Chapter 3 Brooke
Brooke
Packing for my chaperoning trip to Grand Oaks, I give every article of clothing a little too much thought. Every top I pull from my closet, all the jeans I hold up, any piece of underwear I consider throwing in my bag—each decision more important than it should be.
Realistically, the odds of running into Drew are pretty slim.
Sure, we'll be staying at the same hotel.
And yes, I'll be watching him play the Gladiators.
But the chances are small that we actually interact.
I can't exactly picture the star of the Flames casually roaming the hotel lobby when he could be doing literally anything else.
Besides, Cooper's old enough to handle himself around the team if they were to invite him out like they have before.
So, in reality, it's not so much seeing Drew that rattles me. It's how he would act toward me if we did run into each other. In my mind, he's the guy who read my soul with just a glance, begged to know me when I tried to keep him at a distance, ruined me like no one else has.
On the ice, he's a showman. Hell, that's what caught my attention in the first place.
In uniform, he's all smooth moves, hard shots, and quality entertainment.
Confident. Calculated. Charismatic. But he seemed so different when he was with me.
He knew what he was doing, and he damn sure wasn't shy, but it was as if the version I got of him was stripped down in more ways than one.
He seemed deeper. Thoughtful. More complex.
The internet is riddled with pictures of Drew all over Golden City—all over the damn world for that matter.
But I don't see him in any of them. Not the guy I caught a glimpse of that was full of undiscovered layers.
There are none with those steel-blue eyes that saw right through me.
No strong yet graceful stance that held me in his arms. The pictures seem like just that—an image. Unless that's who he really is.
I guess it's hard to know which version of him is a show from our one interaction. But it doesn't matter anyway. Even flirting with that idea is counterproductive to what I'm trying to do, which is get my parents off my back.
A dull hum sounds from my mattress, which means either my vibrator's gone rogue or my cell phone is ringing under my pile of clothes. Tossing a handful of sweaters, a leather jacket, and my favorite pair of jeans to the floor, I locate the source of the sound.
"Hello?" I answer, bringing it to my ear and turning down the country song playing through my laptop speakers.
"Hey, Brooke. It's Levi."
It takes me entirely too long to put a face to the name and process that my best friend's husband is the voice on the other end.
"McHottie? Why are you—wait, is Al okay?
" My brain gets whiplash, flipping in three directions from my mental ramble about Drew, Levi's call, and now my sudden concern for Alex.
Levi chuckles. "No, no, she's fine. She gave me your number. I actually need another favor."
Plopping onto my bed, I let out a deep breath. "You know, Al didn't really sound too thrilled about the—"
"It's not about the handcuffs," he says, beating me to it.
I scoff playfully, running my finger along the frayed knee of another pair of denim. "Mhmm, not yet. So, what's up?"
"Listen, I know you're into the whole social media thing."
"You mean that I have social media, Levi?"
He laughs before saying, "Okay, fair. But Bennett also says that you're actually really good at it."
"She told you about my detective work, didn't she? Well, put me in Coach! Who do you need me to stalk?"
Levi sighs, and it's as if I can hear him roll his eyes through the silence that follows. That or maybe he's considering how much investigating I did into him before he and my best friend started hooking up.
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm good," he says, his voice laced with amusement.
"I was actually wondering if you’d take a few pictures and put some stuff together for the game this week while you're there.
Our social media manager left at the end of last season, and we sort of shit the bed on replacing her fast enough.
" He exhales sharply in defeat. "She apparently had content scheduled to be posted through the off-season and a few images for the start of the season.
But our new girl can't start until she finishes up a project at her current job, and the Cup champions can't really go into our first game without any advertising. "
I raise an eyebrow, shifting my phone to my other ear. "I mean, I know how to take decent pictures and throw a caption underneath. And I guess you could say I keep up with trends and stuff, but I’m no professional."
"That's okay, anything's better than nothing. Alex said you do it for The Pub?"
