Chapter 2
Busted
brOOKS
I’m flying across the ice toward Sydney, and I can’t tear my gaze away from her. It’s wild—like some primal magnetism.
Maybe it’s because my blood’s running hot? Ten minutes ago, I stormed out of Meema’s house, my dad’s email ricocheting through my head like a bullet in a barrel.
“This recovery needs to be lightning fast, Brooks. The team can take home the Stanley for the first time, but they can’t without you. Push harder.”
Push harder.
The Kingston family motto. Like I haven’t been pushing myself since I was five years old, when Dad first put me on skates and told me I had Kingston blood, which apparently means I was born to dominate the ice.
So I grabbed my skates. The lake has always been one of my two escapes, a place where I can breathe. Here, it’s just me, the ice, and the silence.
Except now, there’s Sydney Holt standing on the bank wearing ridiculous faux fur boots, microphone in hand, waving me over.
Fucking perfect.
She wants me on her segment, something I really don’t want to do, but I’ve already been caught on camera, so I’ll look like a dick if I skate off.
Fine—I’ll do it, but I better make it a good show so viewers don’t see me as weak and injured.
I maneuver around Floyd and Fiona enjoying their morning quickie, going for a flashy hockey stop, skates digging in hard.
The familiar burn in my thigh as muscles engage, and the world tilts sideways as I execute a cut that would make my skating coach proud, if not concerned for my recovery timeline.
My rotator cuff sends a bolt of white-hot pain down my arm—fuck. The doctors said it was healing well, but “well” is relative when your entire career depends on being able to swing a hockey stick with precision while two hundred-pound guys try to crush you into plexiglass.
Crystals fly into the frigid morning air, spraying the side of Sydney’s face.
Whoops—wasn’t trying to do that.
Okay, not that much.
I’m breathing hard, partly from exertion and partly from the rush of adrenaline that comes with intense pain as I skate over and brush off the side of Sydney’s face with my huge gloves. All I end up doing is smearing her mascara down one cheek.
Shit.
She lets out a nervous laugh at the camera, which is pointed right at us, its red light blinking. How many people are watching right now? Is Dad seeing this? Dammit, is Coach Barrymore watching? I didn’t think about that—the guy already thinks I’m not taking my recovery seriously.
Sydney keeps her professional mask in place as she addresses the camera. “And now we have a special guest joining us. Pro hockey player Brooks Kingston, who’s currently recovering from his injury, is taking his chances today.”
“I’m not taking chances. I know the precise locations that are safe to skate.” This is the property I grew up on. The lake my great-great-grandfather dug by hand, according to family legend. I face the camera. “Uh, but kids, you don’t know the soft spots, so stay off the ice.”
“Care to comment on the unusual early freeze, Brooks?” She thrusts the microphone in my general direction, though all it captures is my heavy breathing.
“No.”
One syllable that comes out more like a grunt than a word. Dad always says I have the communication skills of a caveman. But what am I supposed to say? Yes, it’s cold. Ice happens when it’s cold. Thanks for the breaking news.
Sydney shoots me a look I know all too well, and it means she’s going to kill me if I don’t play along.
Kermit is doing the splits as he has the camera angled on me, and a fresh wave of cringe washes over me.
I hate being on air when it’s not a game—hate the scrutiny, the way people dissect every expression, every word.
On the ice, I’m The King. Off it, I’m just a guy who’d rather be left alone.
I’m dying to escape, to push off and disappear across the lake. But something keeps me rooted to the spot—maybe it’s the knowledge that Meema would skin me alive if I was rude to any guests, camera or no camera.
“And we’re live on Channel 2, Brooksie,” Sydney adds with a tight smile that clearly means, stop being an asshole on camera.
Thanks for calling me Brooksie on air. My mouth twitches—for all her annoying qualities, Sydney has backbone. I remember her standing in the principal’s office, no tears, chin held high, refusing to let ten-year-old me see how much the ponytail incident had wrecked her.
“Right, Syd the Squid,” I clap back with a nickname she hates, aware that thousands of people across Beaver County are watching this awkward mess.
“I’m on this ice because I know every patch of it, but please don’t do what I’m doing.
It can be solid in one place and thin in another, making it dangerous. ”
Syd picks up where I leave off, rambling about checking on elderly neighbors and proper equipment for ice activities. It’s hard to take her seriously with one raccoon eye.
