Chapter 7 In the Bag
In the Bag
SYDNEY
I drag myself to the bathroom, flipping on the harsh light that does absolutely nothing for my complexion. The mirror confirms it.
I look like shit. Happy Hump Day to me.
“Thanks for nothing, Kingston.” I splash cold water on my face.
I know it was a long shot. Asking your brother’s best friend and childhood nemesis to pretend to date you for career advancements is pretty out there.
Really out there. It’s also the last thing I’d ever thought I’d do after I dated Jake, Jonah’s teammate that scared me off men.
.. maybe for good. I learned what everyone else already knew: never do long distance with a hot, famous hockey player. Duh.
Anyway, yesterday with Brooks, I made a split-second decision because I was desperate. No good decisions are made out of desperation.
The shower helps marginally. By 5:15, I’m dressed in my most professional navy blazer and pencil skirt, armor as I head to the bunker to take grenades.
I apply concealer with dedication—dark circles, be gone.
Red lipstick follows, because if I’m going down, I’m looking like I could kill with my stilettos.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “You’ll survive. You’ll find another way.”
My kitchen is quiet as I brew coffee strong enough to strip paint. Then, I pour it into a travel mug emblazoned with the KBVR logo—a cartoon beaver holding a microphone, as BVR stands for beaver. The station handed them out as Christmas bonuses last year.
I force down half a bagel, though my stomach protests.
The anxiety that’s become my constant companion bubbles just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.
I close my eyes and count backward from ten, but right now, the image of Brooks’ face when I proposed our fake relationship pops into my mind.
The confusion, followed by something that looked almost like consideration, before landing on a firm screw-off.
I’d rather walk over fire than have to pretend to love you.
Well, the feeling is entirely mutual. I can’t stand him either. So what if he moves like poetry on ice? So what if his shoulders are broader than should be legally allowed? So what if I sometimes catch myself wondering what it would be like if things were different between us?
That last thought stops me cold. Nope. Not going there. Brooks Kingston is the human equivalent of a splinter—painful, irritating, and best removed ASAP.
As I back out of my driveway, still anxious, I curse.
It’s so cold my windshield is already frosting over, despite the defroster working overtime.
But luckily, the road to the station is practically empty at this hour.
Most of Dickens is still wrapped in dreams, blissfully unaware that today is a complete shit day for one Sydney Holt, weather girl extraordinaire.
My thoughts drift to high school, when I was a sophomore, Brooks was a junior, and we had PE together.
Mrs. Hendricks decided ballroom dancing was an essential life skill.
He and I were paired together because alphabetically, Holt and Kingston fell next to each other on the roster.
I was prepared for two weeks of torture, of Brooks stepping on my toes and making snarky comments about my lack of coordination.
Instead, he’d been... good. Better than good.
His hand on my waist had been firm but gentle, guiding me through the steps with surprising grace.
When I’d stumbled, he’d caught me without comment, his eyes focused somewhere over my shoulder, avoiding my gaze.
But he never made me feel clumsy. Never laughed when I got the steps wrong.
It was the only time in our long history of mutual antipathy that we’d achieved anything resembling a truce. For those two weeks, we’d moved together in silent understanding, his body telegraphing the next move before I could even think about it.
The King is his nickname on the ice, sure, but according to the gossip rags, there are other reasons he earned that title. Reasons that had nothing to do with hockey.
Not that I’ve ever thought about that. Much.
My car pulls into the station parking lot at 5:50 a.m., ten minutes before I’m officially due.
The sky is just beginning to lighten, a strip of glow at the horizon promising a day that, weather-wise at least, should be cold but beautiful.
Career-wise? The forecast calls for crushing disappointment with a chance of public humiliation.
The station is already buzzing with pre-morning show energy when I push through the doors.
“Morning, Syd.” Rocko says. “Big day, huh?”
“You could say that.” I force a smile. “Any predictions?” I play dumb.
“I’m not touching that one.” He chuckles, buzzing me through. “But for what it’s worth, I’m pulling for you.”
“Thanks, Rocko.”
The elevator seems slower than usual this morning, or maybe it’s just my anxiety making every second stretch into eternity. I close my eyes again, counting backward. The familiar tightness begins to crawl up my chest, squeezing my lungs. Not now. Please—not now.
