Chapter 4 Drew
Drew
Stretching over to my bedside table, I groan as I attempt to end the constant fucking whirring coming from my phone.
When I finally reach it, I crack one eye, leaving the rest of my body plastered chest-down onto my California king.
Peeking at the time, I let out a heavy sigh.
God dammit. I have to get up. Not that it matters really—sleep doesn't help much when it's your soul that's tired.
It's game week, and we have to travel to Grand Oaks in a couple of hours.
I'm ready physically, but I'm not sure I'm prepared mentally to step back into the season.
Never being out of the public eye is exhausting.
Even during the off-season, there are always cameras and signings, interviews for something—the draft, training camp, Flames events.
But these next nine months will bring even more unwanted attention.
I've grown used to being a topic of conversation in the hockey world.
People love me, they hate me, they can't decide which way they lean more.
There's no winning when it comes to the media.
If I don't score enough, my contract's questioned.
If I score too much, I'm not a team player.
I'm used to being ridiculed and held to a ridiculous standard.
But now, there's an unforgettable drug test added to the list.
Pushing myself out of bed, tomorrow's game creeps to the forefront of my mind, but I'm not worried about the Gladiators.
They were in the middle of the pack last season—not much of a threat.
It's the perfect game to kick us off—to set the tone.
Get in, show out, and remind G.C. who the hell I am, then ride that wave into the rest of our schedule.
I'm halfway between my bed and my master bathroom when my phone vibrates in my hand. Looking down, I see the incoming number and immediately throw the device back onto the mattress. Nope. Not today.
My dad calls every so often, his way of making sure he's still a voice inside my head. Usually it comes before a big game and goes something like this:
"Hey, champ. Big game coming up. You ready?"
Like always, I'll respond, "Yeah, Dad, I'm ready."
Then comes the unsolicited advice or insight—"Remember, their goalie favors his left side." "Don't forget to keep your feet moving." "Try not to get caught on a long shift like you did last game."
I'll nod along, either agreeing or complying—whatever it takes to end the conversation—and he'll sign off in his typical manner. "This is your game, champ. You're a star. Don't let them forget it."
Only what he forgets is that stars don't shine. They fucking burn.
I thought when I finally made it to the NHL, he might ease up.
This is what he trained me for since I was three and first stepped onto the ice.
But now, instead of reminding me of what I'm working toward, he just likes to make sure I don't overlook everything I have to lose.
And lately his motives are even more loaded.
I'm not sure when playing professional hockey became my dream.
Or if it ever really was. Mom always reminded me of the real reasons I was playing the game—have fun, meet friends, make myself proud.
But Dad was quick to follow up with reminders of his own—stay focused, train hard, don't waste the gift I was given.
Unfortunately, those first few weren't beaten into my head for as long as the others.
I glance in the mirror, and a light pink patch of bruised skin right above my collarbone stands out. "Fucking hell," I say, leaning into the glass for a closer look.
I didn't realize Maddie—Mandy?—went so hard last night before I left.
Twisting around, I glance back at my reflection.
Faint claw marks trail down my spine, and I blow out a breath.
She was hot, but not brand-me-before-my-first-trip hot.
Fine enough to let off some pregame steam with an added bonus of helping to get Jane off my case.
My P.R. manager, who to no one's surprise was pushed on me by my dad, makes it a point to keep me in the headlines.
To keep me on the fans' radar and hold up my image.
In fact, that's exactly what she was hired to do—take my rookie self, who spent his life in a hockey rink instead of with friends or girls, and make him "worthy" of my contract.
It was simple, really. What guy just starting out in the league doesn't want to become the face of a franchise?
To fuck beautiful women, drink in penthouses, and say exactly what's on their mind?
Soon, though, that transferred onto the ice as well.
You can't only wear the mask half the time.
But as time went on, the novelty of all of it faded until I stopped wanting to do any of it.
Spinning back toward the mirror, a memory springs to mind. My mystery girl. The only one that's left an impression. It's been so long, but it feels like yesterday. I wonder if she remembers me—if that night left any sort of mark on her the way it permanently inked itself on me.
Besides the fact that she was fucking breathtaking, she was also the only girl that's stuck with me in a blur of other hookups. The only one who was more than an hour of relief. The only one who treated me like an actual human being.
Everyone wants Drew Anderson—hockey star and bad boy. They want a thrill or to check me off their bucket list, only caring that they have a story for their damn group chat. They want the hair, the tattoos, the chain—the image. They don't want me.
But she seemed different.
Gripping the sink on either side of the porcelain, I picture her legs sitting between my arms. Her chest heaving into mine as I wrap my hand around the base of her neck and pull her close.
Suddenly my bathroom smells like citrus, and her voice echoes inside my head.
"I wouldn't say I know you."
Yeah. She seemed really fucking different.
Wiping my face of the mental image I have of her straddling my torso, I push off of the sink. I crack my neck to both sides, then run a hand through my hair. Time to get moving. I've got a plane to catch.
There's nothing like the roar of the engine bouncing off the Golden City streets before an upcoming game.
Cruising through the city, I always make sure to take my bike the long way to the arena.
Something about the ride helps clear my head—no calls, no coaches, no cameras.
The only pressure is from the weight of my bag on my back or my grip on the throttle as I weave through the morning's traffic.
My Ducati was the first thing I bought when I signed with the Flames.
At this point she's a few years old, but I like her broken in.
It's a machine—high performing, built for speed, perfect for pushing limits—a goddamn superbike.
It's painted a sleek matte black, which attempts to conceal the power underneath, but there's no hiding all it has to offer.
With its gold suspension bar as the perfect contrast, the whole design creates a tough image to cover the intricacy of the beast that lies beneath it.
