Chapter 15 Brooke
Brooke
"Alright, so the guys are good with that?"
Levi looks at Drew, who must agree because he stands to leave, but I don't hear his response. Instead, for what must be the tenth time since this meeting began, I have to stop myself from nodding out and all but falling asleep.
Drew's mornings are boring as hell. And holy shit, I'm tired.
Not only did I wake up way before an already ridiculously early wake-up call, but I've spent most of the morning masking my true thoughts and feelings about this man.
I swear everything he does is sorcery—casual gestures and routine behaviors, somehow received by my brain as meticulous foreplay.
It was hard enough having to sit on the back of his bike—his fucking Ducati, with its sex appeal and steady vibration—without trailing my fingers toward his crotch.
But then to see him throw heavy weight around, sweaty and shirtless with his tattoos on display, talking to me about how that night—our night—meant something, had me ready to fucking lose it.
Luckily, breakfast was a nice reprieve. I ate fruit, he packed in like three thousand calories, and we both chatted with some of the other guys in the lounge.
Film afterward wasn't bad either. It was actually interesting hearing them analyze what looks like regular hockey to me in almost a foreign language.
But then came practice.
It's bad enough that I already feel like I'm walking into some sort of erotic club every time I see the team on the ice.
These men make flying across frozen water look easy with stick handling that gets me wondering what else they can do with their hands.
And the hitting? Who knew that was such a turn-on?
Not to mention the goddamn stretching. But add Drew to it all after the foreplay—I mean morning—that we had, and this dry spell is feeling more like a drought.
Needless to say, this meeting? The perfect reset.
"You ready there, Sleeping Beauty?" Drew whispers to me as Monte clicks away on his computer.
"I was not sleeping," I hiss, glaring at him, though it's more directed at myself. I didn't realize anyone would notice, but this is definitely not the kind of impression I'm trying to make on my interim boss.
I stand, attempting to look more awake than ever, and Drew gestures to the door.
"Hey, Brooke," Levi says before either of us takes a step. "Can I talk to you for a second?"
"Oh..." I look at Drew who shrugs his shoulders. "Yeah, sure."
He throws his thumb behind him. "I'll just wait outside."
I nod and turn back to Levi. "What's up, McHottie?" I say out of habit. Levi turns his head slowly, and I force a smile. "Sorry, I'm trying not to do that at work." I put air quotes around the last word, and Levi laughs.
"It's all good," he says. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. Make sure the guys aren't giving you a hard time."
I catch myself before I look back toward where I know Drew is waiting on the other side of the door. "It's actually going great," I say, thinking of all the content I've made in the last few days. "I'm realizing I really like doing this stuff."
"Well, you're good at it too." Levi sits forward in his chair and clasps his hands under his chin, his elbows resting on his desk. "Jack just called and said his daughter was busting out laughing at the stick-name video you posted this morning."
"Wait," I interrupt. "Did you actually figure out how to watch it?"
Levi blinks at me blankly. "Yes, Brooke. I figured it out." He inhales deeply, and on the exhale he adds, "Eventually."
I smother a smile, raising my brows. "So what did you think?"
"I think Burns is an idiot," he says quickly. I may have decided to leave some of that in. "But I also think it was funny as hell and just the kind of thing we need to keep the fans engaged and in good spirits this season."
Pride rises in my chest, a feeling I'm not too familiar with. "Well, good. I'm glad you all liked it."
He sits back in his seat, moving his elbows to the arms of his chair. "We did, so keep it up."
"I will," I say, turning toward the door.
"Oh, and Brooke," Levi calls after just a few steps. "You're smart to play Anderson up. He's the money-maker around here. The fans and front office will eat that up."
I tip my chin down, not really sure how else to respond other than with that or the truth, and Levi doesn't want to hear that I'm spending time with my old hook up so the anomaly wears off.
"I'll see you at the game tomorrow."
"See ya then," I say, his comment marinating in my mind.
As I push the door open, I can't shake a nagging feeling attached to it.
When I step into the hall, I spot Drew standing at the end, looking at framed pictures.
His face is serious, his hands are in his pockets, and one piece of hair is flopped down on his forehead.
That's when it hits me—why Levi's comment feels so off.
