Chapter 27 The Crossroads
The Crossroads
brOOKS
The words are lined up, and I’m going to tell Sydney everything. No more secrets. No more lies, even if it means losing the one person who’s made me believe in something beyond the next game, the next season, the next contract.
We walk in, flip on the light and shut the door, and Sydney sits on the bed, phone in hand, her blond hair falling forward to hide her expression. The sight of her there, so perfectly at home in my space, makes my chest ache with a sweetness I’ve never deserved. I like her being here, but…
“So,” I say, the word pitifully inadequate for everything churning inside me.
Sydney looks up, her face unreadable in a way that sets alarm bells ringing in my head. Usually, I can read her like game stats—every micro-expression, every tell. Now she’s closed off, guarded.
I perch on the edge of the bed rather than sitting beside her like I normally would. The distance between us feels both insignificant and insurmountable.
“How are you?” I finally finish.
She shrugs, a quick lift and drop of her shoulders that tells me nothing. “Processing. It’s not every day you find out your boyfriend’s grandmother faked a terminal illness to play matchmaker.”
“Fake boyfriend,” I correct automatically, then wince.
Sydney’s eyes flick to mine, then away. “Right.”
The silence stretches between us, charged with all the things we’re not saying. The words are right there, pushing against my teeth, demanding release.
“Brooks, I—”
“Sydney, there’s something—”
We speak simultaneously, both stopping short. In another time, another mood, we might have laughed, made some joke about jinx. Now we just stare at each other.
“Let me go first,” she says, and I nod because I’m a coward, because I need one more minute of not seeing the disappointment in her eyes.
She takes a deep breath, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the quilt—the one Meema made for my tenth birthday, covered in hockey sticks and pucks. “I got an email today. From that network in LA.”
Everything inside me goes still. “The one you sent your demo to?”
She nods, a quick jerk. “They want me to come out for an interview. Next week.”
The words hit me like a blindside check. She told me about it last night, but now, with the reality of it hanging in the air between us, it knocks the air from my lungs even though it shouldn’t.
“That’s...” I search for the right word, but my brain’s short-circuited, all my carefully prepared confessions scrambled by this new information. “That’s amazing, Syd. Congratulations.”
Her expression shifts, softens. “It’s just an interview,” she says. “Not an offer.”
“They’d be idiots not to hire you on the spot.” The words come automatically, sincerely, despite the growing hollowness in my chest. “You’re the best sportscaster they’ll ever meet.”
“You’re biased.” There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Another silence, this one heavier than the last. Sydney’s watching me carefully, like she’s waiting for something specific. And suddenly I understand what this conversation really is—not just an announcement, but a question. A crossroads.
“Do you think I should go?” Her words are carefully neutral, though her eyes are anything but.
And there it is. The real question beneath the surface: should she stay here, in Idaho, with me? Should she give up this opportunity for whatever it is we’ve built on a foundation of lies and half-truths?
The selfish part of me—the part that’s been happier these past weeks than I can remember being in years—wants to beg her to stay. To tell her we can figure it out, make it work, build something real. To promise her a future I have no right to offer.
But then I remember reality—the one I have to go back to now that I’m done playing house in Beaver County. About the uncertainty of my career. About the nightmares. The secret that’s eating me alive.
Sydney’s watching me, waiting for an answer, her eyes wide and earnest and so full of something that looks dangerously like hope. It takes everything I have not to cross the space between us, pull her into my arms, tell her I love her, and beg her to stay.
Instead, I take a deep breath and say the words that feel like razor blades in my throat: “You can’t pass up an opportunity like this, Syd. You have to go.”
Something flickers across her face—surprise, disappointment, hurt—before she schools the emotion out of her expression. “That’s what you think?”
“I think you’ve worked your ass off for a chance like this.” I force the words out, each one cutting deeper than the last. “I think you’re too talented to stay stuck in Beaver County when you could be covering pro sports in LA.”
“There are other considerations,” she says carefully.
“Like what?” I push, even though I know exactly what she means, even though the hope in her eyes is killing me.
“Like us.” She gestures between us, her hand trembling slightly. “Whatever this is. Whatever we’ve become.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly desert-dry. “I’ve actually been cleared to play. So, I’m headed back to Boise.”
“Oh, that’s amazing,” she says, even though her tone doesn’t.
“We knew this could never be real, remember?” The words taste like ash, but I force them out, anyway. Because I love her enough to let her go. And she deserves better than the shitshow that’s my life.
