“Getting better every day, sir.”
“Tom, look what I found!” Mom holds up what appears to be large plastic beaver teeth, yellowed with age and sporting a crack down one incisor. “Remember these?”
Dad’s face transforms, years melting away as he takes the ridiculous mouthpiece and promptly shoves it in, grinning with oversized rodent teeth. “How could I forget my lucky chompers?”
“Oh my God.” I cover my face with my hands. “Please tell me you’re not going to wear those all night.”
“These teeth saw your brother and Brooks through two state championships,” Dad says around the plastic monstrosity. “Show some respect.”
“Yeah, Syd. Respect.” Brooks nudges me.
Mom’s eyes twinkle. “Remember when the opposing team’s coach filed a formal complaint, said they were ‘intimidating?’”
“How could I forget?” I laugh despite myself. “Jonah was mortified.”
Brooks wraps an arm around my shoulders, and the casual contact feels electric, loaded with memories of last night. I lean into him, unable to help myself.
Dad removes the teeth, mercifully, as we make our way to our seats. The arena is filling up, a sea of blue and gold punctuated by the occasional brave soul wearing Williford red. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs mingles with the distinctive scent of the ice—clean and sharp and uniquely hockey.
We’re settling in when I spot Jonah making his way toward us, weaving through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who’s spent his life in arenas like this. My stomach does a nervous flip. This is the first time he’s seeing Brooks and me together since our relationship turned decidedly un-fake.
“Hey, sis.” He kisses my cheek, then turns to our parents with a grin. “Mom. Dad—I see the lucky teeth made an appearance.”
Dad hold up them up with pride. "Wouldn’t miss a home opener without them."
Jonah finally acknowledges Brooks with a nod that falls somewhere between grudging and hostile. “Kingston.”
“Holt.” Brooks’ tone is neutral, but I feel the tension radiating off him.
An awkward silence falls, heavy enough that even my parents notice.
“So!” I say brightly. “Jonah, how was your flight?”
“Fine.” His eyes haven’t left Brooks. “Got to Mom and Dad’s this afternoon. Just enough time to unpack before heading over.”
I realize I’m holding my breath and force myself to exhale. This is ridiculous. They’re best friends. And Jonah and I left things off in a decent place the last time he was here.
The answer becomes clear a moment later when I absentmindedly brush a popcorn kernel from Brooks’ cheek, my fingers lingering perhaps a beat too long. Brooks catches my hand, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that feels so natural it startles me. We exchange a smile—one of those private, loaded looks that says more than words ever could.
Jonah’s face darkens, his jaw clenched tight.
Oh. That’s why.
Mom says, “So, Brooks, how’s Maisie feeling?”
His face twists in confusion. “Didn’t you see her yesterday at The Beaver Booksies meeting?”
Mom’s brows furrow. “There was no Beaver Bookies meeting yesterday.”
Brooks and I exchange glances, and I make a mental note to ask Maisie where sheactuallywas yesterday. Brooks continues with, “She’s feeling good. But she’s started her three days of chemo today.”
Mom tsk-tsks. “That’s right. I’ll have to call her tomorrow.”
Mayor Martinez spots us and immediately makes his way over, his Beavers scarf wrapped so many times around his neck it’s a wonder he can turn his head.
“If it isn’t the Holts and young Kingston!” he booms, shaking hands all around. His eyes land on Brooks and me, our hands still intertwined. “Well, well. When are you lovebirds settling down? The town’s been placing bets, you know.”
I nearly choke on my popcorn. “We’re, um—”
