Chapter 8 Drew
Drew
Fuck me.
As if the girl from the gala wasn't already making herself a permanent spot in my mind, she had to show up here. At our first game. And even more perfect than I thought.
The only thing about her that I didn't find adorable, intriguing, or fucking sexy as hell, was the fact that she already wrote me off ten months ago.
Part of me loves that she's not like anyone else I've slept with, trying to take as much of me as I'm willing to give.
But most of me can't stand the fact that I finally found someone I wouldn't mind seeing more of, and she's already convinced herself that we would never happen.
After Brooke—fucking Brooke—laid out all of her excuses, refusing to admit that there's something between us, she asked the bartender to pack up her food and split.
Short of chasing her through the hotel lobby, there wasn't much I could do besides watch her walk away. But damn—even that I didn't mind.
She thinks I'm too young, too famous, too well-known, and too close to her social circle.
I don't know her despite our two interactions, but I'm almost positive this girl isn't afraid of what other people think.
No, she's worried I'm not the guy to settle down with.
That I'm not old enough to want anything serious, especially with my job and reputation.
She might be right. Shit, I've never really thought about it before right now. I'm twenty-five, in the prime of my career, or at least trying to get back there, and I'm a fucking mess inside. But a "normal" life sounds pretty great right now—maybe exactly what I need.
My saving grace is that I know she's here for Cooper, which means she's at least sticking around Grand Oaks until the game. That gives me time—and real inspiration for my season kick-off performance tonight. Dare I say, it's a little true motivation to put on the show I know I have to anyway.
Skating around the ice for our morning practice, my mind seesaws back and forth between her and the game.
Thinking about the two, I scoop a puck onto the end of my stick and toss it in the air.
When it falls, I kick it back up with the side of my skate then catch it smoothly on the blade again, mindlessly occupying my time before I'm interrupted.
"Yo, where were you last night?" Burnsey asks, skating over to me. He smacks the bottom of my stick with his, knocking the puck loose so it falls to the ice. "Starving yourself part of your new pregame ritual?" He slides the disc back and forth as I follow its movement.
"Nah, I grabbed food at the hotel bar. Thought I'd try the solo thing for once." Turns out I didn't exactly end up alone.
"Ah, goin' all Stormy on me, eh?" The Canadian in him slips through his words as my eyes fly to his.
"You knew about that? That Petrov never eats with the team?"
Burns freezes, his lower half still hunched over his stick. "Bro. He's never eaten with us." He laughs as he continues. "He's too cool, apparently. I don't know what the hell he does on his lonesome, but God forbid you ask him about it at warm ups the next day."
He shivers dramatically, and I crack a smile. I can picture it now. Burns bein' Burns and in everyone's business, meanwhile Petrov puts the fear of God in him to protect his little poems.
"And you call yourself our captain," he mutters, shaking his head.
I know he's messing around, but my face immediately turns. I push off my back foot and glide just inches from him, our blades nearly kissing. "Don't."
He holds his gloves up to his chin. "Dude, I'm joking. Chill out."
I pause, regaining my composure. I even threw myself with that one. I fall back, my breath still spewing out in quick spurts, and clear my throat. "Yeah, sorry, man. My bad."
Burns throws a punch at my chest. "It's all good, Cap. Hey, everything's gonna be fine. You're back. Fuck that testing bullshit. You're Drew Anderson—our guy. Hell, you're Golden City's guy. Just give the people what they want. Be you."
I let out a dry laugh at the infamous saying. But that's the problem. I can't do both things at once.
A whistle saves me from having to respond and draws both of our attention toward Monte. He's at center ice, tapping his stick rhythmically like he's growing impatient and has somewhere else to be—which, knowing his girl is sitting back in his hotel room waiting for him, he probably does.
Burnsey nudges me with his elbow. "Come on, Captain.” He pushes forward just a few feet before he turns backward on his skates and winks. "Showtime."
That one word snaps me back. I shake it off and skate toward the circle, trying to leave the weight of everything else behind me.
"Alright, big game tonight, boys. I want a lot of touches this morning. Lots of passes, lots of shooting. We're just gettin' warm."
I nod, swirling the handle of my stick in my hand. "Line it up," I call after Monte's finished.
He looks at me and tips his chin up, our silent communication to get a drill started. I mirror his movement, but catch a glimpse of red and black in the stands that sticks out like a sore thumb against the bright yellow and dark green of the Gladiators' arena.
I let my eyes wander to the source as I spin toward the corner of the ice where the boys are waiting.
And I see her.
I freeze, watching her as she looks down at her phone, her lower half covered by the seats in front of her. She's wearing a black leather jacket that's on full display, though, with a white and red stripe down the front—one meant to wear while on a goddamn bike.
And my dick responds before anything else.
"Drew, lets fucking move," Monte says, nodding toward the guys.
Despite his impatience, I coast closer to him. "Hey, uh, Coach. Why is—who's that?"
Monte peers over his shoulder in the direction I nod and pulls out the mini notebook he keeps tucked into the pocket of his warm ups. "The new social media manager," he says, flipping through the pages.
"Wait, what?" I ask without thinking.
Coach glances up at me and wrinkles his brow. "Come on, Drew. I know you know all about Instagram." He smirks as he skims his notes on the page his book is opened to.
I shake my head, reacting to both his comment and my attempt at trying to wrap my head around my thoughts. "No, yeah, I get that. I just mean—"
"She's my wife's friend. She's just filling in until the new girl starts permanently.
" He goes to turn another page but pauses with his fingers clenched around the paper.
"Don't get any ideas. No messing with her or any dumb shit.
I don't want you guys being assholes." Monte flips the page and continues, this time mumbling under his breath. "Alex will have my fucking head."
