Chapter 22 Beavers on Ice #2
The Wildcats answer with a goal of their own, tying the game and silencing the home crowd momentarily. I steal a glance at Brooks, who’s watching with the critical eye of a professional. He catches me looking and winks, sending a jolt of heat through me that has nothing to do with the packed arena.
Midway through the first period, a fight breaks out. Two players collide behind the net, sticks raised, and suddenly gloves are dropping and fists are flying. The crowd surges to its feet, bloodlust overriding hometown pride as they cheer for violence with disturbing enthusiasm.
“That’s ridiculous,” I mutter, even as I find myself standing with everyone else for a better view. I know this is how this goes, but I say, “They’re seventeen.”
“It’s hockey,” Brooks, Jonah, and my father reply in unison, then exchange knowing looks.
The refs separate the players, issuing penalties that send both teams’ fans into competing choruses of boos. As the game resumes, I notice Brooks checking his watch.
“Intermission skate’s coming up,” he says to Jonah. “We should get ready.”
Jonah nods, a momentary truce established in the name of charity. “Meet you in the locker room in five.”
They excuse themselves, leaving me with my parents and an empty seat that feels larger than it should.
“So,” Mom says, clearly aiming for casual and failing. “You and Brooks seem... close.”
I take a long sip of my soda. “Yep.”
“It’s just that, well, given what you told us—it’s a bit of an adjustment, seeing you two together like... that.”
“Like what, Mom?”
She gestures vaguely. “Like you’re... serious.”
Am I blushing? I’m definitely blushing. “We’re figuring things out,” I say, which isn’t a lie. We are figuring things out.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful.” She pats my hand. “He looks at you like you’re the sun and moon combined.”
Something twists in my chest—hope, fear, I’m not sure which. Does he? Or is Brooks Kingston just that good at playing the devoted boyfriend?
The first intermission arrives, and the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers again, this time promoting the Future Sports Stars Association charity skate.
Brooks and Jonah glide onto the ice in their respective professional jerseys, drawing gasps and cheers from the crowd.
They’re each carrying a basket of signed T-shirts and hockey pucks, tossing them to kids whose parents won the silent auction before the game.
Despite the lingering tension between them, they’re a good team—Brooks handling the younger kids with surprising gentleness, Jonah cracking jokes that have the teenagers laughing.
They skate circles around the rink, stopping for photos and autographs, their previous animosity apparently forgotten in the face of their shared love for the sport and giving back.
“Your brother looks good out there,” Dad says proudly. “Both of them do.”
The “both of them” doesn’t escape my notice—he sees Brooks as family.
The second period flies by in a blur of goals, penalties, and near-misses.
The Beavers pull ahead 3-2, then the Wildcats tie it again.
The crowd grows increasingly rowdy, fueled by energy drinks and hometown loyalty.
By the time the second intermission rolls around, I’m already mentally preparing for my segment with Brooks—a brief recap of the game so far and predictions for the final period.
I meet him at the broadcast booth, where Kermit’s setting up. Brooks has changed back into street clothes—dark jeans and a blue fleece.
“Ready for this?” He adjusts his microphone.
“Please. I could do this in my sleep.”
He unzips his pockets and stuffs his hands inside. “I’ve heard you talk in your sleep, Holt. It’s mostly about weather patterns and whether someone ate the last bagel.”
“I do not—” I protest, then catch the teasing glint in his eye. “You’re the worst.”
“That’s not what you said last night,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that should be prohibited in public.
Before I can respond, Kermit signals that we’re on in thirty seconds. I straighten my blouse, run a hand through my hair, and slip into professional mode. The red light blinks on, and suddenly we’re live to the entire arena via the Jumbotron.
“Good evening, Beaver County! I’m Sydney Holt from KBVR, here with Brooks Kingston to break down this nail-biter of a game.” I turn to Brooks, my smile camera-perfect. “Brooks, what are your thoughts on the Beavers’ performance so far?”
He launches into analysis, pointing out the strengths and weaknesses of both teams with insight. I nod along, adding commentary about the standout players and key moments. We’re a good team, our back-and-forth comfortable and engaging.
During the second intermission, as Brooks moves his hand out of his pocket to emphasize a point about the Wildcats’ defensive strategy, something falls, landing with a small clink on the concrete floor. We both glance down, and my heart stops.
It’s a ring.
Not just any ring—an antique-looking band with a modest but beautiful diamond, surrounded by smaller stones that catch the light. It rolls in a small circle before coming to rest at my feet.
Time seems to slow down. I look at it, then at Brooks, whose expression is a mix of surprise and what might be panic. Then I notice Kermit, our ever-opportunistic cameraman, has already panned down to capture the fallen ring.
Brooks clears his throat. “Whoops. I was going to finish the broadcast before doing this, but I guess it’s happening now.”