The growl from the engine morphs into a high-pitched wail as I speed down the street—the roar mixing with tight crackles and snappy shifts that announce its arrival before you even see it coming. The Ducati's bold. Loud. Aggressive. It's not a sports bike—it's a fucking statement.
And that's exactly what I was going for.
Zipping through downtown Golden City toward the arena, the sun beats through my black warm up jacket, the perfect touch in the cool October air.
I soak in the commute as I bend down the roads, which aren't as busy as they might have been during rush hour.
There are still plenty of people milling about—shopping, running, grabbing their mid-morning coffees.
But the ease of the drive now is exactly what I need before a day like today.
I love this city. Always have. It's the perfect combination of small enough to feel like home but big enough for me to feel almost insignificant.
With my helmet on, I'm just another city dweller rolling through the streets.
No one knows if I'm off to throw on a ten-million-dollar jersey or push papers at my nine-to-five.
Here, on this bike, I can be whoever the hell I want to be, and no one would know the difference. Shit, no one would fucking care. On these two wheels, I can be exactly who I want to be—me. It's just a shame that it ends here, as I turn onto the arena's street.
Pulling into the covered lot, I ride directly to where my teammates' sports cars and SUVs are parked in our secure designated area.
Easing into my spot, I settle my weight backwards, cut the engine, and stomp down the kickstand with the heel of my black boot.
Savoring my last beat of silence and fresh air, I remove my helmet and run my hand through my hair.
I spot the black and red shuttle parked by the back entrance, the Flames logo sparkling from the morning sun.
It's the first sign of a new season. We're back to traveling, hotels, and pregame rituals.
I'll do my thing, some of the boys will tape their sticks in exactly the same way at the exact same time.
Others will eat the same meal they've had before every other game and drink Gatorades with only a certain color cap.
Burnsey will take his hour-long nap, Ward will tap his stick against the goal posts to the beat of Eye of the Tiger, and Petrov will do…
well, I don't actually know what he does.
Either way, I'm not sure if I'm ready for any of it.
It's all just a precursor to what's coming. But I have to be.
Sliding off the bike, I work my shoulders to relieve some of the tension my backpack caused while I was crouched over the handles, then set my helmet on its spot behind the seat.
Strolling over to the bus, I run my thumb side to side along the bottom of my chain—the closest thing I have to reassurance.
At the same time, Burnsey runs to catch up with me from his blacked-out Hummer.
"What up, broski? Big day! You ready?" He claps me on the shoulder as we head toward the bus.
I nod slowly, sliding my backpack down one arm and tucking my keys into the front pocket.
Burns falls into step beside me as I throw it back over my shoulder. "I stay ready. You know this," I say just a couple feet from the door.
He taps his elbow into mine, a cheesy grin resting on his face. "Atta boy."
We walk the few steps it takes to get to the stairs leading onto the bus. Brett matches his pace to mine, and I take slow, steadying breaths until Brett stops abruptly, turning around to face me.
I blink with genuine confusion. "Can I help you?"
He shoves his hands into his pockets and narrows his eyes. "You good, man?"
I shift my weight, already feeling the walls go up. "Burns, you just asked me that."
He shakes his head as he adjusts the strap of his duffle bag hanging off of his shoulder. "I asked if you're ready. Now, I'm asking if you're good."
My stomach drops the way it always does when someone threatens to cut a hole in the facade.
Brett's my best friend—obnoxious as hell—but the guy is solid.
He's got my back no matter what, both on and off the ice.
He's the only one who really gets how heavy this past year has been, but even he doesn't know the full story.
Brett has his own reputation to uphold as the team clown, always diving onto the ice or back flipping on skates. But it's not the same. People don't ride him the way they do me. And with his picture-perfect family and golden retriever vibes, pressure doesn’t seem to stick anyway.
"I'm good, man," I say, dropping my hand onto his shoulder. I decided a long time ago that I wasn't going to burden anyone else with my secret. I damn sure don't plan to start now. "Just locking in. You know how I get."
He studies me for a beat too long before nodding slowly. "You sure?"
"Dude..."
"Alright, alright." He laughs, his hands up in surrender. "New season, same Cap."
I roll my eyes, tucking both thumbs under the straps of my backpack, then toss the kid a bone. "I was thinking about switching up my pregame routine though."
Burnsey's face twists up like I told him that he and Ward were swapping positions. "You mean you aren't gonna disappear to a secluded spot to listen to your angsty shit beforehand?"
I shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek. "I mean, I didn't say that. But I don't know, just mix it up. Maybe start slow and change up the night before first." I let out a heavy breath. "Try to make this season as different as I can from last year's, ya know?"
Burns nods in understanding, or at least the half he can, and offers his usual easygoing grin.
I don't want to distance myself from the boys more than I usually do, but I also need something to change this year.
If it can't be my game or my persona, maybe a few extra hours of peace is a good place to start.
Brett looks down at his gold Rolex, then back up at the bus. "Alright, I get that. But give me the next twenty-threeish minutes at least. Sound good?"
I huff out a laugh. "Yeah, bro. You got it."
His smirk grows into a full-on smile as he turns and walks onto the shuttle. Pausing to let him climb the stairs, I bring my first two fingers to my nose and pinch the bridge. Here we go.
I take one deep breath before walking onto a bus full of guys who need me to be at the top of my game, and trying to pretend I don't feel like I'm drowning.
"What's up, assholes!"
"Drewww," they all drag out in unison, their voices low and lazy.
I smile and tip my chin up, heading right for the back.
Twenty-three minutes until we board the plane.
Twenty-three minutes until the season begins.
Twenty-three minutes until I'm back to being Drew motherfucking Anderson.
Or at least who he pretends to be.