Chapter 13 Shredded
Shredded
brOOKS
Istand in front of Meema’s bathroom mirror, tie dangling uselessly from my fingers.
A few hours ago, I was Television Brooks—articulate and charming.
Now, I’m back to being regular Brooks—the guy who just got off the phone with my parents, lying to them when I told them I was in a real relationship with Sydney.
Might as well please them, at least momentarily, which I did.
For a second, until Dad pivoted to wanting every detail of my recovery plan.
Yes, Dad, I’m in great hands in Dickens—they have state-of-the-art everything at their clinic.
It’s even better than what I was getting in Boise.
He knows this—athletes from Boise travel here all the time because it’s so phenomenal.
The high from the broadcast is gone, and reality has settled back in. I’m so royally fucked on multiple fronts, and I give up on the tie, tossing it onto the counter. Tonight’s party hardly calls for it, anyway.
My shoulder throbs as I reach for the button-up hanging on the door hook. The blue one Meema insists brings out my eyes. “Ladies love a man in blue,” she’d said this morning. I don’t think I need anything more to tempt Sydney.
The image comes back full force: her wet, slick, hot body pressed into mine, the feel of her mouth moving over mine. The way her ass fit into my hands.
Jesus Christ. That really happened.
I look around my bedroom, a museum to a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore—confident, unbreakable, full of promise. The King. What a joke. Kings don’t hide at their grandmother’s, avoiding calls from their agents and popping pain pills like Tic Tacs.
My eyes land on the framed photo on the dresser—me and Jonah. Both of us grinning like morons, futures stretched out before us, bright and limitless. My chest tightens. Twenty years of friendship, and I might have torpedoed it all for what? A fake relationship that’s feeling less fake by the hour.
I can still hear his voice. You had your hands on my sister’s ass, Brooks.
Jesus! And the worst part? I don’t regret it.
Not even a little. My body remembers exactly how perfectly Sydney fit against me, how she made that little sound in the back of her throat when I tugged on her hair.
How right it felt, even though it was so monumentally wrong.
This can never become real. Jonah’s eyes full of betrayal cut deeper than his anger. He’s right. Of course he’s right. Even if this thing with Sydney wasn’t built on a foundation of lies, I can never offer anyone anything real.
My phone vibrates against the nightstand for what feels like the hundredth time today. I glance at the screen—my agent, Garrick. Again. Three missed calls in the past hour, not counting the five I ignored yesterday. I let it buzz until it stops, guilt and relief battling for dominance in my gut.
He doesn’t understand. None of the team does. To them, this is just a shoulder injury, a temporary setback.
Get back on the ice, Brooks. The team needs you, Brooks. Millions of dollars on the line, Brooks.
Like I don’t know that. Like I’m not acutely aware of exactly what’s at stake.
But how do I explain that every time I close my eyes, I feel my body crumpling against the boards? Hear that sickening crack that silenced an entire arena? Talking in a word salad as the medical team rushed over?
Just like I did when I got my first concussion. How many more of these can I get before my brain completely fries?
The phone buzzes again. A text this time.
GARRICK: Call me. Team needs an update on your return timeline.
Return timeline. As if it’s just a matter of scheduling.
As if I haven’t spent the past month waking up in cold sweats, reliving that hit over and over again.
Believe me, I’m pushing myself so hard in rehab my doctor made me slow things down.
I know I need to get back on the ice. I want to get back on the ice.
I toss the phone onto the bed and turn back to the dresser, fumbling for the prescription bottle tucked behind my deodorant.
The orange plastic is becoming too familiar in my palm, the white pills inside a promise of temporary relief.
Two should do it. Or maybe three for tonight.
The party. Meema’s birthday. Playing the doting grandson and Sydney’s besotted boyfriend while Jonah watches with raging disappointment.
The pills are bitter, but I swallow them dry. The doctor said to take them with food, but what does it matter? Just one more rule to break in a life that’s rapidly spinning out of my control.
