I exchange a quick glance with Brooks. This is the first we’re hearing of any shuttle service.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “It’s really no trouble. I’m off today, and I’d be happy to—”
“Absolutely certain,” she interrupts. “You two enjoy your day off together. I’ll be just fine. The appointment’s only a quick check-in, anyway. Not even a treatment day.”
Brooks looks like he wants to argue, but something in Maisie’s expression stops him. “At least let me walk you out when they arrive.”
“That would be lovely, dear.” She pats his hand. “Now, what are you two planning for today?”
I take another sip of my coffee. “Actually, I need to prepare for my first full day as a sports anchor tomorrow. Lots of research to do.”
I’m loving my new gig for The Beaver. There’s something deeply satisfying about narrating the triumphs and heartbreaks of local sports, more so than the state ones. My segments are mostly quick recaps of victories or humiliations, plus the occasional human-interest story featuring a plucky field hockey goalie or a kid whose dad built her a pitching machine out of an old leaf blower. Marcus and the producers seem to like my style, and Brooks dropped by the station a couple times last week for his “injury update” segment, ostensibly to keep the public informed of his recovery, but mostly to provide the kind of muscle-bound eye candy that local news advertisers dream about. He brought donuts for the crew and let me script his talking points, which is maybe the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed. The banter between us has become a running gag in town: “When are you two getting hitched?” “Does Holt make you watch The Bachelor, Brooks?” “Who wears the pants in this relationship?” The answer, at least according to Maisie, is both of us, simultaneously, preferably on the same couch with a bowl of popcorn between us.
“And I offered to help Syd prep after PT,” Brooks adds smoothly. “Insider perspective and all that.”
“How... practical.” Maisie doesn’t hide her disappointment. “Well, at least you’ll be together.”
After breakfast, Maisie gets on the shuttle, leaving Brooks and me to clean up. We move around each other with ease, as usual.
I hand him a plate to dry. “So... you’re really okay helping me prep for tomorrow? You don’t have to. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“Like what? Sit around and ice my shoulder? WatchThe Today Show?” He snorts. “Trust me, helping you is the highlight of my social calendar.”
I shouldn’t find his grumpiness endearing. I really shouldn’t.
“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?” I rinse the last dish and turn off the water. “Let me get dressed, and we can get started.”
An hour later, we’re set up in Maisie’s sunroom, my laptop open between us, notes spread across the antique table that’s seen better days. Brooks has been helpful, filling me in on the local high school prospects, particularly the Dickens High School star quarterback who’s drawing attention from college scouts.
He leans over my shoulder to point at a stat sheet. “The kid’s footwork needs help. Tends to plant too firmly when he’s under pressure.”
He’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the clean scent of his soap mixed with something uniquely Brooks. It’s distracting in the worst way.
“Sounds like someone else I know.” I focus on the screen rather than the proximity of his face to mine. “You used to do the same thing on breakaways. Plant too hard onyour right foot.”
He leans back, surprised. “You noticed that?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “I’ve watched a lot of hockey over the years. Hazard of being Jonah’s sister.”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t look convinced. “And you just happened to be analyzing my footwork specifically?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I analyze everyone’s footwork. I’m detail-oriented.”
“Sure you are.” He’s grinning now, the full version that transforms his entire face. It’s unfair how attractive he is whenthissmile appears.
We return to our work, talking about our plans for the Wednesday after next, where Brooks and I will be reporting live at the opening hockey game for the Dickens High School Beavers. At the first intermission, Brooks and Jonah—who’s flying back home for this—will be handing out signed paraphernalia from a silent auction to raise money for underprivileged young athletes.
Things start to come together, but the easy rhythm from before is broken. Brooks is distracted, checking his phone every few minutes as if expecting a call or message.
“The Hawks have a shot at state this year.” I try to get us back on track. “Coach Rainey finally implemented that spread offense I’ve been telling him about for years.”
“You’ve been advising the high school soccer coach?” Brooks looks up from his phone, interest piqued.
“Not officially. But he played when I did back in the day, so he listens to me.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Brooksie.” The words come out more flirtatious than intended, and I hurry to add, “I’m more than just the weather girl.”
