“Kingston,” he says.
“Holt.” Islide into the booth across from him. The vinyl seat squeaks.
The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. I resist the urge to fill it with excuses or explanations. Instead, I signal the bartender, a burly guy with a beard that could house wildlife.
“Your usual?” he calls over.
“Yeah, thanks,” I answer, grateful for the interruption.
Jonah stares at his half-empty glass, tracing a pattern in the condensation with his thumb. “So,” he says finally.
The bartender appears with my IPA, sliding it across the table. I wait until he’s gone before responding. I take a sip, the bitter hops matching the mood. “I owe you an explanation.”
“You owe Sydney an explanation,” Jonah corrects, his voice hard. “What you owe me is a time machine so I can go back and stop myself from ever introducing you two.”
That stings, but it’s fair. More than fair, considering what I’ve put Sydney through. What I’ve put all of us through.
A group of college guys erupts in laughter at the bar, the sound jarring. For a moment, I’m transported back to when Jonah and I were them—young, carefree, convinced we were invincible. Before shoulder injuries and family lies complicated everything.
“I meant my vow to you, Holt.” I sigh. “No sisters, no exes, no teammates’ girlfriends. The sacred bro code.” I take another sip of liquid courage. “I never thought I’d break it. Never wanted to. And then...”
“And then Maisie failed to mention she went into remission and coaxed you two into playing house,” Jonah finishes for me. “I know the whole fucked-up situation.”
I wince. “It sounds worse when you say it out loud.”
Jonah shakes his head, but there’s a hint of dark humor in his eyes now. “Your grandmother, man. She’s no joke.”
That startles a laugh out of me, the tension cracking a bit.
“It didn’t start real,” I say. “But it became real. So real that it terrified me.”
Before Jonah can respond, a server approaches our table—not our usual bartender, but a woman with bottle-blond hair and a smile that’s trying too hard. She leans forward, practically thrusting her cleavage at me.
“Can I get you boys anything else?” Her eyes never leave my face. “Another round? Some wings? My number?”
The last part comes with a wink.
“Just the check, thanks.” I don’t even glance at the paper she’s already sliding toward me.
She pouts but moves away, her exit as theatrical as her entrance. I push the paper with her number to the side, already forgotten.
Jonah stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Did you just... ignore a hot woman openly hitting on you?”
“I did.”
“The Brooks Kingston I know would’ve at least smiled back. Probably taken her number even if you never intended to use it.” His eyes narrow. “You all right?”
“Maybe I grew up.”
“Or maybe,” Jonah says slowly, studying my face, “you really do have feelings for my sister.”
“Remember that game against Seattle?” I change tactics. “Junior year, state semifinals?”
Jonah’s expression puzzles, a reluctant spark in his eyes. “When you took that slap shot to the chest protecting my weak side?”
I nod, unconsciously rubbing the spot where the puck left a bruise that lingered for weeks. “Doctor said I was lucky it didn’t crack my sternum.”
“Bonehead Brooks.” His tone softens. “Could’ve let it go; we were up by two, anyway.”
