Chapter 5 The Beav Porn Star
The Beav Porn Star
SYDNEY
Istride into KBVR with my head held high, as if I didn’t just broadcast live beaver sex to all of Beaver County, then introduce Brooks Kingston with mascara running down my face.
And the timing couldn’t be worse—the sports anchor position has been my dream since I realized I was better at talking about sports than playing them.
Don’t get me wrong—I was good. Division II college soccer scholarship good.
But not professional good. Not like Jonah, who’s living the dream as a center for the Colorado Blizzards.
Not like Brooks Kingston, who was drafted from the University of Boise and became The King before his shoulder injury brought him to brood on Maisie’s lake like some gorgeous, surly waterfowl.
Not that I think he’s gorgeous. I mean, he’s all right if you’re into the broad-shouldered, chiseled jaw, eight-pack abs kind of thing.
Anyway, this position is my ticket out of weather reporting and into the world of sports journalism, where I belong.
Everyone in my family is a sports junkie—my dad’s a retired hockey coach, and mom’s a part-time sports physical therapist. So, yeah, it’s in the blood—plus, I’d love to use some of the extra cash to contribute to Mom’s retirement fund.
She’s beyond ready to relax and travel with Dad, and they both deserve it.
Rocko, the security guard, gives me a slow clap as I pass. Fantastic. The entire station has already seen this morning’s broadcast. I force a smile that feels more like a grimace and give him a curtsy. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be signing autographs in the break room later.”
“Helluva show, Syd.” He chuckles, buzzing me through. “My wife called me during her shift at the hospital just to tell me about it. Said the entire nurses’ station was watching on someone’s phone.”
“Great!”
I’ve gone viral at the Beaver County Medical Center. My journalism career is reaching new heights.
The fluorescent lights of the station corridor flicker as I make my way toward the newsroom, my wet boots squeaking against the linoleum. The building is a converted 1970s bank, complete with wood paneling and outdated carpet that’s seen more coffee spills than an interstate diner.
It’s not exactly CNN headquarters, but it’s been my professional home for the past three years.
Three years of smiling through pollen counts and rain percentages. And what do I have to show for it?
I duck into the break room to refill my travel mug with what passes for coffee here. It tastes like someone burned a tire, strained the ashes through a gym sock, then served it lukewarm. But caffeine is caffeine.
Rick lumbers in as I’m doctoring my sludge with cream. He’s built like a refrigerator with legs, and his laugh could wake the dead. He slaps me on the back hard enough to make me spill.
“Sydney-freaking-Holt!” he booms. “You handled that beaver display like a star—and now you’re trending, kid!”
I blot coffee on my coat with a napkin. “Nothing like rodent pornography.”
Rick laughs as if I’ve just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “And getting The King on camera? Brilliant! We’ve been trying to land an interview with him since… well, forever.”
I perk up at this. “Really?”
“Are you kidding? We’ve already got the clip running on our social channels.
‘Brooks Kingston’s Exclusive First Appearance Since Injury—Only on KBVR!
’” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands.
“The engagement is off the charts.” He looks at his watch.
“Damn it—gotta run—morning meeting. Keep up the good work, kid!”
“Thanks.” I lean against the counter, allowing myself a glimmer of hope.
Maybe the Brooks and beaver fiasco will actually help my chances? God knows I need every advantage against Donny Dexter and his coiffed blond hair, white teeth, and annoying habit of dropping his minor league baseball career into every conversation.
“When I was with the Seattle Rainiers, we always used to say...”
“Back when I was playing Double-A ball...”
“I once hit .247 in the minors before blowing out my elbow…”
I grab my mug and head toward my cubicle, passing Donny’s desk, which has framed photos of his baseball days, his jersey mounted in a display case on the wall, and a bat signed by some minor league team I’ve never heard of.
Subtle.
He’s not here yet, thank god, because I don’t think I can handle him before I’m fully caffeinated.
I make my way to my tiny office, which is really more of a converted supply closet, but I like the window that looks out onto a patch of trees in the parking lot.
The “Sydney Holt: Weather Reporter” nameplate on the door is crooked, but it adds a certain charm.
