Chapter 22 Beavers on Ice
Beavers on Ice
SYDNEY
Under the colorful evening sky, the Beaver High School parking lot overflows with vehicles sporting faded “Go Beavers!” bumper stickers and cracked window decals from glory days long past. I press my thighs together as Brooks guides his SUV into a spot, the subtle movement reminding me of last night—his hands, the blindfold, the way he completely undid me.
God, I’m ruined. For a second, I wonder if it’s written all over my face, if everyone we meet today will somehow know that Brooks Kingston has taken me to places I didn’t even know existed.
“You okay?” Brooks asks, his hand finding mine across the center console. “You’ve been quiet.”
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to climb across the seats and recreate last night right here in the parking lot. “Just thinking.”
“About?” His thumb traces circles on my palm, an innocent gesture that sends electricity straight to my core.
“About how we should probably go inside before I do something that would get us arrested for public indecency.”
His eyes darken, and the slow smile that spreads across his face should be illegal. “That good, huh?”
“Don’t get cocky, Brooksie.” But we both know it’s too late for that.
The cold air hits me like a bucket of ice water when I step out of the SUV, which is probably for the best. I need to get my hormones in check before we meet my parents.
The last thing I need is my dad picking up on the fact that his little girl spent last night having mind-bending sex with the man he still remembers as the punk kid who toilet-papered our house during homecoming week.
Brooks comes around to my side, his hand finding the small of my back like it belongs there. The casual intimacy of it—how natural it feels to lean into his touch—scares me more than any blindfold or tie ever could.
“Ready for this?” he asks as we approach the entrance, where clusters of Beaver County residents mill about in various shades of blue and gold.
“For hockey? I grew up with Jonah, remember? I was born ready.”
What I’m not ready for is how it feels to walk into a public event with Brooks Kingston after everything that’s happened this past week and a half.
Yes, he’s my fake boyfriend, though the distinction feels increasingly meaningless.
Every head turns as we make our way through the crowd.
Brooks, used to the attention, barely notices.
I, on the other hand, feel like I’m wearing a sign that says, “Yes, I’m sleeping with the King, and yes, he’s earned that name in every sense of the word. ”
“Sydney! Brooks! Over here!” A familiar voice cuts through the crowd, and I spot Mrs. Johnson, my former math teacher, waving enthusiastically. Her Beavers scarf is the same one she wore to every game when I was in high school, the fringe now frayed and faded.
“Mrs. J,” I greet her with genuine warmth. She was one of the few teachers who took me seriously when I said I wanted to go into broadcasting. “How are you?”
“Just wonderful, dear. And look at you two!” She claps her hands together like we’re her favorite. “The whole town’s talking about Beaver County’s power couple.”
I feel Brooks stiffen slightly beside me, though his smile remains in place. “Power couple?” he repeats. “I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, don’t be modest,” Mrs. Johnson waves dismissively. “The hockey star and the weather girl—it’s like a Hallmark movie!”
I manage not to wince at “weather girl.”
Brooks says, “Syd’s doing a live sportscast this evening.”
Well, that was a smooth way of defending my honor.
“That’s right, Sydney! Congratulations on the new job.” She wrings her hands.
“Thank you.”
“So,” she continues, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what do you think of our chances tonight? Coach Hendricks has been working those boys to the bone, but the Williford Wildcats have that new forward line...”
Brooks engages her in hockey talk while I tune out, scanning the crowd for my parents until I spot them near the concession stand.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, touching Brooks’ arm. “But I see my parents over there.”
Mrs. Johnson beams at us. “Of course, go say hello! Tom and Claire must be thrilled about you two.”
As we walk away, my parents spot us before we reach them, my mom’s face lighting up in a way that always makes me feel like I’m eight years old again, bringing home an essay with a gold star. Dad is all smiles toward Brooks, looking ready to bring him in for a chest bump.
“There they are.” Mom pulls me into a hug that smells like her signature rose perfume. “We were wondering when you’d get here.”
“Traffic,” I lie, not mentioning that we were nearly late because Brooks insisted on a shared shower that turned into... definitely not showering.
Dad greets Brooks with a handshake, a definite upgrade from a chest bump. “Kingston. How’s the shoulder?”
“Getting better every day, sir.”
“Tom, look what I found!” Mom holds up what appears to be large plastic beaver teeth, yellowed with age and sporting a crack down one incisor. “Remember these?”