I roll my shoulder experimentally, feeling the tight pull of damaged tissue. It’s better than it was a month ago, but nowhere near game-ready.
Fifty-fifty chance of returning to pre-injury form—a coin flip odds on my entire career, my identity, the only thing I’ve ever been truly good at.
The thing is, the ice used to feel like home, the arena like a sanctuary. Now? It feels like walking into a firing squad. The crowd noise that once energized me now sets my teeth on edge. The speed that used to exhilarate me now terrifies me. What if it happens again? What if next time it’s worse?
I just have to suck it up and get past it, that’s all.
A soft knock at the door startles me.
“Brooks?” Sydney’s voice, hesitant. “You almost ready? Meema’s getting antsy downstairs.”
My heart does this stupid little skip-jump thing it has no business doing. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “Yeah. Five minutes.”
“Okay.” A pause. “Everything all right in there? You’ve been up here for almost an hour.”
Has it been that long? I glance at the clock—4:15. The party starts at 5, but we’re supposed to be there early to help set up. Shit.
“Fine,” I call back. “Just... struggling with buttons.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Need help?”
The thought of Sydney’s fingers working the buttons of my shirt, her face close to mine, her scent surrounding me right now—it’s simultaneously the best and worst idea imaginable.
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Almost done.”
“Alright.” Her voice sounds different now. Smaller, maybe. “I’ll tell Maisie you’re on your way.”
Her footsteps fade down the hall, and I exhale. This is exactly what Jonah warned about. The blurred lines. The moments that feel too real, too intimate.
I finish buttoning my shirt one-handed, leaving the top two undone because my patience only stretches so far.
My reflection in the dresser mirror looks passable.
Not great, but good enough for a birthday party.
My hair’s still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends in a way that would have my father reaching for the hair gel.
“Appearance matters, Brooks. Image is everything.”
The pills are starting to kick in, a fuzzy warmth spreading through my shoulder, dulling the sharp edges of my thoughts. Dangerous territory. It would be so easy to lean into that warmth, to let it numb everything—the pain, the guilt, the fear. Too easy.
Downstairs, Meema and Sydney are waiting. The two women I’m lying to most spectacularly. One because I love her too much. The other because...
Well, I have to. It’s that simple.
But as I head down the stairs and see her—Sydney, in a simple blue dress that matches my shirt, Meema’s doing no doubt, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders, laughing at something my grandmother just said—I know there’s another reason I’m lying that I haven’t admitted to myself yet.
“There he is!” Meema’s face lights up. “Don’t you two look handsome together. Like something out of a magazine.”
Sydney turns, and our eyes meet across the room. Something passes between us—acknowledgment of this strange, complicated thing we’ve created? Then she fake smiles, the one she uses on camera.
“Ready, babe?” she asks, the endearment awkward on her tongue.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The pills have made everything soft around the edges, including my resolve to keep my distance.
Meema claps her hands together. “This is going to be the best birthday party ever. All my favorite people in one place. Well, except my son and his wife, of course.”
That snaps me back. “Oh, Dad has a work thing he can’t miss, but he and Mom send all their love and apologies. They hope you got their card.” I hate making excuses for them.
“I did. But that son of mine has to make this up to me.”
“Yes, he does.” I help her with her shawl, and she seems stronger tonight, buoyed by excitement and whatever is happening between Sydney and me. If this lie is what’s giving her the strength to fight, how can I regret it?
But as Sydney slips her hand into mine—warm, small, fitting perfectly—I know I’m playing a game where everyone stands to lose.
“Let’s go,” I say, managing a smile for Meema’s benefit. “Can’t keep your adoring public waiting.”
As we head out to the SUV, Sydney’s hand still in mine, I make a silent promise to myself.
I will keep my distance. I will remember this is fake. I will not drag Sydney into the mess that is my life.
Even if it’s already too late.