"Yeah…" I say skeptically. "My cocktail pics are top-notch, if I do say so myself. You throw that baby in portrait mode and—"
"Yeah, I have no idea what that means. But you know what you’re doing?"
I shrug even though he can’t see me. "Sure, I know my way around."
"Okay, well, I need someone in the interim until our replacement can start." He pauses, like he’s gauging my reaction. "What would you think about filling in until she gets here?"
"For just the first game?"
"Um, yeah. Or maybe, oh I don't know… the first dozen games? Say, a month or so?"
"A month?" I echo loudly.
"Yeah," he drags out. "I know. It's a little last minute, but you know this isn't my thing. It's not Jack's either—our owner—so we sort of both thought the other guy would handle it. I'll pay you, obviously. I know you'd need to take off from the restaurant."
I exhale heavily, contemplating his offer.
"You'd really be helping me and the organization out," he adds, then sighs. "It’s either you or Burnsey's gonna try to do it, and God help us all if that’s the case."
"Who?"
"Never mind," he says playfully.
"Wait, what about Al? She's basically doing that for Spark the Flame, isn't she? She wouldn't want to do it?" I ask, assuming he's already thought of his wife, who is working for the team's community outreach program doing almost the same job.
"Yeah, but the gala's next month. So, between the blog and Spark the Flame, she has basically zero extra time. She's actually the one who thought you might be interested." He lets a silence fall between us as I gather my thoughts. "You can think about it if you need to."
I hesitate, considering there's a good chance that my taking pictures of the team would involve my being near the team…
and a certain first line forward. But I have been looking for something new, and I'm sure I could get my shifts covered at The Pub.
I guess temporary is better than nothing.
Plus, I can hear Levi's desperation, and damn it if I don't have a soft spot for Coach McHottie thanks to how happy he makes one of my favorite people.
I inhale deeply, giving myself one more second to reconsider. "Yeah, alright," I say instead. "I can do it."
He blows out a heavy breath as if a weight's been lifted from his shoulders. "Thanks, Brooke. I owe you. I'll make sure to get you the specifics."
"No worries. I get the gist." I grin as I raise a brow, scheming. "Oh, and hey, Levi?"
"Yeah?"
"You keep me posted on those handcuffs."
Half a second passes where I think he may be thinking it over before he clears his throat. "Goodbye, Brooke," he says dryly.
I laugh as the line goes dead.
Okay, so maybe I won't be avoiding Drew as much as I had hoped. But this is a good opportunity to explore other career paths. And besides, there are other players on the team. He can't be the only one the media wants to see.
Deciding it's necessary—for research purposes—I click open the Instagram app.
Pulling up the page for @GoldenCityFlames, my vision is flooded with a sea of red and black.
The last few images are marketing their first game against the Guardians, and before that, there are posts of new players they signed over the summer.
Their contract years and values are listed next to their pictures with an overlay of the Flames logo and text that says "Welcome to G.C.
" There are also some trade alerts, this season's game schedule, and a couple of filler reels with player quotes and interviews—all things I think I can handle.
If anything, they're actually a little duller than I expected them to be.
After sliding past another couple of posts, my thumb instinctively presses to the screen, pausing on a picture of a familiar face looking every bit as untouchable as he always does with any sort of glass between us.
The post is of Drew on July second in his red jersey with a gold chain that lays on top.
His hair looks freshly tossed, and his smile is more like a smirk, his left eyebrow raised slightly.
The caption says, "HBD Drew Anderson! This Flames' forward turns twenty-five today. Happy birthday, number twelve!"
"Twenty-five," I whisper to myself. Holy shit. He's barely twenty-five. That means when we hooked up, he wasn't even—yep, not even old enough to have a quarter-life crisis.
I swipe right, and it takes me to a short video clip the old social media manager must have asked him to send her.
It's him holding the camera out in front of him with probably a hundred people in the background, party music bursting through the speakers.
He's wearing a black button-up shirt that sits halfway open, his gold chain shimmering every time the moving lights glimmer past it.
