Chapter 19 Roaring Fire #2
But right now, I can’t bring myself to care about any of that. I’ve spent my whole life living for expectations—my father’s, my team’s, my fans’. For once, I just want to live for myself. And what I want, more than anything, is right here beside me.
I press a gentle kiss to her forehead and finally let sleep claim me.
The pain wakes me—a burning, throbbing sensation that radiates from my shoulder down my arm.
I blink awake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the weight of someone beside me.
Sydney. The cabin. Last night. The memories flood back, along with another wave of pain that has me sucking in a sharp breath.
“Brooks?” Sydney stirs, immediately alert at the sound of my distress. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie automatically, the ingrained response of an athlete. “Just stiff.”
She sits up, the sheet falling away to reveal her naked body, a sight that would normally distract me completely if not for the fire in my shoulder. “Bullshit. It’s your shoulder, isn’t it? Did we... did I make it worse?”
The concern in her voice makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with physical pain. “No, no. It’s not that. I just... I didn’t take my meds last night. They’re back at Meema’s.”
Sydney’s already moving, gathering clothes from where they’re strewn across the floor. “We need to get you back. How bad is it—on a scale of one to ten?”
“Three,” I say, though it’s closer to a seven.
She gives me a look that says she sees right through me. “Sure it is, tough guy. Come on, let’s go.”
The walk back to Meema’s is excruciating, every step sending fresh waves of pain through my shoulder. Sydney helps me walk down the mountain with focused determination, occasionally shooting worried glances my way.
“You still think you can do that intermission skate with Jonah next Wednesday?” she asks as we step up to Meema’s porch.
“Of course,” I say too quickly. “It’s just a few laps, Syd. For an important charity. In a week and a half. I’ll be fine.”
“Right, but if it’s a no, I have to cancel the silent auction now.” Her knuckles whiten. “Brooks, if your shoulder is—”
“It’s fine,” I insist, cutting her off. “Really. The meds will kick in, I’ll ice it, and I’ll be good to go by the end of today.”
She doesn’t look convinced but lets it drop as we enter the house.
Meema’s in the kitchen, humming as she makes what smells like her famous cinnamon rolls. She looks up as we enter, eyes twinkling. “Well, good morning, you two. Enjoy your night at the cabin?”
Sydney blushes but manages a smile. “It was lovely, Maisie. But Brooks needs his medication—his shoulder’s acting up.”
Meema immediately shifts into caretaker mode, her expression concerned. “Oh, dear. Let me get you some ice while you take your pills.”
I gulp the medication, already feeling the tension in my muscles ease at the prospect of relief. Sydney hovers nearby, her worry palpable.
“I should get ready for my broadcast,” she says finally. “Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Go. Be brilliant. I’ve got PT soon, anyway.”
She hesitates, then leans in to kiss me quickly. “I’ll see you later, then.”
As soon as Sydney’s gone, I throw on my fleece to head out when Meema stands in front of me, her eyes serious despite her smile. “She’s good for you, you know. I haven’t seen you this happy in years.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. Because she’s right—I am happy with Sydney. Happier than I’ve been in… well, my life. But it’s all built on a foundation of lies.
“Brooks,” Meema reaches for my hand. “I want to show you something.”
She leads me to her bedroom, to the antique jewelry box on her dresser. From inside, she removes a small velvet pouch and tips its contents into her palm—a ring. Not just any ring, but her wedding ring, the one passed down through three generations of Kingston women.
“Meema,” I say, already knowing where this is going, “I can’t—”
“Hush,” she interrupts. “I know what you’re going to say. It’s too soon. You’re not ready. But I’ve seen the way you look at that woman, Brooks. The way she looks at you. And I may not have much time left—”
“Don’t say that,” I cut in, my voice rough.
“It’s the truth, and we both know it,” she continues, undeterred. “I want to see this ring on Sydney’s finger. I want to know you’ll have someone who loves you, who challenges you, who makes you better.”
She presses it into my palm, closing my fingers around it. The metal is warm from her hand, the weight of family history and expectation heavy.
“I’m not saying propose tomorrow.” She smiles. “Just... keep it. Think about it. When the time is right, you’ll know.”
I should refuse. I should explain that our relationship isn’t what she thinks, that it’s all for show, that Sydney and I are just playing parts.
But the hope in Meema’s eyes, the genuine belief that I’ve found something real and lasting—I can’t bring myself to take that from her.
Not when her health is improving. Not when this fake relationship seems to be giving her strength.
So I nod, slipping the ring into the pocket of my fleece and zipping it in. “I’ll think about it,” I promise, knowing I have no intention of actually using it.
But as I head off to PT, the ring in my pocket feels like both a promise and a warning—a tangible reminder of just how complicated this fake relationship has become, and how many people stand to get hurt when it ends.