Chapter 16 Below The Surface #2
We return to our work, talking about our plans for the Wednesday after next, where Brooks and I will be reporting live at the opening hockey game for the Dickens High School Beavers.
At the first intermission, Brooks and Jonah—who’s flying back home for this—will be handing out signed paraphernalia from a silent auction to raise money for underprivileged young athletes.
Things start to come together, but the easy rhythm from before is broken. Brooks is distracted, checking his phone every few minutes as if expecting a call or message.
“The Hawks have a shot at state this year.” I try to get us back on track. “Coach Rainey finally implemented that spread offense I’ve been telling him about for years.”
“You’ve been advising the high school soccer coach?” Brooks looks up from his phone, interest piqued.
“Not officially. But he played when I did back in the day, so he listens to me.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Brooksie.” The words come out more flirtatious than intended, and I hurry to add, “I’m more than just the weather girl.”
His face goes reflective, soft. “I know that. I’ve always known that.”
My heart does this flip-flop thing, and some emotion makes my throat scratchy.
The moment stretches between us, taut with unspoken things. Then, a blasting horn from a passing truck on Woodsville Road shatters the silence, and everything inside me freezes.
The sound triggers something primal in my brain—screeching tires, crunching metal, the blare of a horn as my car flips.
My lungs constrict, refusing to fill. Sweat breaks out along my hairline, my palms. The edges of my vision darken, the familiar tunnel forming as panic takes hold.
Not in front of Brooks—again.
“Sydney?” His voice sounds far away, underwater. “Syd, look at me.”
I try, but my eyes won’t focus. My heart hammers painfully against my ribs, too fast, too hard.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die right here in Maisie Kingston’s sunroom because a truck honked its horn.
“Can’t—” I gasp, “—breathe.”
“Yes, you can.” Brooks’ face swims into focus, close to mine. “You’re not dying, I promise.”
His hands are on my shoulders, steady and warm. How does he know? How does he know exactly what this is?
“Focus on me,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Just me. Take a breath in—slow—that’s it. Now out. Good.”
I follow his instructions, clinging to his voice like a lifeline. Gradually, the vise around my chest loosens. The tunnel vision recedes. My heart still races, but the immediate sense of doom begins to fade.
“The horn—it reminded me...” I manage, embarrassment flooding in as the panic ebbs.
“I know,” he says simply. No judgment, no pity. Just understanding.
“I’m sorry.” I wipe my damp cheeks. When did I start crying?
“Don’t.” His voice is firm. “Don’t apologize for this. Ever.”
There’s a recognition in his eyes that makes me wonder what I keep wondering lately—if Brooks Kingston has more in common with me than I ever realized.
“How do you know what to do?”
He looks away, something vulnerable crossing his features before the shutters come down again. “Experience,” he says finally.
I want to press, to ask more, but he’s already standing, pulling me gently to my feet. “Come on. I know what’ll help.”
“What?”
“Ice skating.”
I blink at him, certain I’ve misheard. “Brooks, I just had a panic attack. I don’t think strapping blades to my feet and wobbling around on frozen water is the solution.”
“Trust me.” There’s that half-smile again. “Cool air, physical activity, focusing on your body instead of what’s in your head—it helps. Plus, the lake’s frozen solid again. No cars, no traffic sounds. Just open space.”
“I have zero skills,” I say as he helps me into my coat. “Soccer skills don’t translate to ice.”
“Good thing you’ve got a pro to teach you.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at the edge of the lake behind Maisie’s property, her old skates laced tight on my feet. The ice stretches before us, a perfect white canvas under the winter sun. Brooks was right—it’s peaceful here.
“Ready?” Brooks is already on the ice, extending his hand to me.
I take it, allowing him to guide me onto the frozen surface. My ankles wobble, and I grab his arm with both hands. It’s been a long time since I’ve skated. “Don’t you dare let me fall, Brooksie.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Baby steps. Push off with one foot, glide with the other.”
