Chapter 10 Drew
Drew
"Well, we won. The Gladiators came at us harder than we thought, but we were able to stay ahead of 'em.
Burnsey made a ridiculous one-timer goal from the blue line, and Petrov managed to escape without too many minutes in the box.
Ward had a wild glove save on a breakaway too. But I guess you saw all that, huh?"
Pulling one leg up, I rest my elbow on my knee, rolling a blade of grass between my fingers. I let my eyes wander, following the shadows the lush trees cast across the ground on an otherwise bright fall morning.
"Tried out my new celly—another TikTok dance the fans ate up.
That'll cost me. I know, I know… it's stupid.
I don't know, Mom. I've been so done with this shit since last season.
Nothing's felt the same since that fucking test. And it's crazy how much has changed in me since I've had to go back to being that guy.
But it's like I have no other choice. When I did get to take off the mask, even briefly, the silence…
Mom, it was so much louder than the noise. "
Suddenly, my alarm rings out, mocking me for appreciating the quiet.
Sighing, I click it off, then push to stand.
"I'll figure it out. Don't worry." I brush a stray leaf off of the speckled tombstone before bringing my hand to my lips, then pressing it to the marble.
"I'll be back soon. I still have to tell you about the girl.
" I laugh, slipping my headphone back into my ear. "I love you, Mom."
I turn away from the site, and as if on cue, my screen lights up with my dad's name.
I hit decline like I have the last few times he's called and, instead, click the next song on my playlist so that it rattles loudly through my ears.
Taking off toward the path leading out from the cemetery, I continue my run—my feet landing on the stone road in time with the beat—and my thoughts on the game.
Like I knew I would, I fell right back into step.
For sixty minutes of playing time I was exactly who I was supposed to be.
I'm not sure I'd know anymore how to be anyone else.
It's muscle-memory—a conditioned response.
The second my skates hit the ice, he takes over.
A man on autopilot wearing a mask because out there, under the lights, surrounded by the roar of the crowd, he knows exactly who he is.
The rest of the time it's not so clear.
Sometimes I stress thinking Mom would be disappointed in me.
For losing myself or investing so much time in being someone I'm not.
But then I remember that wasn't her way.
It's crazy to imagine, but I think my dad would be more pissed off if I stopped being the person he trained me to be—the person he built—than Mom would have been for not being myself.
It's part of the reason I've been avoiding him and didn't hang around for his post-game lecture last night.
I figured switching up my pregame ritual seemed to come with benefits, maybe changing other things would help a little too.
Plus, I don't want to hear what he has to say.
He's on a new kick, and it's the last thing on my mind.
Following the path, I weave through headstones, some worn and aged, leaning with the weight of time, some with fresh dirt packed in front of untouched marble, the names and dates written across the front still stark and prominent as if they were written in bold.
I can't hear the crunch of the gravel underneath my feet thanks to the music, but I feel it.
I didn't always visit. When Mom died my sophomore year in high school, I couldn't bring myself to terms with talking to a rock—with admitting that it's now my only way to speak to her.
I was shocked and pissed off and instead of dealing with her death, I just sunk further into hockey.
Letting Dad schedule as many extra hours on the ice and releasing any grip I still had left on my future—the hold only Mom encouraged—was my way of coping.
You don't have to face the truth if you create a new reality. It was the only way it felt manageable.
I guess not much has changed.
But in the last few years, I've found it peaceful.
I first visited after I signed with the Flames.
I wanted to be the one to tell Mom that I finally made it.
Not that anyone else would have done it because I don't think Dad's been here since the funeral.
But, since then, I've come back a few times a week just to fill her in.
Part of me thinks I'm just hoping one day she'll talk back—give me permission to release some pressure and have fun like she used to.
Until then, I enjoy the peace this place brings—the solace I get from knowing there's no pretending in here.
I don't know any of the backstories that belong to these people, but their graves are a good reminder that we're all human after all.
Stepping out of the cemetery, through the iron gate that swings ever so slightly when the wind hits it just right, I continue my run down the back streets of Golden City.
Right on cue, the familiar scent of Drippy's coffee shop wafts past me at the corner, as I pass the row of luxury brownstones that I'd kill to live in.
They hold so much history compared to my highrise.
But back when I was first looking for places in G.C.
, they didn't quite fit the brand I was attempting to build.
These are seasoned. Riddled with history and charm from their rounded bay windows to grand stoops begging for quiet mornings and lingering conversations.
There's history in the stone—stories of those who have lived inside them over the last two-hundred-years woven into the walls.
They're occupied by long-term residents or settled families—couples starting over or roommates looking for calm in the chaos of the city.
My apartment is nothing like that. It's new, chic—low-maintenance, high-luxury—and just a few floors above the action.
There's a spa and gym, a pool, and a concierge service, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the steady flow of passing people and moving headlights.
The view is a constant reminder of the city's pulse—and it does nothing to help slow me down.
But running past these brownstones always stirs something in me.
I'd love to feel like I belong somewhere quiet and lived in.
My place is perfect on paper—sexy and young.
But despite the statement it makes visually, with its glossy exterior and intimidating presence, there's still a part of me that would prefer the more understated beauty of something real.
Picking up speed, I turn down a narrower street as the rest of the city wakes up around me.
The song in my ear changes to a classic that Burnsey has named one of my angsty songs as I squeeze past a mailman and dodge a few papers tossed carelessly on the sidewalk.
Increasing my pace again, the complete opposite of the slower beat of the drums in my ear, I all but sprint further into the busy part of the city.
Closing out the end of my run in the direction of my apartment, I always give it all I have left.
It's funny how I run to escape the noise, yet I find myself moving faster as I head back toward it.
