Chapter 6 Drew
Drew
Ignoring my dad's call yet again, I step off of the elevator.
Walking down to the hotel bar, I slip one hand into the pocket of my athletic joggers and tug at the collar of my Flames hoodie with the other.
I decided to switch it up for dinner. It's not much of a change, but maybe it's enough to shift the energy this season.
Normally, I'd grab food with some of the boys if we aren't eating as a team, but I thought some alone time would do me good.
Give me a minute to myself before having to perform for millions of people.
The lobby hums with familiar sounds as I make my way through it—the low murmuring of guests, the dings from the elevator, the shuffling of suitcases being dragged along the floor.
But as I pass, those noises are slowly replaced with calming jazz music as I step closer into the far corner of the room.
The lights grow dimmer, and the chaos fades, the combination of it all creating the perfect easy ambiance. Exactly what I need.
The hotel bar is one long, sleek counter lined with about a dozen leather stools and a warm glow that travels the length of the marble.
Shelves of all the highest priced liquors sit behind it on a wall made of a deep cherry wood.
There is a young couple on one end, both sipping white wine, an older guy on the other nursing a whiskey, and a dude with his back to me sitting right in the center.
The guy in the middle is built like a tank—tall, broad shoulders, biceps bulging from his too-tight shirt. He has a head that's twice the size of mine and is wearing a velour tracksuit. Wait a minute.
The only person I know who still owns one of those things is…
"Petrov?"
I pull out the stool next to a familiar face, confirming it's my teammate. He lifts his eyes from his phone before glancing over at me slowly. Sitting in front of him is what's left of a sandwich, an empty soup bowl, and… is that a fucking Shirley Temple?
I stare at the glass topped with maraschino cherries a minute too long, and when I look up at him, he's staring at me blankly, his expression unreadable. He's either planning my death or waiting for me to initiate conversation.
"Why aren't you out with the guys?" I ask, sitting down on the seat and shifting it closer to the counter.
He brings his gaze back to the device. "Because I never eat with the team," he says in his thick Russian accent, his deep voice cutting through the otherwise smooth, rhythmic music that surrounds us.
My brow creases as I consider his answer. "Really?"
He slides his thumb upward, scrolling on the screen. From this angle, his Notes app is partially exposed, short lines of writing stacked in a paragraph on the open page. "Really," he says curtly.
"Why?"
He sets his phone on the bar and turns his body toward me. "I like me time. I sit. I eat. I write." His hand slides to his phone mindlessly, and when he bumps the screen with his thumb, it lights up. "Then tomorrow, I am ready."
His words are blunt and rough around the edges, but they land. They seem out of place but are exactly what I'm hoping to get from tonight.
Making no effort to hide that I'm peeking over at his app, I scan the contents. "Is that… poetry?" I ask genuinely confused.
Alexei Petrov is known for a lot of things.
He's massive, menacing, and manhandles opponents on the ice like they're flies he's shooing away.
He's infamous for sinking pucks into the net from the top of the circle, and leading the league in assists.
He speaks very little and grunts quite a lot, and I'm not sure I've ever heard him string more than a few broken sentences together, let alone a poem.
"I like it," he says without blinking. "Poems don't have to make sense to mean what you want them to."
Completely dumbfounded, I continue to stare at him, waiting for him to break out in a smile—for the punchline of his joke. But I'm met with nothing.
"Wait… you're serious?"
He wraps his huge hand around his phone and flips it over on the bar. "I am serious."
I nod to myself, genuinely impressed. "That's cool, man… really fucking weird, but cool, I guess."
Standing, he towers over me, bracing his heavy hand on the counter. "Please keep my secret," he says in a clipped, hushed tone. His voice is innocent, but his face tells me he'd crush my skull if I disobeyed.
Reaching up, I clap him on the side of his arm and can't help it when a laugh escapes my lips. "You got it, buddy."
Petrov grunts in his typical manner, throws a crisp hundred on the bar, then turns and walks away without another word.
I follow his exit, still somewhat confused, and suddenly needing to read every single poem written by Flames' starting forward, Alexei "The Storm" Petrov.
Still laughing to myself, I turn back in my seat and—
Holy shit.
It's her.
Sitting just a seat apart from Whiskey Guy, who is probably in his forties, is Mystery Girl. My mystery girl. I freeze, stunned that she's here and shocked that my body didn't somehow already know that hers was this close.
Her head is turned towards the guy who is smiling back at her, eye-fucking her over the glass of his drink. My blood starts to boil as I watch the two of them interact, too far for me to hear their conversation, but close enough that her easy laugh hits a little too hard.
She's holding a glass of red wine in her hand, and I lick my lips, tasting it there as my mouth remembers her flavor even after all this time. With a quiet inhale, I turn back to the counter as the bartender approaches, and use the time to figure out my next move.
"What can I get for you, sir?" the woman asks. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun that looks like the ones figure skaters wear, her black pants and matching black button-up, both sleek and spotless.
"Water, please," I grind out, all the while avoiding the scene to my right.
The bartender nods politely. "And anything to eat?"
