Under the colorful evening sky, the Beaver High School parking lot overflows with vehicles sporting faded “Go Beavers!” bumper stickers and cracked window decals from glory days long past. I press my thighs together as Brooks guides his SUV into a spot, the subtle movement reminding me of last night—his hands, the blindfold, the way he completely undid me. God, I’m ruined. For a second, I wonder if it’s written all over my face, if everyone we meet today will somehow know that Brooks Kingston has taken me to places I didn’t even know existed.
“You okay?” Brooks asks, his hand finding mine across the center console. “You’ve been quiet.”
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to climb across the seats and recreate last night right here in the parking lot. “Just thinking.”
“About?” His thumb traces circles on my palm, an innocent gesture that sends electricity straight to my core.
“About how we should probably go inside before I do something that would get us arrested for public indecency.”
His eyes darken, and the slow smile that spreads across his face should be illegal. “That good, huh?”
“Don’t get cocky, Brooksie.” But we both know it’s too late for that.
The cold air hits me like a bucket of ice water when I step out of the SUV, which is probably for the best. I need to get my hormones in check before we meet my parents. The last thing I need is my dad picking up on the fact that his little girl spent last night having mind-bending sex with the man he still remembers as the punk kid who toilet-papered our house during homecoming week.
Brooks comes around to my side, his hand finding the small of my back like it belongs there. The casual intimacy of it—how natural it feels to lean into his touch—scares me more than any blindfold or tie ever could.
“Ready for this?” he asks as we approach the entrance, where clusters of Beaver County residents mill about in various shades of blue and gold.
“For hockey? I grew up with Jonah, remember? I was born ready.”
What I’m not ready for is how it feels to walk into a public event with Brooks Kingston after everything that’s happened this past week and a half. Yes, he’s my fake boyfriend, though the distinction feels increasingly meaningless. Every head turns as we make our way through the crowd. Brooks, used to the attention, barely notices. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m wearing a sign that says, “Yes, I’m sleeping with the King, and yes, he’s earned that name in every sense of the word.”
“Sydney! Brooks! Over here!” A familiar voice cuts through the crowd, and I spot Mrs. Johnson, my former math teacher, waving enthusiastically. Her Beavers scarf is the same one she wore to every game when I was in high school, the fringe now frayed and faded.
“Mrs. J,” I greet her with genuine warmth. She was one of the few teachers who took me seriously when I said I wanted to go into broadcasting. “How are you?”
“Just wonderful, dear. And look at you two!” She claps her hands together like we’re her favorite. “The whole town’s talking about Beaver County’s power couple.”
I feel Brooks stiffen slightly beside me, though his smile remains in place. “Power couple?” he repeats. “I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, don’t be modest,” Mrs. Johnson waves dismissively. “The hockey star and the weather girl—it’s like a Hallmark movie!”
I manage not to wince at “weather girl.”
Brooks says, “Syd’s doing a live sportscast this evening.”
Well, that was a smooth way of defending my honor.
“That’s right, Sydney! Congratulations on the new job.” She wrings her hands.
“Thank you.”
“So,” she continues, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what do you think of our chances tonight? Coach Hendricks has been working those boys to the bone, but the Williford Wildcats have that new forward line...”
Brooks engages her in hockey talk while I tune out, scanning the crowd for my parents until I spot them near the concession stand.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, touching Brooks’ arm. “But I see my parents over there.”
Mrs. Johnson beams at us. “Of course, go say hello! Tom and Claire must be thrilled about you two.”
As we walk away, my parents spot us before we reach them, my mom’s face lighting up in a way that always makes me feel like I’m eight years old again, bringing home an essay with a gold star. Dad is all smiles toward Brooks, looking ready to bring him in for a chest bump.
“There they are.” Mom pulls me into a hug that smells like her signature rose perfume. “We were wondering when you’d get here.”
“Traffic,” I lie, not mentioning that we were nearly late because Brooks insisted on a shared shower that turned into... definitely not showering.
Dad greets Brooks with a handshake, a definite upgrade from a chest bump. “Kingston. How’s the shoulder?”
