How many more of these can I get before my brain completely fries?
The phone buzzes again. A text this time.