My jaw clenches as she shifts in her seat next to me.
What a loaded fucking question.
Anxiety builds in my chest as I consider that she may not remember me. Here I am, her presence shooting straight to my dick, losing my shit that she's here after thinking about her every time I was in someone else these last ten months, and she might not even remember our night.
Or worse.
She may regret it.
The bartender continues to wait patiently as I let my thoughts spiral. When I have enough of myself together, my usual order pours from my mouth—my night-before-a-game meal—no menu necessary. "Grilled sirloin, quinoa, steamed broccoli."
She smiles, then turns away, and I steal another glance in Mystery Girl's direction. Her back is now completely to me, her body shifted, so she's fully facing the guy at the end. He's invested in whatever she's saying, staring at her intently, and I use the opportunity to really take him in.
He's in a white button-up with the top two buttons undone and a grey vest that hangs open down the middle. His brown hair is pushed back in a shorter version of how I style mine for formal events, and his salt and pepper beard is trimmed tightly across his jaw.
He no doubt has money, maybe coming from a meeting or some sort of work conference. He's looking at my mystery girl like she's the rest of his night, and suddenly I'm hell bent on making sure he's wrong.
Her laugh once again slices through the room—and my chest—and it's all I can take. I push my stool back from the bar and move to the empty seat next to hers, doing everything in my power not to plop myself between the two of them.
If she notices someone now behind her, she doesn't move.
The citrus that pours off of her perfect body lights me up, and at the same time, the bartender goes to place my water down where I once was before.
Finding that stool now empty, she searches for me, then spots me in my new seat and swings in my direction.
"Your meal will be out shortly, sir," she says, placing the glass in front of me.
I thank her, speaking louder than I need to, but keeping my voice steady despite my racing heart. I make a mental note to tip her with all the cash I have when I realize my plan is working.
Our words grabbed my girl's attention.
My favorite mystery slowly spins toward me. I get a glimpse of her as she flashes me a casual grin before turning away once more. For that half of a second, my confidence wavers as my heart sinks into my ass. But then, she snaps back in my direction.
We lock eyes, mine never having left the back of her head, and hers grow wide as her lips part slightly. God, she's fucking beautiful. Even with the look of shock on her face, it's exactly as I remember it except now she has a small gold hoop hugging the side of her nose. Even better.
We each seem to freeze for a beat, staring at each other, but after another moment, her lips close as she swallows hard.
It's the first time I let my eyes leave hers, but watching the way her throat moves up and down is worth it.
It reminds me of how it felt when my hand was around it and she did the same thing before she called out my name. A perfect fucking memory.
My eyes drop down to her chest as it starts moving in quicker, deeper waves, and the effect her reaction has on me—watching as the puzzle pieces click into place—is undeniable.
My jaw tightens, my heart hammers against my ribs at this point, and my palms are only cool because of the glass of ice water I'm strangling in my hands.
Thankfully, this is what I'm used to.
"Hey you," I say as her eyes finally begin to trail down my body. They dart right back to mine as the words fall casually from my lips despite the ache in my forearms. I'm now digging them into the bar top to keep myself from pulling her onto my lap, but she doesn't need to know that.
Her mouth opens briefly before she closes it again, looking back over her shoulder at Whiskey Guy.
I forgot he was here. He should be pissed that I'm about to steal the attention of the girl he's been flirting with all night, but when our eyes meet, he throws me a genuine smile and rises from his seat.
To his credit, as much as I want to hate the guy, he walks over to where I'm sitting and offers me his hand. "Drew Anderson, in the flesh."
I stand, not missing the way Mystery Girl's head tilts upward as she follows my movement. I take his palm in mine. "How's it goin', man?"
"Going to the game tomorrow, actually. Can't wait to watch you kick off the season." Fuck. Mr. Toolbag's a nice guy after all.
"I appreciate that. We'll put on a show, don't you worry."
He drops our grasp and taps my shoulder with the back of his hand. "With you, I don't doubt it."
I force out a laugh. "It's what I do best."
He nods, and I drop my chin to find Mystery Girl still watching me intensely. I pause for one deep breath to take her in again before turning back to him. "Hey, listen. I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to steal your girl here."
He tilts his head toward hers, and I do the same. She paints a smile for him, and he mimics the gesture. "Oh, all good. We're not together. Do you two know each other?"
Our eyes meet, and hers reflect back the same way they did the first time we saw each other—pure, sincere, free of judgement.
"Old friend," I say, without pulling away, and I swear those same irises darken. I get lost in them, a silence falling between the three of us until Whiskey Guy clears his throat quietly.
Reluctantly, I rip my gaze from hers and offer him a tight-lipped nod, shoving both hands into my pockets. He looks at me knowingly and holds out his palm once more.
"No worries at all. You guys catch up." I shake his hand firmly before he extends it to her. She takes it all too quickly, and the whole interaction sparks a heat in my chest. I'm so consumed with my physical response to her that I almost miss his next few words.
Thankfully, I don't because they're everything I need.
"It was nice to meet you, Brooke."
My entire body tenses.
Brooke. Holy shit.
She has a fucking name.