Prologue - Brooke #2
I think back to the few games I've watched, and none of the players' actual faces come to mind from behind their helmets.
There's not many I observe too carefully except maybe the panty-dropping showman I'm admittedly intrigued by.
The one who failed his drug test earlier this week and…
oh my God. I pause in my tracks at the same time I reach the counter. That's it.
The mystery man.
He's Drew fucking—
"Anderson! My guy, what's goin' on?" The bearded bartender calls to someone behind me. I don't turn around, but a presence lingers nearby in the same way that the eyes from earlier did.
"What’s up, man?” The words are spoken all but into my ear and send goosebumps up my body, making me suddenly glad that the skin on my lower half is covered.
"Tough week, huh? What can I get ya?”
There’s a shift beside me as the man I can now confirm is Drew Anderson, the Flames’ starting forward, leans his forearms on the bar. "I think she was here first," he says, and once again I know he's looking at me without even turning my head.
I finally face him, making eye contact for the first time since I connected the dots.
This close, his irises look like two crystal clear oceans you'd see on an island, the blue of his suit only further enhancing them.
I rush to take him in, immediately realizing the reasons why I didn't put two and two together sooner.
This is not the Drew Anderson that I've seen on TV.
That guy is in full hockey gear, his helmet rarely off, and when it is, he's dripping with sweat or squirting water seductively into his unruly hair.
He's flashy and bold, and even when he's not trying to showboat, just the way he handles his stick or plays with the puck makes it look like he's performing.
But not now.
Now, he's swapped his gear for a suit that was clearly made for his impeccable body. His locks are gelled back rather than falling on either side of his forehead, and he's calm—almost despondent—as if he's trying to blend in rather than be the star of the show.
"Right, no, of course," the bartender says quickly, bringing me back to the moment. "What are you drinking?"
I reluctantly turn away from the guy I'm used to drooling over through the screen in my living room.
"I, um—red wine please," I stutter, simply caught off guard by my realization.
I use the time it takes Drew to ask for his beer to fully make my way back to the present, and when I do, I add on to my order.
"But, like big, please." I hold my hands up, one about six inches on top of the other, palms facing in.
"Heavy pour." The bartender smiles politely before turning to grab our drinks.
"Rough night?" Drew asks, tilting his head toward me. Thankfully, I'm not easily thrown, at least not on the outside, because… wow. This guy.
"Work sucks." We take our drinks from the counter in front of us.
"I know," Drew says, immediately taking a long pull of his beer.
I smirk, trying to decipher if his answer was coincidental or if he understood the musical reference, as he takes a second sip. "Rough night?" I mimic, stepping aside, surprised at how watching his throat move up and down ignites a heat between my legs.
He shifts so he's standing next to me again. "Rough fucking week."
For a moment we stare at each other, and it's as if the rest of the ballroom falls away. Drew goes back to looking at me like he was at the table—like he's memorizing me from the outside in. His gaze slinks down my chest, past my hips, and over the tights I now wish I had removed first.
I'm not shy about copying his movement, trailing my eyes down his well-built body.
This man is like a Greek god, and this is with clothes on.
He's taller than me, but not by much in my heels.
He's maybe 6'2" or 6'3", but his presence is that of an actual giant.
His frame is broad, the threads of his clothing pulled tight around his obvious muscle, and the hand around his beer tells me what he's packing underneath has to be proportionate.
When our gazes meet again, his eyes aren't the clear water they were before.
They're dark and murky, more like an ocean at night than a Caribbean sea.
His jaw ticks as he adjusts his feet so he's closer than he was before, both of us aware that whatever is happening here isn't your typical friendly conversation.
"You want to talk about it?" I ask, twisting my shoulders to search the room for Alex and Cooper—to give myself any excuse to turn away from his unrelenting eye contact.
Alex is still nowhere to be seen, and Cooper is now at the dessert bar, a plate in each hand, as Erik adds pastry after pastry on top of each growing pile.
"Not even a little," he says, pulling me away from the sugary scene.
"That good, huh?"
He takes another sip. "Better now."
My chest warms, but I maintain composure and ignore the way my body reacts to those two words. Unsure of what to say, I simply nod, and a silence falls between us.
I can't explain why I'm drawn to him. I've felt it since I first saw him on the big screen.
There's no denying the specimen that is the man in front of me, especially when he's flying across ice and sinking pucks into the net.
But he was always untouchable—figuratively and literally.
At minimum, an ice rink sat between him and me in Levi's box in the stands.
Not to mention, I'm at least five years his senior. But that's what fantasies are for.
Now, though, he's not a fantasy.
Well, he is, but… he's also here.
Taking a big gulp of wine, I buy myself a few seconds.
I'm not one to lose my words, but it's been a night already, and I'm draining fast. Honestly, what I could really use is a good release—and if the man I've salivated over for the last few weeks wants to give it to me, who am I to stop him?
I'm not going to throw myself at him like he's probably used to, though—I didn't spend the last thirty years letting my parents down to start kissing ass now.
But if he wants to shoot his shot… he will.
Tipping my chin back down, I almost hit his nose with the stem of my glass.
Did he move closer while I was savoring the rush of wine to my head?
His scent surrounds me, the perfect combination of spice and earth notes—Dior?
Tom Ford?—something expensive. Maybe it's the time that's passed, or the fleeting buzz my first sip gives me, but I start to doubt that this is anything.
Could he be acting cordial and just so happen to have ridiculously intense—and insanely sexy—eye contact?
Or maybe these stockings are finally starting to cut off circulation to my brain.
"Well, I'm going to g—"
"Do you want to get out of here?" Drew cuts off my attempt to end… whatever the hell is happening here, and my mouth goes dry.
I have half a glass of wine left to buy time before I answer, and I use every last drop to do so.
Throwing back what's left, I contemplate if this is really what I want.
Is it possible that Drew's using me as one of his many hookups to right what's gone so wrong for him?
Probably. Would I be using him for the same exact thing? One hundred percent, yes.
It's clear we have some sort of weird connection, but I'm not delusional.
This is a one-time deal—a random hookup to cure some sort of mutual misery.
No part of me thinks this is some kismet meet-cute where the famous athlete and the thirty-year-old black sheep bond over temporary intimacy, then fall madly in love.
But sex has never meant much to me—yet another way I let down mommy dearest. So, whatever this is, doesn't matter anyway.
"That's a little presumptuous, don't you think?" I tease, making sure I don't look too easy.
He narrows his eyes in my direction. "Is that a no?"
Walking to set my glass on the edge of the bar, I take a deep breath as my back's turned to him. On the exhale, I spin around and step toe to toe with him. "Definitely not a no."
Let's lose these fucking stockings.