I toss my wet parka onto the back of my chair and slump down, immediately opening my laptop to assess the damage.
And... holy shit.
Rick wasn’t kidding. The clip of Brooks staring at me before giving me an ice spray is everywhere. Our station’s social media accounts are blowing up with comments, shares, and—surprisingly—a lot of positive feedback.
I click through the comments, my stomach doing weird flips as I read:
“Kingston looking finer than ever… mmm, I’d like some of that, please. ??????”
“Is it just me, or was there some serious history vibes between those two?”
“Beavers were going for it! ????”
“The tension between him and the weather girl though ??”
Weather girl? Ugh.
“Hometown hockey hero returns... to witness beaver orgy!”
“Sydney Holt handling this like a pro tho ??”
That last one makes me smile. I did handle it pretty well, considering. Years of live TV have taught me to roll with the unexpected—though I’d never had to roll with quite so much.
I click on the clip and watch myself go from professional weather reporter to unwitting wildlife documentarian in the span of thirty seconds. I look reasonably composed, except for when Brooks came skidding toward me and the flash of—something—in my eyes.
Not fear.
Definitely not attraction. Probably just surprise.
Or the cold.
Or temporary insanity.
I close the browser before I can overthink it.
My phone buzzes with a text from my brother.
JONAH: Just saw your broadcast. Brooks texted me already. What the hell, Syd? I thought you’d avoid him.
I roll my eyes.
ME: Kind of hard to avoid someone when they’re skating directly at you at 600 mph. Also, I didn’t know he’d be there. Maisie didn’t tell me.
JONAH: Well he’s pissed. Said you ambushed him.
ME: Huh? He nearly ran me over!
JONAH: Whatever. You’d tell me if something was going on with you two, right?
ME: Trust me, I have zero desire to be with any hockey players. Especially Brooks Kingston.
Which is true. Mostly. Except for that weird whole-body flutter when our eyes locked.
A knock at my door interrupts my spiral.
Zoe Lane, production assistant extraordinaire and my best friend since orientation day at KBVR three years ago, pops in with her enviable silky brown hair in a messy bun and glasses sliding down her nose, with which she’s been running around the station all morning.
As the network’s production assistant, she knows all the gossip before anyone else, and I hope she has good news.
“You,” she says, pointing at me with a pink-tipped fingernail, “have broken the internet. Beav porn, baby.”
“Please tell me people are talking about something—anything—else around here.”
“Oh, that they are.” She closes the door behind her and perches on the edge of my desk. “The switchboard is lit up like the McDavid’s house at Christmas. Everyone wants to know if you and The King are a thing. Oh, I’m a poet, didn’t know it.”
I play dumb. “Why would they—”
“Because of the major eye-fuck thing, obviously.” She waves her hand dismissively.
“We were not—there was no eye thing—” I choke on my ball of lies. “He was being an ass, like always.”
“Moving on.” She leans in. “Rocko told me he overheard Rick saying that Marcus said he’s thrilled—like, doing a little dance in his office thrilled—about your report today. We’re talking engagement numbers that make Donny’s baseball posts look like my aunt’s bridge club updates.”
My heart skips. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. And you know what this means for tomorrow’s decision, right?”
I try not to let my hopes soar too high. “It means Marcus might remember he basically promised me that position six months ago?”
“Exactly!” Zoe bounces on her toes. “Donny’s been swaggering around here like he already has the job, just because he can get his old teammates to share his workout videos.”
“Well, Marcus seems hypnotized by it.”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “Marcus is hypnotized by the dollar signs he sees with Donny. But now you’ve got beaver sex and hair-butchering Brooks.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “My journalistic legacy.”
“Hey, whatever works.” She perches on her desk. “Donny’s the most obnoxious, egotistical guy in this building. If you get this position over him, I’ll actually throw a party.”
“Girl, you’re always throwing parties.” I smile. “But don’t jinx it—Marcus still has to make the official decision.”
“After today’s numbers? It’s in the bag. But if you’re worried...” Zoe taps her fingernails against my desk. “The clip of you and Brooks is doing really well. Like, really, really well. Better than anything Donny’s posted.”