With my mind stuck on her, I barely hear him as he shoves his notebook back into his pocket and takes off for the guys.
Why didn't she say anything last night when we talked about her being here?
She had to know I'd find out. I start to feel some type of way about her lying by omission, thinking maybe she isn't as different as I thought she was, when it hits me.
No. She wasn't trying to keep it from me.
She's scared. Scared to tell me, scared to be near me… holy shit.
Scared to admit that this is exactly where she wants to be.
The realization lights the same fire in my belly that starts when I first walk out through the tunnel—when the crowd hums my name like they do when my number's called in the starting line up.
It's a fire that's sparked at the start of a game that reminds me that it's time to be on.
Time to secure what's mine. Time to hold on to everything I have to lose.
With that growing flame low in my gut, I turn to find Monte talking at the bench with Max, our equipment manager.
Taking advantage of the time, I push forward just enough to close a bit of the gap between me on the ice and Brooke in the stands.
When I'm a few yards away, I stop harder than I need to, spraying snow and whistling one quick, sharp sound.
Brooke finally glances up from her phone, and when her eyes meet mine, I know I was right. This girl, who doesn't seem scared of anything, is terrified of what she feels for me.
"Good to see you again, Mystery Girl." Her lips fall open as I push off my blade and glide backward. "Make sure you get my good side."
An hour later, practice is over. I don't know how much warming up I actually did for the game, but my body is fucking ready for Brooke.
I spent the last sixty minutes half dicking around on the ice, half performing for her.
As if I didn't already have enough roles to play, apparently now I'm showing off for a girl who's made it abundantly clear I can't have her again.
I think that's my biggest problem. Brooke's not just some prospect that I stumbled upon out at the bar one night. I've had her. I know what it feels like to be buried inside her—raw for that matter—and I know how it feels to be near her even with clothes separating us.
She can refuse to accept it all she wants, but there's something between us. It's physical and palpable, and the fact that she's denying it only makes me crave it more. But I'm not going to let her forget. Not that easily at least.
The boys are piling off the bench toward the locker room as Brooke saunters down the stairs in the stands closest to the tunnel.
For the first time since practice started, she's within a reasonable distance from me, even if she's avoiding eye contact and has her hands tucked into that fucking jacket.
"Hey," I call up to her, catching her eyes and those of the last few players still heading out. "Aren't you gonna come with us?"
Burnsey, who I could kiss for finally picking the perfect time to put his nose where it doesn't belong, hangs back and drapes his arm over my shoulder, pulling his helmet up to rest on his forehead.
"Yeah, Jenny used to go all behind the scenes for interviews and shit for the 'Gram.' Maybe catch some skin while we strip down. You in?"
Brooke goes wide-eyed for a second before regaining her composure. "No, that's okay." She pulls her hand out of her pocket, and with it comes her phone. She holds it up and says, "I think I got enough for today."
Brett leans into me. "Aw, the new girl's bashful," he whispers.
My mind flashes back to the image of Brooke sitting relaxed and completely naked on the bathroom sink with her perfect pussy on display. I blow out a slow breath as her bold words ring inside my head. "Keep going." "Faster." "More."
"Yeah, I don't think that's it," I say, my voice coming out weak.
"Well, shy or not, she's totally hot."
I resist punching him as he nods again toward Brooke. "We don't bite," he says louder. "Unless you're into that sort of thing." Brett raises his brows in her direction and laughs before nudging my shoulder and heading out through the tunnel.
Brooke and I are the last two in the rink, and her dark eyes are still on me. "You get some good content?" I call over the rail that sits between us, desperate to continue talking.
"Good enough," she says, sticking her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. Her jacket pulls open with the movement, revealing an inch of skin just above her waist. My eyes immediately drop to the tanned sliver, and she notices.
Without even thinking about it, I step closer to the stands, looking up at her. She doesn't exactly seem thrilled, but she doesn't walk away either, which is good enough for me.
"You didn't tell me about the job," I say.
"You didn't ask."
My head drops forward as I try to hide my smirk. When I look back up, she's wearing a weak smile too. "Fair enough."
A silence falls between us that's not necessarily uncomfortable, but definitely charged.
"Listen, Drew, I—"
"Brooke, I think—"
We both speak at the same time, then snap our lips shut simultaneously. "You go first," I say, leaning my weight on my stick.
"I was going to say, considering I'll be working with you at least for a little while, I think we should—"
"We should probably go on a date," I say, cutting her off. Her face falls flat. "Sorry, I know I said you could go first, but something tells me I'm not gonna like the end of your sentence."
She tilts her head sideways and crosses her arms. "Drew, we talked about this."
"No," I say, shifting my feet. "You rattled off a list of excuses and are calling it a conversation."
"They aren't excuses. They're facts, and they make total sen—"
"Bullshit."
Her head snaps back. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I say. I hook my hand on the lowest rung of the rail and lean in. "You don't strike me as the type of girl who gives one fuck about any of that shit you leaned on last night." Her throat moves up and down as her arms fall loose, just enough for me to notice.
"Admit it, Brooke. You still want me." Her cheeks flush the perfect shade of pink, and I feel it fucking everywhere. "The same way I want you," I add, my voice low but confident.
Her lips part slightly as Burns goes and resorts back to his impeccable timing, popping into the space at the end of the tunnel. "Yo, Cap, you comin'?"
"I'll be right there," I call to him. I turn back to Brooke, her arm now pulled across her chest.
"It's okay," I say, stepping back from the railing. "You don't have to admit it. We both know the truth."
I tap the metal with the blade of my stick, and she blinks hard. I start to walk away but pause after a few feet and turn back to see her still watching me. "I'll see you around, Mystery Girl."
Then, I wink and walk away.