I reach over, tuck her hair behind her ear, and let my hand rest on her cheek. “We’ll figure it out,” I say, because that’s the only thing I know how to do. “One day at a time.”
She grins, and I’m dizzy with relief. “That’s the least hockey player thing you’ve ever said.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I deadpan, and she laughs, the sound low and reckless and so fucking good.
We lie here for a while, tangled up, no need for words. Outside, the snow rages now, but in here, it’s just us, floating in this weird, fragile peace.
That was by far the best sex of my life. Forget the models, and the cheerleaders, and the threesomes. This surpassed it all, by miles, and now I don’t know how I’m supposed to lie next to this goddess and not do things to her, from every direction, every night.
Right now, Sydney’s head rests on my chest, her breathing soft and even as the fire pops and crackles beside us. The weight of her feels right—too right—against my body. I trace lazy circles on her bare shoulder, marveling at the smoothness of her skin, the way the firelight catches the gold in her hair. I should be panicking. The King doesn’t do relationships. The King definitely doesn’t fall for his best friend’s sister. But as Sydney shifts, pressing closer to me in her half-sleep, all I can think is that nothing has ever felt this real before—not hockey, not fame, not anything.
“What are you thinking about?” Her voice is husky.
I consider defaulting to something vague, butI can’t do that with her. Not now. “How I’ve never had anyone else here with me since Gramps,” I say. “Not even Jonah.”
She props herself up on one elbow. “Really?”
I nod. “Since he and I used to come here to hunt, this place has been... I don’t know. Mine, I guess. The one thing that’s just for me, not for my career or my parents or the fans. Just Brooks.”
“And now, me.”
“And now, you.” Something expands in my chest. “Though your brother would kill me if he knew you were here. Especially like this.” I gesture to our naked bodies, tangled together on the rug.
Sydney laughs. “Jonah’s going to murder us both. But right now, I can’t bring myself to care.”
She leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. I respond immediately, my hand sliding into her hair, holding her close. The night continues this way—talking, touching, sharing memories. We move to the bed eventually, though sleep remains a distant priority.
It’s disarming, how easy she is to talk to. How she seems to understand exactly when to push and when to let things go. The Sydney Holt I thought I knew—competitive, sharp-tongued, relentlessly ambitious—is all those things, yes. But she’s also gentle, attentive, vulnerable.
After we obliterate each other four more times, we’re starving, so we devour her Cheez-It nachos. I’m not sure if it’s extreme hunger, but they don’t taste half bad.
Then Sydney finally drifts off as the first hints of dawn lighten the sky. I lie awake longer, watching the soft light illuminate her features—high cheekbones, the slope of her nose, lips slightly parted. I resist touching her hair that fans across the pillow.
This can’t last. The thought comes sharply,unwelcome. Tomorrow—today, really—we go back to reality. Back to Meema’s house, back to our arranged charade, back to all the complications we temporarily escaped in this cabin. Jonah will be back in town soon. My career hangs in limbo. My situation, I can’t face. A thousand reasons why this—us—is impossible.
But right now, I can’t bring myself to care about any of that. I’ve spent my whole life living for expectations—my father’s, my team’s, my fans’. For once, I just want to live for myself. And what I want, more than anything, is right here beside me.
I press a gentle kiss to her forehead and finally let sleep claim me.
The pain wakes me—a burning, throbbing sensation that radiates from my shoulder down my arm. I blink awake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the weight of someone beside me. Sydney. The cabin. Last night. The memories flood back, along with another wave of pain that has me sucking in a sharp breath.
“Brooks?” Sydney stirs, immediately alert at the sound of my distress. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie automatically, the ingrained response of an athlete. “Just stiff.”
She sits up, the sheet falling away to reveal her naked body, a sight that would normally distract me completely if not for the fire in my shoulder. “Bullshit. It’s your shoulder, isn’t it? Did we... did I make it worse?”
The concern in her voice makes my chest tightin a way that has nothing to do with physical pain. “No, no. It’s not that. I just... I didn’t take my meds last night. They’re back at Meema’s.”
Sydney’s already moving, gathering clothes from where they’re strewn across the floor. “We need to get you back. How bad is it—on a scale of one to ten?”
“Three,” I say, though it’s closer to a seven.
She gives me a look that says she sees right through me. “Sure it is, tough guy. Come on, let’s go.”
The walk back to Meema’s is excruciating, every step sending fresh waves of pain through my shoulder. Sydney helps me walk down the mountain with focused determination, occasionally shooting worried glances my way.
“You still think you can do that intermission skate with Jonah next Wednesday?” she asks as we step up to Meema’s porch.