In a split-second decision that I’ll probably spend the rest of my life replaying, Brooks drops to one knee. Right there. On live television. In front of the entire arena.
“Sydney,” he begins, his voice steady despite the wild look in his eyes. “This isn’t how I planned to do this, but maybe it’s perfect in its own way.”
The arena falls silent, hundreds of people collectively holding their breath. My heart pounds so hard I’m surprised the microphone doesn’t pick it up.
“This ring belonged to my grandmother, and her mother before her. Three generations of Kingston women have worn it.” He picks up the ring, holding it between us. “I can’t imagine anyone more worthy of being the fourth than you.”
Is this real? Part of me—a dangerously hopeful part—wonders if there’s truth behind this grand gesture. If somehow, in the chaos of our fake relationship, genuine feelings have grown on both sides.
“Sydney Holt,” Brooks continues, his eyes never leaving mine, “will you marry me?”
The silence stretches for what feels like hours but is probably only seconds. My brain scrambles to make sense of what’s happening. This wasn’t part of our agreement. This is beyond fake dating, beyond the boundaries we set. This is—
“Yes,” I hear myself say, the word escaping before I can analyze it to death. “Yes, I will.”
The stadium erupts. Hundreds of people leap to their feet, cheering and whistling as Brooks slides the ring onto my finger.
It fits perfectly, which seems impossible and somehow right at the same time.
He stands, pulling me into an embrace that feels both like a performance and the most genuine thing we’ve shared.
“I’m going to kill you,” I whisper into his ear, even as I smile for the cameras.
“I’ll explain everything,” he promises, then kisses me for good measure, sending the crowd into even louder hysterics.
We’re immediately swarmed by well-wishers.
My parents push through the crowd, Mom already in tears, Dad looking shell-shocked but pleased.
Mayor Martinez is there, pumping Brooks’ hand and declaring himself the winner of the town betting pool.
My old high school coach appears, slapping Brooks on the back hard enough to make him wince.
It’s overwhelming, suffocating, and it takes every ounce of my television training to maintain a smile through it all. Finally, mercifully, the announcer calls for attention—the third period is about to begin, and we need to clear the floor.
Brooks pulls me into a quiet corner behind the broadcast booth, his expression a mix of apology and something I can’t quite read.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “Meema gave me the ring. She wants me to have it, to give to...” he trails off, gesturing vaguely. “It was in my coat pocket. I forgot it was there. And then when it fell out, and Kermit panned to it, I just... reacted.”
“You reacted by proposing? On live television?” My voice rises despite my best efforts to keep it down.
“What was I supposed to do? Say ‘oops, that’s my grandmother’s engagement ring that I carry around for no reason’?”
He has a point, which just irritates me more. “I get that, but now what? We’re another level of fake?”
Something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe? “I didn’t plan this, Syd.”
“I know.” I sigh, the adrenaline leaving me in a rush. “It’s just... for a second there, I thought...”
I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t admit that for one wild, wonderful moment, I believed he meant it. That the proposal was real, that the emotions behind it were genuine.
“Sydney.” Brooks steps closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. “I—”
“There you are.” Jonah’s voice cuts through whatever Brooks was about to say. My brother stands a few feet away, his expression carefully neutral as he takes in the scene. “Congratulations, I guess.”
“Jonah,” I begin, not even sure what I’m going to say.
He holds up a hand. “Save it. I just wanted to ask if you’d join me for dinner tonight. At The Velvet Steak.”
The request catches me off guard. Jonah hasn’t invited me to dinner, just the two of us, in a very long time. And to the nicest place in Dickens.
“Of course,” I say, knowing I need to clear the air with my brother, explain this tangled situation before it gets even more complicated. “What time?”
“Eight? I can make a reservation.” He still hasn’t looked directly at Brooks.
“I’ll be there.”
Jonah nods once, then turns to leave without another word to his best friend.
“That’s going to be fun,” I mutter, watching him disappear into the crowd.
Brooks runs a hand through his hair, his tell for stress. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“I think that would defeat the purpose of the brother-sister heart-to-heart he’s planning.” I twist the ring on my finger, still adjusting to its weight. “Besides, I need to talk to him alone.”
“Okay. I set up a night PT session after this anyway,” Brooks says, his tone deliberately casual. “So, am I gonna see you later?”
There’s a vulnerability in his voice, a question beyond the simple words—that makes my heart squeeze painfully in my chest.
“This might go late,” I hedge, suddenly unsure of everything.
“Late works for me.” He steps closer, his fingers brushing mine. “I’ll wait up.”
The promise in those three words—I’ll wait up—feels more intimate, more real than the public proposal we just enacted. And despite all the confusion, all the layers of pretense and performance, I find myself hoping that maybe there’s something genuine beneath it all.
But first, I have to survive dinner with my brother, who looks ready to commit murder in the first degree.