Chapter 8 Sleeping Arrangements #2
I can’t look at Sydney. If I do, I might laugh, and I can’t do that. “Thanks, Meema,” I manage, my voice gruff. “We’ll... put it to good use.” Oh, Jesus.
“See that you do.” She winks.
I need to get the hell out of here. “You two get busy with the albums. I’ll go get dinner started.”
“The albums can wait.” Meema stands. “I’m going to cook.”
“You feel like it?” I say, surprised and concerned. Yesterday, she barely had the energy to pick at the meals I made. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I’m sure it’s an excellent idea.” She’s already heading toward the kitchen, moving faster than I’ve seen since I’ve been here. “Good news is better than any medicine, Brooksie. And this—” she gestures between Sydney and me “—is the best news I’ve had in... well, ever.”
As she disappears into the kitchen, Sydney and I remain frozen on the couch, the wooden dick lying between us, redefining the term cock-block.
“Well,” Sydney whispers, “that escalated quickly.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, and I mean it. “I didn’t think she’d go nuclear.”
“It’s fine. It’s... it’s good to see her with so much energy.” She carefully holds the dick by its base and sets it aside. “But I draw the line at wooden penises with creepy faces.”
A laugh escapes me—a short, rusty sound that seems to surprise us both. “Fair enough. I’ll hide it somewhere.”
“You better.” She glances toward the kitchen, where we can hear Meema humming as she moves around. “I should go home and pack some things, I guess. Since I apparently live here now.”
“You don’t have to do this. We can tell her you’re saving yourself for marriage.”
Sydney snorts out a laugh. “Maisie knows me better than that—no way. I’ve seen how she gets after bad days at chemo. If me here helps her fight harder, I’m in.”
I study her face, trying to reconcile this selfless version of Sydney with the sharp-tongued reporter who’s been a thorn in my side for years. “Thank you. And I’ll drop you home so you can get your car and things.”
She stands, brushing imaginary lint from her jeans. “Thanks. I hope Maisie doesn’t plan a June wedding while we’re gone.”
“No promises.”
She smiles, but it fades as resolve hardens her face. “She’s going to get better, Brooks. We’ll make sure of it.”
I hope to hell she’s right.
I drop Sydney at home, and she returns with her suitcase and a duffel bag. Meema has exhausted herself making a pot roast that smells better than anything I’ve had in a while. She’s asleep in her chair, the TV playing on mute, a faded smile still on her face.
“How is she?” Sydney whispers, setting her bags in the hallway.
“Crashed about a half-hour ago.” I lead her into the kitchen, away from Meema’s sleeping form. “But she ate a full plate of food.”
Sydney’s face softens. “That’s good. Really good.”
“Yeah.” I lean against the counter, suddenly hyperaware that Sydney Holt is about to move into my bedroom. “Listen, about the sleeping arrangements—”
“It’s fine,” she cuts me off. “My bed at home is a twin, anyway. As long as you stick to your side and don’t snore, we’ll survive.”
“I don’t snore,” I say automatically, then add, “I mean, I’ll take the floor.”
Sydney rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your shoulder’s hurt, and you’re a foot taller than me. We’ll just have to share.”
“Fine.” I cross my arms, ignoring the twinge in my shoulder.
A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “But the fertility frank stays in the closet.”
The image hits me with unexpected force—a little girl with Sydney’s blond hair and my eyes, maybe a boy with her smile and my stubborn chin. I shake my head to clear it.
Jesus, I need to get a grip. That’s not where this is going.
“I’ll show you to my… our room,” I say, awkward. “You can get settled.”
My bedroom here hasn’t changed much since high school—hockey trophies still line the shelves, posters of NHL legends on the walls. The only difference is the king-sized bed that replaced my twin when I hit six foot three and my feet started hanging off the end.
“Wow.” Sydney looks around. “It’s like a hockey museum in here.”
I shift on my feet. “Meema says it keeps me from forgetting where I came from.”
She runs her fingers over a frame on the dresser—a photo of thirteen-year-old me and Jonah in our first travel team uniforms, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, gap-toothed grins on our faces.
“Jonah had that same picture in our house growing up. Used to stare at it for hours, planning your NHL careers together.”
The mention of Jonah sends another wave of guilt crashing over me. The guy who’s been by my side through everything. The guy I’m about to piss off so much I’m putting our friendship in jeopardy. But he’ll understand. I think.
Shit, I hope.