From here, Drew doesn't look like a money-maker or the guy you see all over the internet.
He's the player who likes to shoot around by himself.
The athlete who works out at sunrise and listens to music that hits you like a punch in the gut.
He looks like the guy whose morning practically put me to sleep.
And whose mom died when he was too young to drive a car.
Drew glances over at me and smiles, his face brightening in a soft way, where his eyes relax and the corners of his lips get lost in deep dimples. As always, who he is with me isn't who everyone else seems to know. The change makes me think of what Aunt Ivy said. Why can't he be both?
As he saunters over to me, I replay her question in my mind.
I come off strong, independent, and confident.
But sometimes just a hint of emotion can suffocate me.
And I feel like I'm standing still when the rest of my world is forging on without me.
I want to settle down and find something serious, but at the same time, that means opening up…
and I can't stop drooling over the twenty-five-year-old who banged me in the bathroom.
Maybe Drew can be both of those people too—the playmaker from the internet and my guy from the gala.
"You ready for a little downtime?" Drew asks, stepping up to me and tearing me from my mental detour.
"As long as there's sustenance involved."
His head falls forward as he lets out a chuckle. "Sure." I breathe a sigh of relief, and he grins.
"I know, it's a lot. But I only have one more thing a little later today."
"Okay, so what now?"
"Well," he says, sticking his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. "We could hang here or head back to my place. For a tour," he adds quickly. "Maybe chill a little."
Biting the inside of my cheek, I consider my response. "Well, what would you normally do?"
"Probably head home."
"Alright," I nod. "Home it is."
I wouldn't say I'm surprised by how lavish Drew's penthouse apartment is—my best friend's married to his coach, and I know where they live. But I am shocked at how different it is from what I pictured.
Call it stereotypical, but I assumed Drew's place would be riddled with beer cans. Maybe have some controllers sitting out on the couch, a woman or two still in his bed. But the apartment I stepped into is nothing like that.
Not only is his place spotless, but it's also practically bare.
There's no elaborate art on display that costs more than my car, no wall-to-wall bar stocked with any liquor you could possibly want.
There is a small cart staged in the corner, with crystal glasses and a few top-shelf bottles, but that's about it.
There's a gaming system tucked under the TV, the same one Cooper has, but the furniture barely looks lived in.
There are no pictures on the shelves or walls, and the fridge has not one magnet stuck to it.
"Did you just move in here?" I ask, peeking through the first door I see. It must be a spare room because there's a bed in the center with an end table next to it, but there's just a fitted sheet, one single pillow, and a blanket folded and laid at the bottom.
"No, since I got drafted." He walks into the spotless kitchen, drops his keys on the vacant counter, and leans his forearms on the empty island. "So, like six years?"
I join him and lean my hip against the marble surface. "Where's all your stuff?"
He shrugs, glancing around. "What do you mean?"
"Like art?"
"Don't have any."
"Decorations?"
"Don't need any."
"Pictures?"
"Of what?"
I laugh almost awkwardly. "I don't know. Friends? Family?"
Drew leans down and pulls a blender from the cabinet underneath him. "There's a picture of my mom in my dresser drawer."
I tilt my head side to side, considering his answer. "Don't you want it to feel homey?"
He squints his eyes, slowly setting the machine's lid on the island. "It's where I live. Can't get much more homey than that."
Drew clears his throat, and I realize I've been staring at him longer than could be considered normal. "I'm sorry if my place isn't as Cribs as you thought it'd be."
My body freezes. "Wait, you know what that is?"
He rolls his eyes, turning toward the fridge. "I'm twenty-five, Brooke. Not fifteen."
Just the reminder of his age makes my stomach drop. So, he knows the MTV show I practically grew up on. That doesn't change that he's living in a whole different decade.
"Your place is great," I say, changing the subject back as he dispenses a handful of ice into his hand. "Just different than I thought it'd be."
His brows lift, then fall back down as he drops the cubes into the blender. "The best things usually are."
I hold his gaze, trying to read him, and he holds mine, challenging me.
When I'm determined that I'll fall into him if I don't look away, I switch topics once again.
"So, what are you making?"
He stares at me another second, not even attempting to hide his shit-eating grin."You'll like this," he finally says, ripping open the fridge.
"Why's that?"