“So that’s it?” The hurt in her voice is unmistakable now. “Everything that happened between us—the cabin, the nights together, all of it—that meant nothing?”
“No,” I say quickly, because I can’t bear for her to think that. “No, that was real. You and me, that was real.”
“Then why are you so quick to send me to LA?”
The question hangs between us, direct and unavoidable. I meet her gaze, see the confusion and pain there, and hate myself for causing it.
“Because I want what’s best for you,” I say finally. “And that’s not me, Syd. It’s not this town, or the local news station, or any of it. You’ve always wanted more, always deserved more.”
A tear slips down her cheek, and she brushes it away with an angry swipe of her hand. “Shouldn’t that be my decision? What’s best for me?”
“It is,” I insist, though the words feel hollow. “I’m just—I’m trying to support you.”
“So, you want me to move?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
The moment stretches, time suspended as I look at this woman who’s somehow carved out a place in my heart I didn’t know existed. A woman who makes me laugh, who challenges me, who sees through my bullshit and calls me on it. A woman I could love—do love—if circumstances were different.
“I do,” I force myself to say, the words like broken glass in my mouth. “I want you to follow your dreams.”
Something breaks in her expression, a light going out. She nods once, sharply, like she’s coming to a decision.
“Okay then,” she says, her voice steadier than I expected. “I think I’ll go back home tonight. There’s no more reason for me to stay now that we’re not pretending for Maisie.”
Each word is precise and devastating. I want to protest, to tell her she shouldn’t leave. But what would be the point? I’ve already made my choice—to push her away, to set her free. To protect her.
“I think that’s probably for the best.” The words scrape my throat raw.
Sydney rises from the bed in one fluid motion. Her movements are efficient, practiced, like she’s packing up after a road game. The reporter mask is firmly in place now, professional and composed, though I can see the cracks around the edges.
“I’ll just grab my things from the bathroom.” She doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Take your time,” I say, though what I really want to say is “stay.”
She disappears into the en-suite, and I sit there, frozen on the edge of the bed, listening to the small sounds of her packing up her life. The zip of her toiletry bag. The click of makeup compacts. The rustle of clothes being folded.
What have I done? The question echoes in my head. I’ve pushed away the one person who made me feel like maybe, there could be a life beyond hockey. A life worth living.
But it’s better this way, I tell myself. Better for her to be free to pursue her dreams without being tied to my sinking ship. Better for her to get out now before she gets in any deeper.
Sydney emerges from the bathroom, toiletry bag in hand. She doesn’t look at me as she tucks it into her overnight bag, already half-packed on the chair by the window.
“Do you need help with anything?” I ask, desperate to break the suffocating silence.
“I’ve got it,” she says, still not meeting my gaze. “It’s not like I brought much.”
But she brought everything that matters. Laughter, warmth, good conversation. And I’m letting it all walk out the door.
She zips up her bag with finality, then stands there for a moment, looking around the room like she’s memorizing it.
Finally, her eyes land on me. “We’ll need to issue a joint statement. I'll cancel the family gym membership. I trust you'll cancel our Saturday night dinner reservation.”
“Sure,” I say, numb. I rise to my feet, my body moving without conscious thought. “I’ll walk you out.”
“That’s not necessary,” she says quickly. Too quickly.
“Please,” I say, hating the desperation in my voice. “Let me at least do that.”
She hesitates, then nods once. “Fine.”
The walk downstairs is silent, our footsteps loud on the wooden steps. I’m acutely aware of the space between us.
And then we’re at the front door, the moment of departure here. Sydney stands on the threshold, bag in hand, looking more shut down and checked out than I’ve ever seen her.
“Goodbye, Brooks.”
“Goodbye, Syd.” The words feel inadequate, pathetic in the face of everything I want to say but can’t. “Good luck with the interview. You’re going to blow them away.”
She nods, a quick jerk of her head, then she twists off the ring and hands it to me before turning to go.
Her resignation hurts worse than anger would have. I manage to say, “Drive safe.”
“Always do.”
And then she’s gone, walking down the porch steps without looking back.
I stand in the doorway, watching as she gets into her car, starts the engine, backs out of the driveway.
Only when her taillights disappear around the bend do I finally close the door, the quiet click of the latch sealing my decision.
I bury my face in my hands and let the truth wash over me in waves: I just let the best thing that’s ever happened to me walk out the door. And I did it on purpose.
The right thing has never felt so wrong.