The last few days scroll through my mind, driving me to dig even deeper, my sneakers pounding the pavement with each heavy step.
The test, the trip, my dad, the game… her.
All of it so simple, yet so fucking complicated.
Before I know it, I've passed my building, my pulse thumping, chest heaving, as I finally decrease my speed.
Jogging the length of another street, I eventually stop, pulling my phone from my pocket and silencing the music, letting the buzz of the city replace its tempo.
Plucking my headphones from my ears, I slip them into the pocket of my mesh gym shorts, rip my t-shirt off and slap it over my shoulder, then place my hands on my head.
I spin around to find my bearings, my heart and breathing-rates slowly recovering.
There are a few dozen people already out and about, so I step closer to the darkened windows of a storefront beside me.
With one heavy exhale, I drop my hands to my knees, sucking in air through my nose as I take my swinging gold chain into my mouth.
My head hangs between my arms as the door to the building begins to open, and when I slowly lift it, I freeze, my body still bent, the metal still clenched between my teeth.
"Oh, hi."
I stand up slowly, my eyes dragging up the view in front of me, the jewelry only falling from my lips because of the new curve of my mouth. "Mystery Girl."
Brooke, who looks hot as hell in an off-the-shoulder cropped sweatshirt and leggings, her hair slicked with sweat and tucked behind her ears, rolls her eyes. "What was all the fuss about learning my name if you aren't even going to use it?"
A chuckle escapes me as I bring my hands to my hips. "Hello, Brooke."
"Twelve."
I still, cocking one brow, then shake my head. "What are you doing here?" Realizing I don't even know where here is, I step back, glancing up at the building.
Before I can finish reading the sign, she says, "I just did a workout class."
I finish scanning the name—Beats & Barbells—then look her up and down. "Please tell me it was old lady Zumba."
She smothers a smile. "Something like that."
I wipe my brow with the side of my hand, struggling to hide the stupid grin on my face as her eyes home in on the ink on my exposed skin.
"I saw the posts from the game. And the stories.
" My cheeks grow warm thinking about Brooke taking a series of photos of me, and I thank God my face was probably already pink from my run. "They were good."
Brooke adjusts the strap of her puffy black bag that hangs off her shoulder. "I have to ask Levi for a real camera, but they turned out better than I thought."
"You had a handsome target."
Now her cheeks glow. "Yeah… Brett is easy to look at."
Tilting my chin down, I roll my tongue over my teeth. "Don't play with me, Brooke."
At the same time, a man in short spandex shorts and a tight black tank top reaches for the door. Brooke smiles at him, and he smiles back devilishly before throwing me a wink. I nod, flattered, and Brooke steps aside, forced to move a foot closer to me.
"Drew, it's not happening. I told you I—"
Before my brain catches up with my body, my hand is in her hair, and my mouth is on hers.
Maybe it's the runner's high lowering my inhibitions or the word believe written underneath her collarbone egging me on.
Or maybe it's just the idea that I finally fucking feel something—but suddenly I can't hold back.
Brooke inhales quickly, her body tensing as her lips remain still, but just when I think I should retreat, she melts into me for the briefest of moments, resting one hand on my ribs.
Her lips part slightly, but although I'm dying to sweep my tongue across hers, I don't. Instead, I pull back before she can.
Her expression drips with surprise, but I felt it. It was there—her acceptance. Her contentment.
Our eyes lock, both sets searching the other for a reaction.
Realizing my hand is still threaded in her hair, I pull it back, holding our stare. "You're..." I start. Brooke looks at me with wide eyes, waiting anxiously for what might come next. "Really sweaty."
My arm falls the rest of the way to my side as Brooke shoves her hand into my chest. "Ass," she snaps.
"For the kiss or the comment?"
She crosses her arms as her bag falls to the crease in her elbow. "Both."
"You sure you're mad about the kiss? Or are you just mad that you liked it?"
Brooke parts her lips, ready to speak—or argue maybe—but nothing comes out. I step just an inch closer and add, "That you like me."
She swallows, and my whole body reacts to the movement of her throat. "It's not happening," she says.
"That's not a denial."
Brooke blows a breath through her lips, then tucks her hair behind her ear.
"I'm not the same girl I was ten months ago, Drew.
I'm not looking for a fling anymore. I want strings.
And roots." She grinds the toe of her shoe into the pavement and avoids my gaze.
"I'm trying to finally plan for a future. "
"Okay," I say skeptically, realizing that should scare me more than it does. But instead, I'm just happy that she finally gave me something back. "And what's that have to do with me?"
Brooke looks at me blankly. When she chews on her cheek, reality hits me. "Is this seriously because of my age? What year are we living in again?"
"It has nothing to do with me being embarrassed that you're younger than me—by a lot FYI." This time it's my expression that's unwavering. "But I know how I was living less than a year ago, let alone six..."
I can't help the way a smirk tugs at the corners of my lips. Fuck, I love that she's older.
"I'm serious," she says. "And I wasn't a goddamn hockey sensation."
"And how do you know that's not exactly what I want too?"
"Oh, come on, Drew. I'm not an idiot. I watch the games. I see the pictures."
On cue, her words from our first night together rattle in my mind. Suddenly, my hand reaches for her chin, placing it between my fingers, the reality that none of that shit is real sitting at the forefront of my mind. "And what happened to admitting you don't know me at all?"
Brooke gasps, her eyes darting to my mouth. I know she won't just believe me if I tell her, especially after my impromptu kiss. And who could blame her? I pay a shit-ton of money to make my life exactly that—believable.
This time I don't try to hide my grin. When I finally speak, I'm not sure who I'm talking to more—her or myself. "Actions speak louder than words, Mystery Girl."