The beavers finally finish their business and waddle away, apparently satisfied with their on-camera performance. At least someone’s having a good morning.
Sydney wraps up her broadcast with practiced ease. “This has been Sydney Holt, reporting live from Kingston Lake. Remember, Beaver County, stay warm and stay safe. Back to you, Rick.”
The red light blinks off, and we both rush over to help Kermit. Up he goes. Once he’s standing safely and has thanked us profusely, Syd’s shoulders drop slightly, her TV persona fading just a fraction. She’s good at what she does—I’ll give her that much.
Kermit blinks. “That was...”
“A dumpster inferno?” Sydney offers, and I raise a brow. Maybe she’s not as confident as she seems.
“It’s got viral potential.” Kermit packs up all his camera equipment into a fancy pulley-thing with wheels, then checks his phone, chuckling.
“What’d I say? This is getting more views than the time Mayor Martinez got attacked by that goose during the spring festival.
It must’ve been the beav porn and the scorching chemistry between you two. ”
Chemistry? Great. Just fucking great.
My dumbstruck stare at Sydney’s going viral. Of course it is. Jonah’s going to have a field day with this when he visits this weekend.
I stand awkwardly to the side, waiting as Kermit wheels his gear to the station’s van. The pain in my shoulder settles into a dull throb, a constant reminder of everything that’s uncertain in my life right now.
Four months ago, I was on track to lead the Boise Trout to take home the Stanley Cup for the first time in history.
Now I’m back in Beaver County, living with my grandmother, arguing with my parents about a future that’s increasingly out of my control.
I study Sydney for a moment—really look at her.
What I saw before was spot on—she’s not the same awkward girl she was. She’s confident, determined. And she just maneuvered my spraying segment with more composure than most seasoned reporters I’ve dealt with.
“You handled that—” I gesture to her icy face and body, “—decently.”
She curls her lip. “Wow, thanks. Truly.”
“But you shouldn’t be here.” I run a hand through my hair, now damp with sweat despite the cold. “The ice near the edges is too thin for all this equipment.”
“We got permission from your grandmother to be on the property.”
Of course Meema invited them. I wouldn’t put it past her to be sitting in her armchair right now, laughing her ass off at me being caught on air. Despite the chemo weakening her, my grandmother hasn’t lost her mischievous streak.
“And we checked the thickness with an ice screw before setting up,” Sydney continues, though her lack of eye contact tells me they half-assed it.
I make a noncommittal sound in my throat—my caveman way of saying “bullshit.” “The next time you report from here, call me first. I’m staying at the house now.”
Sydney laughs without humor. “Okay, then. Should I have your personal assistant set up a meeting? Or maybe go through your agent? Or would you prefer I just text you? Oh wait, you never respond.”
“You texted me?”
“Yes, about Maisie’s appointments.” She shakes her head, turning away. “I don’t know why I expected anything different from you. You’ve been an asshole since birth. Probably even in the womb.”
The heat of her remark makes me flinch. I’m not used to people speaking to me like that. Most people tiptoe around The King, careful not to offend the hometown hockey hero.
“I didn’t get a text from you, Syd. I would’ve answered it. Look, I’m not—” I stop, because what am I supposed to say? That I’m not an asshole? We both know that’s a lie.
With a deep sigh, I shake my head. “I’ve had a rough morning.”
“Join the club. Great talk as always, Brooks. Your eloquence is inspiring.”
My jaw clenches because, man, this woman knows how to get under my skin.
Behind me, the van’s engine starts. Kermit’s leaving without Sydney, and I realize her car is here. Dammit, I want her gone, but even if she were, I know her needling isn’t over. Not with her brother, my best friend, coming home this weekend.
That reminds me. “When does Jonah get into town?” Maybe talking about the one person we both care about will ease some of the tension. The one person besides Meema and my parents who knows what’s really going on with me.
“Friday evening.” She wraps her arms around herself, shivering beneath the layers she’s wearing. “For the party.”
I tilt my head. “What party?”
Her face drops, then it twists into a glare as she faces me. “We’re having your grandmother’s 70th birthday party at my parent’s house this Saturday. I assumed you knew that.”
No, I didn’t know.
Shit. I am a grade-A asshole.
“Is that an invitation?” I’m fighting like hell to keep up this breezy facade even though I feel like a dickhead.
