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RILEY

The HomeGoods aisles are my happy place. There’s something calming about the endless rows of shiny gadgets, colorful bakeware, and racks of neatly stacked mixing bowls. If I could, I’d take the whole store home and build a baking empire.

Today, though, the calm is shattered by Imani, who’s trailing behind me with a shopping cart and a thousand questions about my love life.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t. I swore them to secrecy, so I had to be willing to keep it a secret, too.”

“But…” She waves her finger back and forth between us. “This is the girl zone. If something’s a secret, we take it to our deaths.”

“I know, and I love you, and this is no reflection on my trust in you. It’s just about being truthful with them.”

“So, you’re seriously dating all three of them?” she asks, loudly enough that an elderly woman browsing muffin tins gives us a startled glance.

“Imani!” I hiss, my cheeks blazing. I grab a pastel blue spatula and wave it at her like a sword. “Could you not announce it to the world?”

She smirks, unrepentant. “Relax. The world already knows, and it’s not like anyone in here cares. How many people like baking and hockey?”

She has a point. “Me,” I say. “You?” The thousands of people who watch my channel . I keep that part to myself.

“I love hockey and cake, but I’ll pass on the baking. Too much cleaning up to do.”

“Yeah. The cleaning up sucks, but the cake is worth it.”

She narrows her eyes at me and then shakes her head. “I just can’t wrap my head around this whole situation. The Draytons. I thought you hated them.”

“I did,” I say. “But they’ve grown on me.”

“Like a wart?”

“Errr… no, and gross. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Imani snorts. “Girl, that’s an understatement. It’s like you’re starring in some forbidden love drama. A stepbrother love triangle. Except this is more of a square.”

I stop in my tracks, giving her a withering look. “It’s not like that. We only lived together for a year. We were kids. It’s not weird.”

“Not even when you’re all naked and doing stuff to each other?”

The elderly woman who was shocked at Imani’s earlier comment and stayed close to us as we moved to the next aisle makes an audible gasp.

“They don’t do stuff to each other. They’re brothers, for fuck’s sake,” I hiss. “What kind of hillbilly shit do you think I’m involved in?”

She snorts. “Okay… when you’re naked, and they’re all doing stuff to you.”

“It’s not weird. It’s hot.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Just imagine Calian times three, with hockey boy stamina and physique.”

She fans herself with her hand, her expression turning dreamy. “Okay. Now I get it.”

“Good.”

“Hey, I’m not judging. I’m just saying you’ve got your hands full.”

I groan, but a small laugh escapes. “You have no idea.”

She cups her hand around her mouth but speaks at full volume, her eyes on the woman who’s sticking close enough to us to listen to our conversation. “So, the rumors are true? Their sticks… I mean, their dicks are big?”

I nearly choke, trying to suppress my laughter.

“Yes,” I pretend-whisper back. “Their dicks are HUGE!”

The woman scuttles away, scandalized, and we fold over laughing. “We shouldn’t have done that,” I say. “We could have given her a heart attack.”

“Oh, please.” She waves her hand. “That woman has more erotic romance novels at home than Barnes and Noble.”

“I truly hope so. Can we talk about something else? Something less likely to cause an aneurysm in public. Like baking equipment?”

Imani grabs a cute heart-shaped cake tin off the shelf and tosses it into the cart. “Fine. What’s this for, anyway? Another episode of Icing the Cake ?”

I freeze, and my stomach flips. “What are you talking about?”

She turns to me, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Riley, come on. You’re the Icing the Cake girl. The anonymous host, who roasts the cocky hockey players and somehow makes it look adorable. Don’t act like I don’t know.”

Panic floods my chest, and I grip the edge of the cart to steady myself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, but it’s weak, and Imani can tell.

She crosses her arms, her expression smug. “You’ve been soft on the Draytons lately. Too soft. And now you’re dating them? It didn’t take me much to put two and two together and come up with you. Do you really think no one else is going to figure it out?”

I swallow hard, her words hitting like a slapshot to the gut. “I haven’t been soft,” I protest weakly.

“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You used to call them out all the time. Now, it’s all compliments about their form and how they carry the team. You’re losing your edge, Riles.”

The blood drains from my face. She’s right. Ever since I started dating the Draytons, my content has shifted. I didn’t think it would be noticeable, but I guess I was wrong.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask quietly. “I can’t just… trash them on the channel. Not now.”

Imani softens, her teasing replaced by concern. “Look, I get it. You care about them. But if I figured it out, someone else could, too. And if the wrong person connects the dots…”

She doesn’t have to finish. The thought of Jacob, Hayes, or Shawn finding out about my channel—the snarky comments, the critiques, the memes—is enough to make my stomach churn.

“So, what do I do?”

Imani taps her chin, her eyes gleaming with an idea. “You call it out. Make an episode where you roast yourself. Talk about the girl dating the Draytons. Make it a joke. Deflect attention away from you while keeping the channel alive. If you own the narrative, no one will suspect it’s you.”

The idea makes my chest tighten, but I know she’s right. If I want to protect the channel and my relationship I have to take control.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” I admit.

“You can,” Imani says firmly, squeezing my shoulder. “And you will. Because if there’s one thing I know about you, Riley Johnstone, it’s you don’t back down from a challenge.”

***

I sit in my room, surrounded by my baking equipment, trying to map out the episode in my head. My laptop is open, the blank script taunting me like a goalie daring me to take a shot.

The Draytons don’t know anything about my channel, and if I have my way, they never will. But I can’t let the channel die. I need it, and I need anonymity more.

I take a deep breath and start typing.

“Hey, everyone! Welcome back to Icing the Cake, the only channel where hockey gossip meets buttercream frosting. Today’s topic: the mystery girl stealing the hearts of Eastern’s golden boys, the Drayton triplets…”

I pause, my fingers hovering over the keys. This has to work. It has to.

Because if it doesn’t, everything I’ve built, and everything I’ve come to love, could come crashing down.