Dad’s face transforms, years melting away as he takes the ridiculous mouthpiece and promptly shoves it in, grinning with oversized rodent teeth. “How could I forget my lucky chompers?”
“Oh my God.” I cover my face with my hands. “Please tell me you’re not going to wear those all night.”
“These teeth saw your brother and Brooks through two state championships,” Dad says around the plastic monstrosity. “Show some respect.”
“Yeah, Syd. Respect.” Brooks nudges me.
Mom’s eyes twinkle. “Remember when the opposing team’s coach filed a formal complaint, said they were ‘intimidating?’”
“How could I forget?” I laugh despite myself. “Jonah was mortified.”
Brooks wraps an arm around my shoulders, and the casual contact feels electric, loaded with memories of last night. I lean into him, unable to help myself.
Dad removes the teeth, mercifully, as we make our way to our seats. The arena is filling up, a sea of blue and gold punctuated by the occasional brave soul wearing Williford red. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs mingles with the distinctive scent of the ice—clean and sharp and uniquely hockey.
We’re settling in when I spot Jonah making his way toward us, weaving through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who’s spent his life in arenas like this.
My stomach does a nervous flip. This is the first time he’s seeing Brooks and me together since our relationship turned decidedly un-fake.
“Hey, sis.” He kisses my cheek, then turns to our parents with a grin. “Mom. Dad—I see the lucky teeth made an appearance.”
Dad hold up them up with pride. "Wouldn’t miss a home opener without them."
Jonah finally acknowledges Brooks with a nod that falls somewhere between grudging and hostile. “Kingston.”
“Holt.” Brooks’ tone is neutral, but I feel the tension radiating off him.
An awkward silence falls, heavy enough that even my parents notice.
“So!” I say brightly. “Jonah, how was your flight?”
“Fine.” His eyes haven’t left Brooks. “Got to Mom and Dad’s this afternoon. Just enough time to unpack before heading over.”
I realize I’m holding my breath and force myself to exhale. This is ridiculous. They’re best friends. And Jonah and I left things off in a decent place the last time he was here.
The answer becomes clear a moment later when I absentmindedly brush a popcorn kernel from Brooks’ cheek, my fingers lingering perhaps a beat too long.
Brooks catches my hand, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that feels so natural it startles me.
We exchange a smile—one of those private, loaded looks that says more than words ever could.
Jonah’s face darkens, his jaw clenched tight.
Oh. That’s why.
Mom says, “So, Brooks, how’s Maisie feeling?”
His face twists in confusion. “Didn’t you see her yesterday at The Beaver Booksies meeting?”
Mom’s brows furrow. “There was no Beaver Bookies meeting yesterday.”
Brooks and I exchange glances, and I make a mental note to ask Maisie where she actually was yesterday. Brooks continues with, “She’s feeling good. But she’s started her three days of chemo today.”
Mom tsk-tsks. “That’s right. I’ll have to call her tomorrow.”
Mayor Martinez spots us and immediately makes his way over, his Beavers scarf wrapped so many times around his neck it’s a wonder he can turn his head.
“If it isn’t the Holts and young Kingston!” he booms, shaking hands all around. His eyes land on Brooks and me, our hands still intertwined. “Well, well. When are you lovebirds settling down? The town’s been placing bets, you know.”
I nearly choke on my popcorn. “We’re, um—”
“We’re just enjoying the moment, Mr. Mayor,” Brooks smoothly interjects, squeezing my hand in a silent plea not to panic.
“Smart man.” Martinez nods. “Though don’t wait too long. Good catches like Sydney here don’t stay on the market forever!”
I’m not looking at Jonah. I’m not looking at Jonah.
Thankfully, the lights dim, and the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, introducing the Beaver High School hockey team with all the drama of a professional sports broadcast. The crowd roars as teenage boys in padded uniforms skate onto the ice, sticks raised in salute.
“Tom, honey, I think I’m as excited as when the kids were playing!” Mom says as Dad practically vibrates with enthusiasm beside her.
“Me too. It’s so nice to kick back and watch instead of having to coach.
” He’s already focused on the ice with laser intensity.
The Beavers start strong, their first line showing surprising coordination for high schoolers.
I’m one hundred percent invested, cheering when they take an early lead with a slapshot from the blue line that somehow threads through traffic and finds the back of the net.
“Did you see that?” Dad practically leaps from his seat. “That’s the play I’ve been telling Coach Hendricks about for years!”
“It’s almost like he finally listened to you,” Mom responds dryly, but she’s smiling.