Chapter 40
. . .
Drew
“Did you get the jersey okay?” Will asks as I race down the hallway toward my apartment, phone tucked under my chin while I rummage around in my bag for house keys.
Work has been kicking my ass on repeat lately, but only in the good way.
Colton is inundated with inquiries for Will, and I’m growing my client portfolio way faster than any of my colleagues.
Especially the lovely Lydia, who has complained to Colton—yet again—requesting that I’m removed from the business due to inappropriate behavior.
With the way she carries on, anyone would think that she owns First Line PR.
“I got the jersey from Dawn on my way out of the office.” I slide the key into my door and wince. “But I’m going to be late to the game. I’m sorry.”
“Is everything okay?”
In the background, I hear a car door slam. Will must’ve just arrived at the rink.
“Everything is fine, I just got held up, working on a speech for Silas. Why is that guy such a freaking mystery? I’m still trying to work on getting his voice right.”
Will huffs out a breath and says hello to someone.
“I’d ask him right now if he hadn’t canceled on a ride to the rink at the last minute.
He’s been acting strange since the Scorpions game.
At first, I thought it was the wrist injury he picked up, but that’s almost fully recovered, so I’ve no clue what’s going on with him. ”
Pushing into my apartment, I kick off my heels and smile at how clean and lovely it smells. Vesper is, hands down, the best roommate. All I need is for her to start loving ice cream, and I’m golden.
“Maybe the best thing to do is ask him outright if he needs to talk or if you can help in any way,” I suggest, dropping my laptop bag down on a stool and pulling the refrigerator open. “Sometimes, I think guys should take a leaf out of our book and—”
I pause when I see the contents.
“Let me guess …” The grin on Will’s face is unmistakable from his voice. “You just opened your refrigerator.”
“How did you know?” I whisper, checking out one of the glass jars labeled Butterscotch, Baby. There must be a least a dozen jars in here, each containing whipped cream in different colors and flavors, labeled individually in Will’s handwriting.
I pick up one jar, and my mouth waters when I see fresh raspberry pieces stirred into the cream.
“I notice everything, Drew. When you get home on a weekday, you kick off your heels by the door, leave your bag on a stool, and make a beeline for sweet treats. On the weekends, you wake up, grab a coffee from the machine, spend around twenty minutes on your skin routine—which is way too much since you’re already flawless—and then decide on which sugar kick you’re going for this time. ”
I have no words.
But I am thanking past Drew right now for never taking my apartment key back from Will.
“They’re for hot chocolate,” Will clarifies as I stare into my refrigerator, mesmerized and flummoxed over how much time he must have spent thinking up flavors.
“I get there might be some that don’t usually go with milk chocolate, so I restocked your cupboards with white and dark chocolate drinks too.
Oh, and I organized your sprinkles because, damn, Baby, you have a collection going on. ”
“I love you,” I declare, opening the jar labeled Strawberry Fucking Cheesecake and chuckle. Ugh, it smells insanely good.
“I know you do. I think I’d love me too, to be honest.”
I deadpan even though he can’t see me. “Annnd then your uncontrollable ego has to go and ruin it.”
Will starts talking about the game and how excited he is to see June tonight, and I close the refrigerator, turning on my heel for the fastest outfit change in history when I slam into a muscular wall, heading in the opposite direction down my hallway.
“Shit, Drew.” A deep voice I recognize from our multiple work phone calls cuts through my daze.
“Silas?”
Dressed in black pants and a light-gray jacket and shirt, he runs a hand through his light-brown hair.
Interesting …
I’m about to pose the obvious question—asking what he’s doing here, especially with a game in less than two hours—when Vesper appears in her doorway, looking … kind of flustered and annoyed, if I’m honest.
“I was just stopping by with a gift for Vesper,” Silas quietly explains.
Vesper’s eyes dart to the awkward hunk still blocking my path to the bedrooms.
“Gift?”
“For my birthday,” my friend answers at the same time Silas says, “Early Christmas present.”
I quirk a brow at them both, and Silas takes the opportunity to slip past me and out of the front door with a rushed goodbye.
At this point, both my new roommate and I are now really late to the game.
“So, shall we have this conversation now or later, when we get home from the arena?” I tease, casually leaning against the wall.
Whenever I allude to Silas, Vesper always shifts on her feet or tries to change the subject, but today, she brushes my words off like they didn’t even happen.
“You know Silas and I go back a long way, and he was literally just leaving when you got here.”
I press my lips together, trying desperately not to smirk. My friend is giving leave it vibes right now, and I’m too curious to drop the subject.
“Is it normal practice for him to deliver said gift directly to your bedroom orrrr …”
Her eyes drop to the phone in my hand and—
Fuck, Will!
“Hello?” Will’s now yelling through the speaker when I put it to my ear, and sure enough, Vesper seizes the opportunity to disappear out of sight.
“Shit, sorry,” I whisper back, stepping inside my bedroom and closing the door behind me.