He looks good—sexy. My heart-rate kicks up like it only does when you're doing—or feeling—something that you shouldn't.
"What's up, G.C.," he yells over the song. "Just wanted to say thanks for all the b-day shout outs." He swallows quickly, his eyes darting to either side of the camera. "I appreciate all your support over, uh, this past year. Twenty-four was… well… I learned a lot."
He pauses for just a second, looking past the camera instead of directly at it, before another guy comes up behind him and throws his arm across his shoulders.
Drew glances back at him before switching his demeanor, but if you're paying attention, you'd notice his smile is dimmer than it was before.
"Anyway, I gotta go tear it up with these assholes, but… I love you guys."
A girl with long, wavy red hair slinks up to him and places her hand on his chest, just as the video comes to an end. I roll my eyes, brushing my thumb as fast as I can back to the first picture.
Scrolling down, I glance through the comments. There's everything from basic birthday wishes to insults, bro responses to thirsty messages.
BBurns_06: HBD, my dude! Here's to an epic year.
Sp0rtsBr01980: Over. Rated.
JustCallMeLola: Holy hell, for the sake of my vagina, please do not get hotter with age.
Shay_Bae: I have a present he can unwrap…
Hockey.Fan.4Lyfe: This guy's twenty-five? Way too old to be acting like he does.
RedHotRedHead21: What a wild night, babe.
Rolling my eyes, I try to ignore the way hate heats my chest and how that last one churns my stomach. Instead, I focus on the fact at hand.
I knew Drew was young. In fact, I vaguely remember Alex telling me about it this past season, but at the time it was all a pipe dream.
In reality, the difference between thirty-one and twenty-five is only six years.
That's not even one dog year—barely a first grader.
Maybe I shouldn't admit this, but I've had underwear longer than that.
It somehow just feels different when it's the years between our ages.
At the time, the numbers didn't seem as wildly different as they do now.
Maybe because the way he acted—the way we connected—felt like we were one and the same.
But now, ten months, countless headlines, and one new life goal later, his age is just an added reminder that we're not just living in different stages of life—we're on completely different planets.
So, the man's a good lay. But this seals the deal—that's all that it was. This time last year, I wasn't even ready to start building a life for myself. There's no way a twenty-five-year-old professional athlete who lives a life of lust and luxury would be even remotely on the same page.
Glancing around, my clothes suddenly all seem like completely acceptable choices.
Jean jacket? Perfect. Black denim? Great.
Combat boots? Works for me. Of course, I want Drew to remember that night—it still stands out to me for so many reasons.
But I'm no longer afraid of how he'll act toward me.
It doesn't make a difference. He could be my intriguing mystery or the world's charming Romeo—it's irrelevant when we don't make sense either way.
My phone vibrates again, this time in two quick buzzes. Grabbing it, I find an incoming message from my brother. I swipe it open and groan aloud.
Blake
You better not be bailing on dinner again. I'll see you in a half-hour.
Damn it. The last few weeks, I've been lucky enough to be scheduled at The Pub during my family's weekly dinners.
Apparently tonight, my luck runs out. I consider bailing anyway.
I have things to pack and now… Instagrams to stalk.
But I do miss my niece—and the rest of my family, I guess.
And it has been awhile since I've had to play a game of Dodge-Mom's-Passive-Aggressive-Critiques-Of-My-Life-Choices.
I do like to stay sharp.
I grab my nearest jacket from the pile—my sage green bomber—and shrug it on over my black t-shirt and jeans. I slip into my combat boots, which are already piled next to my bag, and make a mental note to put them back there later so I don't forget them for our trip. Ugh, our trip.
Just like that, the image of seeing Drew up close and personal crashes into my mind, and there's an instant pulse between my thighs.
Luckily, the next wave of thoughts brings with it the reminder that no matter how I remember him, he's not the guy from that night last year.
He's Drew Anderson—hockey all-star, Golden City hero, ladies' man.
A twenty-five-year-old phenomenon.
And now, even Mom and I have more in common.