“He didn’t hear anything,” Zoe tries to reassure me. “And even if he did, it’s not like you’ve accepted a job offer yet. You’re just interviewing.”
But we both know that in the small, incestuous world of local TV news, even the hint that you’re looking elsewhere can be career suicide. Stations want loyalty, especially from their on-air talent. And if Donny tells the station that not only am I looking to leave, but that Brooks Kingston won’t be available for future co-broadcasting spots because our relationship—our fake relationship—is over...
“If he heard, I’m screwed,” I say flatly, suddenly much more sober than I was two minutes ago. “Completely and utterly screwed.”
29
Icy Return
BROOKS
The rink greets me—familiar, comforting, terrifying. I stand at the edge of the ice, breathing in that distinctive smell of frozen water and sweat, of dreams built and shattered on this unforgiving surface. My skates feel both foreign and like extensions of my feet, two months of rehabilitation creating a strange disconnect between what my body remembers and what my mind fears. This is home. This is hell. This is the moment of truth that’s been looming since the hit that threw my life into a tailspin.
“You gonna stand there all day, Kingston?” Coach Barrymore’s voice booms across the ice, snapping me out of my trance.
“Just appreciating the view, Coach.”
The locker room still holds my gear exactly where I left it, my name—KINGSTON—staring down at me from above the cubby. Someone’s cleaned it, kept it dusted.
I pad up and slide on my practice jersey, the familiar weight settling on my shoulders. My right one twinges slightly, a reminder of why I’ve been sidelined. I roll it experimentally, testing the range of motion. Good enough. It has to be.
“The prodigal son returns.” Sawyer McDavid slaps my back as he passes, his infectious grin a welcome sight. “Thought maybe you’d gone soft, living with Grandma.”
“Fuck off, McDavid,” I say, but there’s no heat in it. This is the ribbing that means you’re part of the team.
I haven’t told them about Meema’s deception. Haven’t told them about my breakup with Sydney, either, though most have probably heard through the Beaver County gossip grind. Small towns and their big mouths. What they don’t know is that every night since Sydney walked out, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment, every touch, every missed opportunity to tell her the truth.
“Earth to Kingston.” A gloved hand waves in front of my face. It belongs to Mason Carter, the rookie they brought up from juniors while I was out. He’s all of twenty-one, eager as a puppy, with speed that makes veterans like me look like we’re skating in molasses. “Coach says to pair up for warm-ups.”
“Right.” I nod, pushing thoughts of Sydney away. Hockey first. Always hockey first. That’s what’s been drilled into me since I was eight. Hockey is life. Everything else is just details.
The first step onto the ice is like diving into cold water—shocking, bracing, but after the initial jolt, familiar. My body remembers what to do even if my brain is cluttered with doubts. I push off, feeling the satisfying bite of steel against ice, the way my weight shifts from one edge to another with barely a thought.
“Easy does it, Kingston,” Coach calls, watching me like a hawk. “No need to break any speed records on your first day back.”
But thereisa need. I need to prove—to the team, to myself, to Sydney—that I’m still The King. That the injury didn’t break me.
We start with basic drills, the kind I could do in my sleep. Crossovers, transitions, quick stops. My legs burn, muscles remembering their purpose. It feels good. It feels right. Until we move to contact drills.
The first time someone comes at me—McDavid, our captain, pulling up just short of actual contact—I flinch. It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but I feel it like a siren blares through my body. A warning. Danger. Don’t let it happen again.
“You good?” McDavid’s eyebrows raise.
“Never better,” I lie, skating away before he can see the cold sweat breaking out along my hairline.
It flashes back—the moment of impact, the crunch. The silence. One mistake. One moment of letting my competitive drive override my better judgment. And now my career might be over.
“Kingston!” Coach’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “You’re up with Carter. Show him that move you use on the blue line.”
I nod, grateful for the distraction. Carter skates over, his face an open book of admiration that makes me uncomfortable. He doesn’t know who I really am.
“The fake-and-go?” he asks eagerly.
“Yeah, that one.” I position myself, demonstrating the footwork slowly. “The key is selling the first move. Make them commit, then change direction faster than they can adjust.”
Carter watches intently, then attempts to mimic my movements. He’s got raw talent, no question, but his weight distribution is off.
“You’re leaning too far forward.” I taphis shoulder pads. “Lower in your stance. Think about being a spring—compressed, ready to explode in any direction.”
