“I stood in the back,” he admits. “Jonah was supposed to be scouting the other team’s defensive strategy for Coach. I was there because...” He trails off, skating ahead slightly.
“Because what?” I press, catching up to him.
His eyes meet mine, surprisingly vulnerable. “Because you were amazing to watch. The way you moved on the field—like you could see three plays ahead, like you knew exactly where everyone would be.”
I stare at him, trying to process this. Hockey star, golden boy, bane of my existence, used to sneak in and watch me play soccer.
And he thought I was amazing.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Pride.”
I nod. “Gotcha. I’ve done that.”
He stops skating, turning to face me. “Maybe it’s time we stop.”
We’re standing close—too close for friends, too close for fake anything. I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow from a hockeyfight years ago.
His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “Cold?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. I’m the opposite of cold right now, despite standing on a frozen lake in the middle of a winter that came early.
His eyes drop to my lips, and for a hot minute, I think he’s going to kiss me. Part of me—a growing, insistent part—wants him to. Isdyingfor him to. But instead, his hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining naturally. It’s a small gesture, meaningless really. We’ve held hands dozens of times in the past week and a half—for show, for Maisie, for the townsfolk watching our performance.
But this is different. No audience. No reason to pretend. Just his hand in mine because it feels right.
17
On Thin Ice
BROOKS
The sun dips low on the horizon, painting the frozen lake in the oranges and pinks that remind me of the bruises I collect on the ice. Sydney’s hand feels small in mine, her fingers cold despite the exertion of skating. I should probably let go. Friends don’t hold hands this long. Fake girlfriends don’t either, not without an audience. But I can’t bring myself to break the connection, not when she’s looking up at me with those clearwater eyes that somehow manage to be both sharp and soft at the same time.
“You’re staring, Kingston,” she says, but it’s not like the old days when she’d catch me looking and assume I was plotting her demise.
“Just making sure you don’t fall and sue me for damages.” The words are a reflexive shield against whatever this feeling is that’s expanding in my chest.
She snorts, a sound that shouldn’t be charming but is. “Please. I’d never sue The King. Your fan club would hunt me down.”
“Bold of you to assume I still have a fan club.” The words come out more bitter than intended.
“Are you kidding? Half the girls in Beaver County still have your poster on their walls. The other half pretend they’re too cool, but they’d still trip over themselves for your autograph.”
I guide us toward the western shore, where the sunset’s reflection stretches across the ice. “Nah—damaged goods.”
Sydney’s fingers tighten around mine. “Your shoulder doesn’t define you, Brooks.”
If that were my only damage.
“What was little Brooks Kingston like?” She gracefully changes the subject. “Before the hockey trophies and the groupies. Before you became the bane of my existence.”
I arch an eyebrow. “The bane of your existence? That’s a lot of power to give someone.”
“Don’t dodge the question. I’m curious. Were you born scowling, or did that develop later?”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “Definitely later. I was actually a pretty happy kid. Until about age eight.”
