Chapter 23 In the Clear
In the Clear
brOOKS
Igrip the steering wheel tighter as I navigate the familiar route to rehab, the ring incident playing on repeat in my head.
A proposal. A fucking proposal. On live television, in front of the entire arena.
What was I thinking? I wasn’t—that’s the problem.
The ring tumbled out, Kermit’s camera zoomed in, and my brain short-circuited into a gesture that I can’t take back.
But the thing that’s really nagging at me?
For a split second when I was down on one knee looking up at Sydney’s shocked face, I meant it. Every. Damn. Word.
The SUV feels too small suddenly, like the walls are closing in. I crack the window, letting the cold night air slice through the cabin. It doesn’t help. Nothing will help because I’m in too deep now, drowning in feelings I’ve spent two decades pretending don’t exist.
A horn blares behind me, and I realize I’ve been sitting at a green light, lost in my own head. I wave an apologetic hand and press the gas, forcing myself to focus on the road instead of the steady unraveling of my already messed up life.
Would I have meant it? If things were different—if this whole relationship wasn’t built on a house of cards, if I wasn’t broken, if Jonah hadn’t made me promise to stay away from his sister—would I have actually wanted to marry Sydney?
I’m not going to answer those questions, not even in my own head.
The rehab center looms ahead, a modern glass and steel structure that’s become my second home these past three weeks. I park in my usual spot, right under the sad-looking pine tree that drops needles all over my SUV. My shoulder twinges as I reach for my gym bag, a phantom reminder of why I’m here.
Inside, the smell hits me first—that unmistakable blend of antiseptic, sweat, and the faint rubber scent of exercise equipment. It should be depressing, but there’s something almost comforting about its familiarity now. Like the world’s most expensive, least fun gym membership.
“Kingston!” Mike, the front desk guy, greets me with the same enthusiasm he has every session. “The miracle man returns!”
I sign in on the tablet. “Just a work in progress.”
“Dr. Chen’s waiting for you in room three.” He lowers his voice. “Seemed excited about something.”
My stomach does a weird flip at that. Dr. Chen doesn’t do excited. She’s the most even-keeled person I’ve ever met—which is exactly what you want in someone manipulating your injured body parts three times a week.
I make my way down the hallway, past rooms that are empty because this place was accommodating enough to stay open for me and one other client.
Dr. Chen is reviewing my chart when I enter room three, her sleek black bob swinging forward as she looks up.
“Brooks,” she says, and there it is—a hint of something different in her typically neutral tone. “Ready for some good news?”
“Always.” I drop my bag and shrug off my jacket. “Hit me.”
She motions for me to sit on the exam table. “Let’s do a quick assessment first.”
I comply, going through the now-familiar routine. Raise your arm. Rotate your shoulder. Push against my hand. Each movement is logged with her usual precision, but there’s an undercurrent of anticipation that wasn’t there before.
“Any pain?” She manipulates my arm in ways that would have been excruciating two months ago.
“Some stiffness,” I admit. “Dull ache after extended use. Nothing sharp anymore.”
She nods, making a note on her tablet. “And how was the charity skate today? Any issues?”
“Felt good, actually. Better than I expected.” I don’t mention that I was so focused on not embarrassing myself in front of Sydney, I barely noticed my shoulder.
“That tracks with what I’m seeing.” She sets down the tablet and looks me square in the face. “Brooks, I’m clearing you to return to play.”
The words hang in the air, words I’ve been waiting to hear for almost two months. I should be ecstatic. I should be pumping my fist and calling my agent. Instead, I sit there, frozen, as conflicting emotions crash through me.
“Obviously, there are conditions,” Dr. Chen continues, either not noticing or politely ignoring my lack of reaction. “No checking for at least the first two weeks back. Limited ice time to start. And you’ll need to continue your PT regimen religiously.”
“But I can play?” I manage. “Actually play?”
“With the restrictions I mentioned, yes. Your recovery has been remarkable, Brooks. Better than we initially projected.” She gives me a rare smile. “You’ve put in the work, and it shows.”
