Page 19 of Your Secret to Keep

Wes and I fought when our parents were around, but we simply survived while we were with our aunt and uncle. I wish things had worked out differently, but I’m grateful for the way it brought us together. Wes is one of my favorite people in the whole world and I’ve felt like that for a long time.

I’m texting him as the team is wrapping up their work for post-game coverage—our players are still doing press.

Wes

tell me you were at the game tonight

I send him a selfie I took earlier. I’m standing on the court, my arm stretched out as far as it could to get me and as much of the arena as possible. It makes me giggle because I’m smiling like my dreams are coming true.

are you kidding me

i can’t believe this is your job

when can I come?

Me

i wanted to get through the first week or so before i asked for free tickets

brookswas so good tonight

that jumper is silky smooth

Smiling down at my phone, I think about our interaction before the game. Brooks was practically in tears with worry. The lines were deep in his forehead, his lips the thinnest of lines from being pressed so tight, and his eyes felt like they were afraid to look at anything besides the floor. I had to hold back from wrapping him in a hug, squeezing as tightly as I could. Hugging certainly isn’t what colleagues do.

“You want to get some food?”

Brooks stands in the doorway of the completely empty media room—my colleagues don’t tend to stick around. Meanwhile, I could get lost in here.

I can see the exhaustion from the game on his face and, for some reason, I want to give him anything he asks for. I don’t know if I’m so excited that he got through the game, or if I’m too exhausted pretending I don’t want to, but I say, “Yes.”

Here’s the thing: Brooks doesn’t even look surprised.

“Do you think they’ll give us a vat to go?” I ask as I dip another warm tortilla chip in some of the best salsa I’ve ever tasted.

“I’ve definitely done that.” Brooks swipes a tortilla through the salsa before popping it in his mouth.

We’re sitting in a back booth of a taco spot I’ve never thought about walking in to. I look around and find most of the restaurant empty. “You come here a lot?”

“It’s one of my favorite places and I’m not sure how it hasn’t blown up yet. Everything here is authentic and so fucking good,” he answers, his hands already in the tortilla chip basket, going for another.

We sit in silence besides the crunching of tortilla chips and the sounds of staff moving around the restaurant. Brooks ordered dinner for both of us, making sure there wasn’t anything I was allergic to or didn’t like. I didn’t tell him that when you grew up like I did, you didn’t get a chance to be picky.

“Tell me a secret,” he suggests, catching me off guard.

“Only if we can trade them,” I counter.

Brooks nods and his mouth pulls into this ridiculously hot half smirk.

I rack my brain for a secret—it’s not that I don’t have a lot to choose from, but I don’t know the vibe. Is this the sort of exchange where we talk about the time I went to class in a bikini for a dare or is it something dark from my childhood? My brain snags on a secret that falls in the middle.

“My aunt thinks chocolate cake is my favorite. Every holiday, special occasion, and celebration she makes a cake from scratch with buttercream frosting. But it’s my least favorite.” I cover my eyes, afraid to see his reaction.

“Wait, your least favorite?”

“Yes! Like, I’ll never turn down cake and I’d definitely try one bite of any kind, but I don’t even like chocolate cake all that much. She made it once and I don’t know what happened. And then she was so proud every time, I could never correct her.”

“How long has this scandal been going on?” Brooks asks, leaning back in the booth with one hand resting on his chest.

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