I stand, leaving the false comfort of the couch behind. “Lead the way,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
27
The Crossroads
BROOKS
The words are lined up, and I’m going to tell Sydney everything. No more secrets. No more lies, even if it means losing the one person who’s made me believe in something beyond the next game, the next season, the next contract.
We walk in, flip on the light and shut the door, and Sydney sits on the bed, phone in hand, her blond hair falling forward to hide her expression. The sight of her there, so perfectly at home in my space, makes my chest ache with a sweetness I’ve never deserved. I like her being here, but…
“So,” I say, the word pitifully inadequate for everything churning inside me.
Sydney looks up, her face unreadable in a way that sets alarm bells ringing in my head. Usually, I can read her like game stats—every micro-expression, every tell. Now she’s closed off, guarded.
I perch on the edge of the bed rather than sitting beside her like I normally would. The distance between us feels both insignificant and insurmountable.
“How are you?” I finally finish.
She shrugs, a quick lift and drop of her shoulders that tells me nothing. “Processing. It’s not every day you find out your boyfriend’s grandmother faked a terminal illness to play matchmaker.”
“Fake boyfriend,” I correct automatically, then wince.
Sydney’s eyes flick to mine, then away. “Right.”
The silence stretches between us, charged with all the things we’re not saying. The words are right there, pushing against my teeth, demanding release.
“Brooks, I—”
“Sydney, there’s something—”
We speak simultaneously, both stopping short. In another time, another mood, we might have laughed, made some joke about jinx. Now we just stare at each other.
“Let me go first,” she says, and I nod because I’m a coward, because I need one more minute of not seeing the disappointment in her eyes.
She takes a deep breath, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the quilt—the one Meema made for my tenth birthday, covered in hockey sticks and pucks. “I got an email today. From that network in LA.”
Everything inside me goes still. “The one you sent your demo to?”
She nods, a quick jerk. “They want me to come out for an interview. Next week.”
The words hit me like a blindside check. She told me about it last night, but now, with the reality of it hanging in the air between us, it knocks the air from my lungs even though it shouldn’t.
“That’s...” I search for the right word, but my brain’s short-circuited, all my carefully prepared confessions scrambled by this new information. “That’s amazing, Syd. Congratulations.”
Her expression shifts, softens. “It’s just an interview,” she says. “Not an offer.”
“They’d be idiots not to hire you on the spot.” The words come automatically, sincerely, despite the growing hollowness in my chest. “You’re the best sportscaster they’ll ever meet.”
“You’re biased.” There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Another silence, this one heavier than the last. Sydney’s watching me carefully, like she’s waiting for something specific. And suddenly I understand what this conversation really is—not just an announcement, but a question. A crossroads.
“Do you think I should go?” Her words are carefully neutral, though her eyes are anything but.
And there it is. The real question beneath the surface: should she stay here, in Idaho, with me? Should she give up this opportunity for whatever it is we’ve built on a foundation of lies and half-truths?