I nod, trying to process what this means. Return to play. Back to the NHL. Back to my real life.
Except it doesn’t feel like my real life anymore. Not after these weeks with Sydney, with Meema, with the strange bubble of existence we’ve created together.
“That’s... great,” I say unenthusiastically. “Thank you.”
Dr. Chen tilts her head, studying me with the same precision she uses on my shoulder. “Most athletes I work with do cartwheels when they get this news.”
“I’m happy,” I insist. “Just... processing.”
“This is what you’ve been working toward,” she reminds me. “What all those brutal sessions were for.”
“I know.” And I do know. This should be the moment everything clicks back into place.
So why does it feel like I’m being sentenced rather than freed?
Dr. Chen outlines my return-to-play protocol in meticulous detail. I nod and agree in all the right places, but my mind is miles away, in a restaurant where Sydney Holt is hearing god only knows what from her brother.
It’s not until I’m back in my SUV, staring at the rehab center in my rearview mirror, that the full weight of it crashes down.
I’m cleared to play. I need to call Coach, my agent, the team.
I need to make arrangements to head back to Boise, to rejoin practice, to slip back into the life that defined me for so long.
Instead, I find myself driving down Kingston Road and pulling over at the lake, at the spot where Sydney and I skated, where I first admitted—to her and to myself—what I really felt.
The lake shines with the moon casting long shadows across its frozen surface. I sit in my SUV, engine running for heat, and try to untangle the mess in my head.
On one side: hockey. The roaring crowds, the adrenaline rush of a perfectly executed play, the brotherhood of the team. The only thing I’ve ever been truly good at, the thing that gives me purpose and identity.
On the other side: Sydney. The way she laughs with her whole body when something really gets her.
How she chews her bottom lip when she’s nervous.
The fierce determination in her eyes when she’s fighting for something she believes in.
The taste of her lips, the feel of her body against mine, the way she trusted me enough to let go completely.
And somewhere in the middle: the life I’ve lived these past three weeks.
Commentating for KBVR, spending time with Meema, waking up next to Sydney knowing I don’t have to catch a plane or make morning skate.
It’s been more than a vacation—it’s been a revelation.
A glimpse of a road not taken, a life I never knew I might want.
The phone in my pocket buzzes, dragging me back to reality.
It has to be Meema, probably wondering where I am.
Over the moon about the engagement, which will be a boost for her after today’s treatments.
But when I check, it’s my agent. I should answer, should tell him the news about my clearance.
He’ll be thrilled. Everyone’ll be thrilled.
I stare out at the lake, remembering Sydney’s panic attack, how the sound of a truck horn triggered memories of her accident.
I remember how it felt to hold her through it, to be the one person she needed at that moment.
How it felt to take her to the cabin, to share that sacred space with someone else for the first time.
How right it felt to be inside her in front of the fireplace, her body glowing in the flames.
And with crystal clarity, I finally admit the truth I’ve been running from for almost twenty years: I’m in love with Sydney Holt.
Not just the casual, convenient love of our arrangement.
Not just the physical attraction that’s always simmered beneath our antagonism.
But the real, terrifying, all-consuming kind of love that changes everything.
The kind of love worth sacrificing for.
I start the SUV and pull away from the lake, my decision made. Hockey’s been my life, and it’s my future. But so is Sydney.
Sportscaster jobs exist in Boise too. Or maybe she’d consider staying closer, building something here where we both have roots, and I could commute the half hour to Boise. There are options, possibilities I never let myself consider before.
But first, I need to come clean. About how the thought of returning to the ice fills me with as much dread as excitement.
And of course, the thing I don’t talk about.
She deserves to know the truth, all of it, before she makes any decisions about her own future.
Before she decides if there’s a place for me in it.
I’ll lay everything out, cards on the table, even though it’s terrifying—being that vulnerable, that exposed.
And I’ll hope—against all odds, against twenty years of antagonistic history, against my hideous secret that I’ve held from her—that we’re something worth fighting for.
It’s the only chance I have of being with the only woman I’ve ever truly loved, even if the chance is microscopically small.
So very small.