Sydney must see the look on my face because she says, “Don’t worry. Once he knows it’s for Maisie—”
“It’s not just about her,” I interrupt, sitting on the bed. “It’s about you, too. I know this helped you get the job you wanted, but Jonah will do anything to keep you from getting hurt.”
“Well, that’s not happening, so he can chill.” Sydney sits beside me, careful to maintain space between us. “We need to tell him before KBVR leaks our relationship Saturday morning.”
“We’ll do it in person when he gets here on Friday evening for Meema’s party,” I say, but the guilt doesn’t subside.
There’s more to all this than Jonah, who’s protecting Sydney from a hockey star fuckboy.
Only he, my parents, and Meema know the life-obliterating thing I’m forced to keep from everyone else.
“That works. I’m going to grab a shower.” Sydney stands abruptly. “Long day.”
“Towels are in the hall closet,” I say, grateful for the subject change. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
While she showers, I change into sweatpants, struggling with my T-shirt. The shoulder injury makes it nearly impossible to lift my right arm above my head, and after a minute of contortion that leaves me sweating and swearing, I give up for now.
When Sydney comes out of the bathroom, I nearly swallow my tongue. She’s wearing Smurf pajamas. Actual cartoon Smurf pajamas, with little blue characters all over the pants and a matching blue top. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head.
She looks ridiculously young. And ridiculously hot.
“Nice PJs.” I try to sound sarcastic instead of intrigued.
“Shut up.” She tosses her clothes into a corner. “They’re comfortable.”
“I didn’t say they weren’t.” I shift, self-conscious about sleeping all night next to her in the same T-shirt I’ve worn all day. “I, uh, was having trouble with my shirt.”
Sydney sighs, but there’s no irritation behind it. “Turn around.”
I obey, feeling strangely vulnerable as she approaches. Her fingers are cool against my neck as she helps me out of the shirt, careful not to jar my shoulder. The sensation sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature.
“It’s pretty bad, huh?” Her breath’s warm against my bare back.
For a moment, I think she’s talking about my reaction to her touch. Then I realize she means the bump where my shoulder separated. Thank god, it doesn’t require surgery.
“It’s getting better,” I lie. The truth is, the doctors aren’t sure I’ll ever regain full range of motion.
Sydney helps me into a clean T-shirt, her movements efficient but gentle. It’s the most intimate moment I’ve shared with anyone since my injury, and it’s with Sydney Holt.
“Thanks,” I mutter when she’s done, not meeting her eyes.
“No problem.” She steps back quickly, putting distance between us. “Consider it practice for our convincing couple act.”
We both climb into bed from opposite sides, lying rigidly on our backs. The ceiling fan turns above, casting moving shadows across the walls.
She shifts onto her side, facing me. I can feel her eyes on my profile but don’t dare turn to meet them. “This is weird, right?”
“Top five weirdest moments of my life. And I once found the mayor of Dickens skinny-dipping in the hotel pool after a win.”
Sydney laughs softly, the sound pleasant. “Tell me you have photographic evidence of that.”
“Sadly, no. My teammate deleted it after the mayor’s office threatened legal action.” I find myself smiling at the memory. “But trust me—some things you can’t unsee.”
“Like me in Smurf pajamas?”
I risk a glance at her. The moonlight from the window catches the curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose. “The Smurfs are a definite improvement over what the mayor was wearing. Which was nothing.”
She laughs again, and the atmosphere shifts—less tense, more companionable. It reminds me of those rare moments in high school when we’d find ourselves waiting for Jonah, and we’d manage a few minutes of actual conversation before reverting to our usual bitching.
She rolls away, pulling the covers up to her chin. “Goodnight, Brooks.”
“Night, Syd.”
The door cracks open, and in waddles Gus, who apparently has decided he’s not sleeping with Meema tonight. Sydney jumps up, grabbing the oversized hot-dog dog and bringing him to bed with us. Might as well make it a party.
The three of us settle in, but sleep is a long time coming, my mind racing with thoughts.
Facing Jonah this weekend. My parents. God, they can’t find out about this fake relationship on the news, which means I have to tell them first, which means I have to stop avoiding them.
The team doctors want another evaluation of my shoulder next week.
Meema’s doctor appointments, her upcoming treatment in three weeks.
And now I’m sharing a bed with Sydney Holt, the last person I should be.
The worst part? As I’m lying here listening to her breathing, I wish this didn’t have to end.