I narrow my eyes, not liking where this is going. “And?”
“And maybe—just maybe—if you could get an exclusive with him? Promise Marcus an actual sit-down interview about his injury, his return to Beaver County, his plans for the future? That would be huge for the station. Huge for you.”
I stare at her. “You want me to use Brooks Kingston to lock in the sports anchor job?”
“Not use him, exactly.” She winces. “More like... leverage your connection with him for mutual benefit? He gets to control the narrative about his injury; you get to show Marcus you can bring in big-name sports personalities.”
“There’s just one tiny problem with that plan, Zo. Brooks Kingston can’t stand me. And in case you missed it, the feeling is mutual.”
“But you have an in with him that no one else does,” she points out. “You’re friends with his grandmother. You’re his best friend’s sister. And after today’s broadcast, everyone’s already talking about the two of you. It’s the perfect setup.”
She’s not wrong.
An exclusive with Brooks would be exactly the kind of star power that would tip the scales in my favor. The King never does interviews—not since the injury.
But the thought of asking him for a favor makes my skin crawl.
Brooks has never done anything for me except make my life more complicated, starting with the Great Ponytail Massacre, the drunken slumber party crash in high school, and continuing through college when he somehow convinced Jonah that I was the one who told Coach Peterson about their off-campus party (I didn’t).
And, I’m so, so over hockey players.
“I’d rather eat glass,” I say, being dramatic. “But seriously. I don’t need him—I deserve this position. I shouldn’t have to stoop so low to beg Brooks for an interview.”
“Suit yourself.” She hops off my desk. “I’ve got to run—morning meeting in five. But I wanted you to know. Start practicing your ‘surprised but humble’ face for when they announce it.”
She mimes an exaggerated shocked expression that makes me laugh. “Thanks, Zoe. For everything.”
“LA, here you come.” She floats out the door.
The thought of LA makes my stomach twist with equal parts longing and fear. I want it—the biggest market on the West Coast, the real, hard-hitting sports journalism—but the idea of moving there, of driving on those freeways with four lanes in each direction...
The familiar tightness creeps into my chest, a belt slowly cinching around my lungs. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing.
In for four, hold for four, out for four. Just like my therapist taught me.
No one at KBVR knows about the panic attacks. Not even Zoe.
They started after the accident six months ago that rewired my brain to think that every car ride might be my last. It’s why I missed seeing Jonah play Brooks when the Blizzards took on the Trout last season.
I told everyone I had the flu, but really, I couldn’t make myself get on the freeway to Boise.
The attack subsides, leaving me feeling hollow and slightly nauseated.
I’m organizing my notes for tomorrow’s weather segment when my phone buzzes with a text. I expect it to be Zoe with more gossip, or maybe my mom asking if I’m still coming for our regular Sunday dinner.
Instead, the name on the screen makes my heart stutter.
BONEHEAD brOOKSIE.
I stare at it for a solid ten seconds before opening the message.
The text is just five words.
BONEHEAD brOOKSIE: We need to talk. ASAP.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
ME: Is everything okay? Is Maisie all right?
Three dots appear, disappear, then:
BONEHEAD brOOKSIE: Just come over. Please.
Please? From Brooks Kingston?
Now I’m really scared.
ME: I’ll be there as fast as I can.
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with this morning’s frozen lake. Brooks wouldn’t text me unless something was wrong. And the only thing we have in common is...
Maisie.
Oh god. Has something happened to her? My mind races through worst-case scenarios—hospitalization again, a fall, bad test results.
I grab my purse and jacket, texting back with trembling fingers.
ME: On my way. Is Maisie ok?
I don’t wait for his response before heading to Rick’s office. He looks up from his computer, surprised.
“I need to go,” I blurt out. “Family emergency. I’ve already drafted tomorrow’s weather report, and the evening segment can use the standard graphics if I’m not back in time.”
To his credit, Rick doesn’t ask questions. “Go. We’ve got it covered.”
I fish out my keys, my hand shaking. Whatever this is about, it can’t be good.
The enemy territory just became a lot more complicated.