“We’re just enjoying the moment, Mr. Mayor,” Brooks smoothly interjects, squeezing my hand in a silent plea not to panic.
“Smart man.” Martinez nods. “Though don’t wait too long. Good catches like Sydney here don’t stay on the market forever!”
I’m not looking at Jonah. I’m not looking at Jonah.
Thankfully, the lights dim, and the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, introducing the Beaver High School hockey team with all the drama of a professional sports broadcast. The crowd roars as teenage boys in padded uniforms skate onto the ice, sticks raised in salute.
“Tom, honey, I think I’m as excited as when the kids were playing!” Mom says as Dad practically vibrates with enthusiasm beside her.
“Me too. It’s so nice to kick back and watch instead of having to coach.” He’s already focused on the ice with laser intensity. The Beavers start strong, their first line showing surprising coordination for high schoolers. I’m one hundred percent invested, cheering when they take an early lead with a slapshot from the blue line that somehow threads through traffic and finds the back of the net.
“Did you see that?” Dad practically leaps from his seat. “That’s the play I’ve been telling Coach Hendricks about for years!”
“It’s almost like he finally listened to you,” Mom responds dryly, but she’s smiling.
The Wildcats answer with a goal of their own, tying the game and silencing the home crowd momentarily. I steal a glance at Brooks, who’s watching with the critical eye of a professional. He catches me looking and winks, sending a jolt of heat through me that has nothing to do with the packed arena.
Midway through the first period, a fight breaks out. Two players collide behind the net, sticks raised, and suddenly gloves are dropping and fists are flying. The crowd surges to its feet, bloodlust overriding hometown pride asthey cheer for violence with disturbing enthusiasm.
“That’s ridiculous,” I mutter, even as I find myself standing with everyone else for a better view. I know this is how this goes, but I say, “They’re seventeen.”
“It’s hockey,” Brooks, Jonah, and my father reply in unison, then exchange knowing looks.
The refs separate the players, issuing penalties that send both teams’ fans into competing choruses of boos. As the game resumes, I notice Brooks checking his watch.
“Intermission skate’s coming up,” he says to Jonah. “We should get ready.”
Jonah nods, a momentary truce established in the name of charity. “Meet you in the locker room in five.”
They excuse themselves, leaving me with my parents and an empty seat that feels larger than it should.
“So,” Mom says, clearly aiming for casual and failing. “You and Brooks seem... close.”
I take a long sip of my soda. “Yep.”
“It’s just that, well, given what you told us—it’s a bit of an adjustment, seeing you two together like... that.”
“Like what, Mom?”
She gestures vaguely. “Like you’re... serious.”
Am I blushing? I’m definitely blushing. “We’re figuring things out,” I say, which isn’t a lie. Wearefiguring things out.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful.” She pats my hand. “He looks at you like you’re the sun and moon combined.”
Something twists in my chest—hope, fear, I’m not sure which. Does he? Or is Brooks Kingston justthatgood at playing the devoted boyfriend?
The first intermission arrives, and the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers again, this time promoting the Future Sports Stars Association charity skate. Brooks and Jonah glide onto the ice in their respective professional jerseys, drawing gasps and cheers from the crowd. They’re each carrying a basket of signed T-shirts and hockey pucks, tossing them to kids whose parents won the silent auction before the game.
Despite the lingering tension between them, they’re a good team—Brooks handling the younger kids with surprising gentleness, Jonah cracking jokes that have the teenagers laughing. They skate circles around the rink, stopping for photos and autographs, their previous animosity apparently forgotten in the face of their shared love for the sport and giving back.
“Your brother looks good out there,” Dad says proudly. “Both of them do.”
The “both of them” doesn’t escape my notice—he sees Brooks as family.
The second period flies by in a blur of goals, penalties, and near-misses. The Beavers pull ahead 3-2, then the Wildcats tie it again. The crowd grows increasingly rowdy, fueled by energy drinks and hometown loyalty. By the time the second intermission rolls around, I’m already mentally preparing for my segment with Brooks—a brief recap of the game so far and predictions for the final period.
I meet him at the broadcast booth, where Kermit’s setting up. Brooks has changed back into street clothes—dark jeans and a blue fleece.