I dig in my purse for the little orange pill bottle, the one I keep hidden at the bottom under tissues and loose change.
Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning on dry land, and the medication helps, but I hate taking it.
Hate the fuzzy edges it gives the world, the slight delay between thought and speech.
But today of all days, I can’t afford to fall apart.
The doors open with a cheerful ding, and I step out onto the third floor, where the newsroom sprawls in chaotic glory. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see downtown Dickens’s streetlights still glowing against the pre-dawn sky. It’s so peaceful and pretty.
I love this town, and I don’t want it to be the place my dreams come to die.
And there, leaning against Zoe’s desk with a smirk, is Donny with his coiffed blond hair and polo shirt straining against gym-sculpted muscles. When he catches sight of me, his smirk widens.
“Morning, Syd!” he calls, loud enough for half the newsroom to hear. “Big day, right?”
Couldn’t he have the decency to not be quite so peppy?
“Morning, Donny,” I manage. “It is.”
He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “May the best man win.”
“That’s cute. Not sexist at all.” I head to my office without another glance in his direction. My hands shake, but I clench them into fists.
My tiny office feels like a sanctuary as I close the door behind me. I’ve barely had time to set down my bag when there’s a knock—three sharp raps that make me jump.
“Come in,” I call, steeling myself.
Marcus opens the door, his expression unreadable. In his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and reading glasses perpetually perched on the end of his nose, our station manager has seen it all in local television.
“Sydney.” He closes the door behind him. “Got a minute?”
“Of course.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” He settles into the chair, adjusting his glasses. “I wanted to talk to you about the sports anchor position.”
Here it comes. The “we went another direction” speech. The “Donny brings something special to the table” speech. The “but we value you as our weather reporter” speech.
I paste on my most professional smile, the one I use when reporting too close to a wildfire. “I figured as much.”
“It was a tough decision,” Marcus begins, and the tiny flicker of hope that Brooks was wrong about Donny dies. “And I’m sorry about this, but I had to go with my gut.”
Before he can deliver the final blow, the door swings open without warning.
And there, looking like he just stepped off a GQ cover despite the early hour, is Brooks Kingston. His hair is slightly damp, like he’s just showered, and he’s wearing a button-up shirt that strains across his shoulders in a way that shouldn’t be allowed before nine a.m.
“Oh, hey, sorry to interrupt,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. His eyes meet mine briefly, something unreadable flickering in them. “But I know you missed breakfast, Syd, so I brought it for you.”
He holds up a paper bag from Dickens Diner, and the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls wafts through my tiny office.
My brain short-circuits, unable to process why Brooks Kingston is standing in my doorway with breakfast when less than twenty-four hours ago, he told me he’d rather walk through fire than pretend to love me.
Then he squeezes past Marcus to approach me, giving me a soft kiss on the forehead before setting the bag on my desk.
What the actual fuck is happening right now? I sit frozen, my forehead damp and buzzing where Brooks Kingston’s lips have just been.
Marcus looks between us, confusion written across his features. “Um, wow. Brooks Kingston. It’s a pleasure.” He extends his hand.
Brooks smiles and shakes it back, playing the role. Of what, my brain can’t process enough to figure out.
“You bring Sydney breakfast?” Marcus returns the smile.
“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” Brooks’ voice is casual, but there’s an undercurrent I can’t quite place. “We’re together.”
I stir to life, choking on nothing. “Brooks—”
“Since I’ve been recovering from my injury,” he continues, “Sydney and I have realized that, well—we’re in love.”
Marcus’s eyebrows shoot up. “You and Sydney? Together?”
I stare at Brooks, willing my face not to reflect the chaos happening in my brain. What game is he playing?
“It’s relatively new.” I find my voice at last. My cheeks burn, but I force myself to meet Marcus’s gaze. “We wanted to keep it private until...”
“Until I got into town yesterday,” Brooks says, his expression serious. “And you know, while I’m here, I could be an asset to the station. I mean, assuming Sydney’s getting that sports anchor position she deserves.”
Marcus leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Keep talking.”
“I’ve been thinking about the potential. Imagine the ratings boost when I give guest reports on the games. We’re talking exclusive access to one of hockey’s biggest stars.”
Ego much?