Chapter 9 One Bed
One Bed
SYDNEY
Brooks Kingston radiates heat like a furnace.
I lie rigid on my side of the bed, acutely aware of every inch of space between us, which isn’t nearly enough.
It’s dark, but I can still see his profile—the sharp jaw, the slightly crooked nose from one too many hockey fights, the broad shoulders that strain his T-shirt in ways that should be illegal.
And when the shirt was off—holy hell. I need to erase that image out of my mind because it makes me ache to run my hands over his chest, admiring it like a fine sculpture.
I’ve never allowed myself to admit it, not even in the privacy of my own thoughts, but the man is criminally attractive. Doesn’t make him less of a jerk, though. Just a very pretty one.
Petting Gus, I shift, and the mattress dips, betraying my movement.
Brooks remains still, but I can tell by his breathing that he’s awake.
This is so wild. Twenty-four hours ago, I was lying in my own bed, cursing his name for refusing to help me get the sports anchor position.
Now we’re sharing a bed, fake-dating, and I’m noticing how the muscles in his arms flex when he adjusts his pillow.
Get it together.
The silence stretches between us, and I’m tuned into every sound—the ceiling fan’s whir, the creak of the old house settling, Gus licking his paws, Brooks’ steady breathing. I should be exhausted after the emotional rollercoaster of a day we’ve had, but my mind refuses to shut down.
Just as I’m considering faking a snore to break the tension, Brooks clears his throat. “Sorry about the jars of pennies.”
The words that came out of nowhere hang in the dark. I turn my head to look at him, but he’s still staring at the ceiling.
“What?” Did I hear him correctly?
“The pennies. In college.” He shifts slightly, wincing as his bad shoulder catches.
“When I paid you back the three hundred dollars in jars of them. I thought it would be kinda funny because I was stupid. But also, I didn’t really have the money.
I got it from my gramps who had the collection.
He said I could have it. Anyway, I should’ve cashed it myself before giving it to you. ”
Something pinches in my chest. I remember that day clearly—standing at the bank counter while the teller explained they couldn’t accept loose coins, then driving around town looking for a coin-counting machine that wouldn’t charge me a ridiculous fee.
I’d been furious, sure Brooks had done it to make my life difficult.
“Really?” I prop myself up on one elbow to see his face better. “But you had money growing up. Your family had that huge house on the other side of this lake. Your dad drove a Porsche.”
“My parents had money,” he corrects, his voice flat. “I didn’t.”
That’s so cliché, but I guess there must be something to it because so many rich kids say it. I’d always assumed Brooks had it all—talent, looks, wealth, a perfect family. The Kingston name carried weight in Beaver County, and not just because they owned half of this lakefront property.
“What do you mean? They didn’t give you an allowance or whatever rich parents do?”
He makes that noise—that specific grunt that somehow conveys both amusement and derision. “My dad says handouts breed weakness.” His voice takes on a different quality, and I realize he’s mimicking his father. “‘You want spending money? Win the game, score the goal, be the best.’”
“That’s... harsh,” I say, trying to process this new information. “So the three hundred dollars I loaned you—”
“Was for an emergency flight home from an away game when Meema was in the hospital with her gallbladder surgery,” he finishes. “Dad refused to send money because I’d missed a practice that same week. Said I needed to learn about priorities.”
I’m stunned into silence. All these years, I’d painted Brooks as the villain in every interaction between us. The rich, entitled hockey star who went out of his way to make my life difficult. But maybe things weren’t as black and white as I’d thought.
I think about his parents now, living in Boise but rarely visiting their son or Maisie, despite her illness. It clicks into place why Brooks seems so comfortable here with his grandmother, why he came back to care for her instead of hiring nurses or sending money.
“Fair enough,” I say. “I guess I can forgive the pennies thing.”
“Magnanimous of you.”
I smile, and the silence that follows is less tense than before. I lie back down, staring at the ceiling, my mind retracing our shared history with this new perspective. Which brings me to the original sin of our mutual animosity.
“Any good reason behind the haircut you gave me?” My voice gets an edge. Some wounds, even almost twenty years old, still sting when poked.
Brooks sighs, deep and heavy. “No. I was pissed and just being a dick.”
I fight off a smile, appreciating his blunt honesty. No excuses, no justifications. Just owning his ten-year-old assholery.
“You told everyone I wet the bed at Jonah’s birthday party,” he adds after a moment.
“Yikes—sorry about that.” Jonah and I had placed Brooks’ hand in a glass of warm water while he slept. “Used the oldest trick in the book.”
“Which is not the same as actually wetting the bed.”
“Close enough for grade school gossip.” I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice now. “I cleared it up the next week, and it was a pretty good prank.”
“So was cutting your ponytail.”
“It was not! For all of fourth grade, I looked like a mushroom.”
“A cute mushroom,” he says quietly.
I turn to stare at him, but he’s resolutely focused on the ceiling. Did Brooks Kingston just call nine-year-old me cute? Even as a mushroom?
The world has officially gone mad.
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “I can’t say I forgive you for the hair thing, but I’ll shelve it. For Maisie’s sake.”
“Fair enough.”
We lie in companionable silence for a few minutes, and I find myself relaxing, the rigidity slowly leaving my muscles.
Another thought hits. “I’m going to tell my parents the truth tomorrow.” I’m tight with them, and they have to know everything.
“Sure.” Brooks sighs. “If it’s okay, I’d rather let mine think we’re dating. Maybe it’ll give them some hope.”
“Okay.” More surprising information about Brooks’ parents. I’ve always been pretty indifferent to them, but now, I’m starting to dislike them. Moving on from that, I say, “We should probably try to get some sleep.”
I pull the covers up to my chin. Brooks does the same, and we’re back to our original positions, rigid and careful not to touch.
“Goodnight, Syd.” His voice is soft.
“Goodnight, Brooksie.”
As I close my eyes, I still can’t believe this day. I’m seeing glimpses of a man I never knew existed beneath the arrogant hockey star exterior. And on Saturday, during our broadcast from the Trout game, we have to convince the world we’re in love.
A lock of my hair falls across my face, reminding me that my hair grew back, longer and stronger after Brooks cut it. Maybe this fake relationship will be like that—a temporary setback that ultimately leads to something better.
Or maybe it’ll be the biggest mistake of my life.
Either way, lying here next to him, his warmth seeping through the space between us, I’m starting to think it might be worth finding out.