“It wasn’t, but Maisie would want you there.” She turns and heads toward the house. “Five o’clock. Don’t be late,” she says over her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” I call after her.
She groans. “To say hi to Maisie. If that’s okay with you, warden?”
I push off the ice, gliding after her. “I dunno. I want to make sure she rests.”
Sydney spins around, eyebrows high. “Really? Looking out for her—good. Does that mean you’re going to take care of her while you’re here?”
The question catches me off guard. A flash of worry cuts through me—does Meema need round-the-clock care now? I just got into town last night, and although I was shocked at how thin and frail she looked, she still seemed able to do everything independently. “Of course,” I respond automatically.
“Great,” she mutters. “What are the days and times of her chemo appointments?”
I have no idea. Dammit.
Meema and I talk on the phone every day, but she refuses to tell me anything about her treatment. Instead, she talks about how nice Sydney has grown up to be and how she’s single and ambitious, and wouldn’t I like to get to know her better?
No, I absolutely would not.
For multiple reasons, but the main one being my vow to Jonah. I’ll never go near Syd.
Especially not with the way my heart rate kicked up and my body froze when her eyes met mine across the ice. She’s dangerous—the smoking hot girl-next-door, settling down kind of woman—the kind I avoid. And with her, it’s infinitely worse because of Jonah.
You go near my sister, I'll rip your arms off and beat you with them. She’s been through enough, and your life is fucked. Plus, hockey players are her kryptonite—you know that.
So, my vow is best for everyone—we drive each other up the fucking wall, anyway. Through my racing thoughts, I manage to say, “I’m gonna call Meema’s doctor and get all the info.”
“It’s the last Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of the month, something you’d know if you’d visited her… even once. Especially during that awful week she spent in the hospital on machines while you were off in Boise, living the high life, doing… what’s the phrase the gossip rags used?”
She taps her chin and looks at the sky. “Oh, right, ‘leaving an icy trail of shattered hearts.’”
Each word hits like a puck to the chest, and I don’t even know what she’s talking about. Meema was in the hospital? Why didn’t she tell me? “She never said a word to me about any of that.”
Sydney’s walking again, but now it’s more of a tromp. “Maybe if you’d checked on her, you would’ve seen for yourself.”
Despite my skates, I easily catch up with her, and I can’t help but defend myself. “I’m here now.”
“Yeah, but for how long?”
“That’s not fair.” I clip on my skate guards and follow her toward Meema’s house, the ice giving way to snow-covered ground that makes my skates wobble.
She stops, folds her arms and sighs. “You know what? You’re right—it’s not fair. I’m sorry Maisie didn’t tell you how bad things were,” she says, her voice quiet. “She probably didn’t want to distract you from hockey.”
Dammit, and we only made it through the first round of finals. Sydney’s words twist the knife inside me as I think about my conversations with my grandmother.
It’s just a spot of cancer, Brooksie. Very treatable. Nothing your Meema can’t handle.
It wasn’t until I saw her in person last night, saw how the chemo had hollowed her out, that I realized how serious it was.
“I didn’t know,” I admit quietly.
Sydney’s face softens. “Well, now you do. And she just had a treatment last week, so she’s not due for another three weeks.” She’s walking again.
“Can we sit down so you can tell me everything I need to know? Please?”
She doesn’t turn when she says, “No problem. I can type it up for you.”
“Great, thanks.” I speed up. “So, you trying for the sports anchor position?”
She stops so abruptly I nearly crash into her back. When she turns, her cheeks are flushed with more than just the cold. “How did you—”
“Meema mentioned it. You know she knows everything about everyone in this town. It’s her superpower.”
“Yeah, well.” Syd shrugs, trying to look casual, though her eyes say this means everything to her. Then her tromp practically turns into a jog. “Marcus hasn’t decided between Donny Dexter and me yet.”
Donny Dexter: a friend from high school and former athlete with a massive social media following, and he’s been talking to me about the sportscaster position at KBVR.
Confidently, I might add. Syd’s got some tough competition, and judging by her twitchiness, she knows it.
She stops and turns on her heel. “We’re about to go inside, and we don’t need to stress Maisie. So dial the asshole down, put a smile on, and let’s pretend we like each other.”
When I rush to catch up, I say, “No problem,” which is a lie. If she’s hanging around Meema, it means she’ll be hanging around me, and that can’t happen. Spending time with her is a temptation, and that’s definitely a problem.
A big one.