He demonstrates, making it look effortless despite his shoulder. I try to copy him, moving with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. When did my balance get so bad? I need to add that to my workouts.
“That’s it.” He skates backward while holding both my hands. “You’re a natural.”
“Liar,” I say, but I’m smiling now, the remnants of my panic attack fading with each breath of crisp air.
“You’re too stiff.” He moves beside me, one arm around my waist for support. “Bend your knees a little. That’s it. Now push and glide.”
His teaching style surprises me, even though it shouldn’t. It’s just like when we were dance partners: he’s patient, encouraging, never condescending.
After a few laps around the lake’s edge, I’m feeling more confident, my muscle memory coming back. Not exactly ready for the Olympics, but at least I’m no longer clinging to Brooks.
“Better?” he says as we take a short break, standing at the edge.
“Much.” I smile up at him, genuinely grateful. “Thank you.”
He shrugs, but I can tell the compliment means something to him. “It’s what you do for the people you ca—” He stops, clears his throat. “For friends. It’s what you do for friends.”
Friends. Is that what we are now? After twenty years of antagonism, eleven days of fake dating, and one earth-shattering kiss that we’re still pretending didn’t rock both our worlds?
“Come on.” He tugs me back onto the ice. We skate side by side this time, my confidence growing with each push and glide. Brooks matches his pace to mine, occasionally offering a pointer or steadying hand when I wobble.
“You’re actually pretty good at this teaching thing,” I tell him. “Patient. Not what I would have expected from The King.”
“There’s a lot about me that might surprise you, too, Syd.”
“Like what?”
“Remember when you broke your arm playing soccer? Your freshman year, regional finals?”
I groan. “How could I forget? Worst pain of my life, and it cost us the championship.”
“You were incredible in that game. Three goals before that defender took you out.”
“You were there?” I’m shocked. “I don’t remember seeing you.”
“I was. When you went down, I thought you’d just get back up like always. But then you didn’t.”
“I had to be helped off the field, apparently. I don’t remember it.”
I nod. “Yeah. You were trying to convince the ref you could keep playing, even with your arm at that weird angle. And you refused medical care, but then you were dazed and out of it from the pain, so I helped you off.”
She gasps. “What? That was you?”
“Yeah. I stayed with you until your parents got there and took you to the hospital.”
“Wow—I’m sorry I never thanked you for that. I didn’t know.” Regret creeps into my voice. “I was so mad about missing the rest of the game, I think I actually cursed at the person, which was you.”
“You had quite the vocabulary.” He smiles at the memory. “Called me things I didn’t even know you knew.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. It was impressive.” He’s quiet for a moment, seeming to debate with himself. Then he says, “I actually came in and checked on you during several soccer games.”
This nearly throws me off balance. “How did I never see you?”
“I stood in the back,” he admits. “Jonah was supposed to be scouting the other team’s defensive strategy for Coach. I was there because...” He trails off, skating ahead slightly.
“Because what?” I press, catching up to him.
His eyes meet mine, surprisingly vulnerable. “Because you were amazing to watch. The way you moved on the field—like you could see three plays ahead, like you knew exactly where everyone would be.”
I stare at him, trying to process this. Hockey star, golden boy, bane of my existence, used to sneak in and watch me play soccer.
And he thought I was amazing.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Pride.”
I nod. “Gotcha. I’ve done that.”
He stops skating, turning to face me. “Maybe it’s time we stop.”
We’re standing close—too close for friends, too close for fake anything. I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow from a hockey fight years ago.
His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “Cold?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. I’m the opposite of cold right now, despite standing on a frozen lake in the middle of a winter that came early.
His eyes drop to my lips, and for a hot minute, I think he’s going to kiss me.
Part of me—a growing, insistent part—wants him to.
Is dying for him to. But instead, his hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining naturally.
It’s a small gesture, meaningless really.
We’ve held hands dozens of times in the past week and a half—for show, for Maisie, for the townsfolk watching our performance.
But this is different. No audience. No reason to pretend. Just his hand in mine because it feels right.