“I thought you’d entered into a sugar coma or something,” he jokes.
For the briefest moment, I consider telling Will what—or who—really stole my attention.
In the end, I decide against saying anything at all. Vesper’s holding back, and judging by the final look she gave Silas before he left, I’m fairly certain it isn’t about her undying love for the Rogues captain.
“Hockey players are hot.”
“Blake!” Billie Richards, wife of Emmett Richards and mom to one of the most iconic teenagers I’ve ever met, swats her daughter in the arm. “We’re here to support your dad’s team, not ogle them.”
Seated next to me in the family box, Blake rests her chin in one palm, elbow braced on the armrest. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Drew.
” She inconspicuously flicks her eyes to me.
“But all the girls in school have serious crushes on your boyfriend.” She sighs heavily. “He’s really freaking dreamy.”
“He’s really freaking something, is what he is,” June pipes up from the other side of Vesper. Who, incidentally, has said very little since we left our apartment and drove in near silence to the arena.
“Yeah, well, you would think that, June.” Blake sits back in her chair. “If someone thought my brother was hot, I’d definitely react in the same way.”
“I’m merely concerned about the size of his ego,” June counters. “Any bigger, and his helmet won’t fit.”
She smiles warmly at me, and for the first time, I consider what it would be like to have her as a sister-in-law.
Much like her brother, June and I have always been opposites—and not just because she’s amazing at hockey, unlike me, who can barely hold a stick the right way up.
In all likelihood, June probably knows more about the game than Will.
“Which player are you interviewing this time?” I ask, trying to keep a track on her sports journalism business, which has been going viral the past couple of months.
She rolls her eyes and pulls out her cell, clicking the screen a few times before showing me. “Tristan Vaughn. Will’s favorite person in the entire world,” she sarcastically adds.
I cringe a little. “Does Will know yet?”
Shaking her head, she locks her phone and repockets it. “Christ, no! It’s going to be a surprise drop on my socials next week, and Tristan’s rep has offered to collaborate on it, too, which should generate a few more followers.”
“Silas might be interested in an interview.” The second I say his name, Vesper locks in on the conversation right as Will nets another goal, sending the Rogues one ahead against the Philly Flames.
June cocks her head to one side, now addressing both me and Vesper.
“I’ve heard he’s grumpy these days. Don’t get me wrong; I’m more than capable of dealing with a moody man, but I’m not wasting my time if all I get is three words and a couple of grunts.
I’m keeping this interview on the down-low in case I decide to abandon it altogether. ”
Vesper bursts out laughing and points at June. “You so remind me of your mom. Kate stopped by the apartment the other day and floored me when she explained how she’d been deliberately drying Jensen’s ‘ugly’ shirts on a high temperature just so she didn’t have to look at them any longer.”
“Queen behavior,” Blake chimes in. “You should definitely start doing that with my brother’s crappy Colorado merchandise, Mom.”
While the girls bounce back and forth between each other about gross clothing, grumpy men, and hot hockey players, I center my attention on the only man I’ll ever see again. The guy whose name I currently have stamped across my back.
Picking up the puck just beyond center ice, he takes on one Philly defenseman, dekes the next, and with a wrist shot I don’t see coming, propels the puck straight between the goalie’s legs.
I’m aware of the arena noise when I stand from my seat and make my way to the balcony, resting my arms on the railing next to Jensen as he watches his son bump fists with my dad and the rest of the team.
It’s clear he lives and breathes every second whenever Will takes to the ice or his daughter posts her latest interview.
“It’s a good thing you were a goalie and not a forward when you played,” I muse, eyes diverting to the jumbotron, the camera zooming in on Will and his teammates.
He puffs out a laugh and nods. “Even better that I didn’t have to face him. I thought your dad was good, but, goddamn, Will might just be better.”
I nod once, knowing none of what Jensen said is rooted in bias. Will really is that spectacular.
For the first time since the game started, Jensen tears his eyes away from the ice and focuses on me.
“The way he feels about you is exactly how I felt—and still feel—about Kate.” He tips his chin at the jumbotron, and like he can sense us talking about him, Will stares straight at me.
“I won’t break his heart if that’s what you’re worried about,” I reply, mine skipping a beat when Will tucks his stick under one shoulder and holds up three fingers on one hand and four on the other—his way of showing that goal number thirty-four for the season is also dedicated to me.
My heart jerks again, struggling to establish a steady rhythm.
Jensen just smiles like that was never his concern. “He asked me to pass on a message, and now that I have you alone, I might as well do that.”
He pulls a set of car keys from the inside of his jacket pocket and hands them to me.
The same set of Ferrari keys from that night at the gala.
I look down at them and then back up at Jensen, who checks his watch.
“Will asked if you could meet him in the players’ parking lot right after the game.” Jensen shakes his head and chuckles to himself. “He also said that you might as well take the keys now because you’ll be driving.”