Chapter 18 Drew
Drew
Looking at the clock on the wall, the red block letters seem to mock me as I check the laces on my skates for the third time.
I've officially hung around the locker room for as long as I can, waiting for Brooke.
Every five minutes I've peered into the hallway, making up a different excuse each time a teammate asked me what I was looking for.
One time I needed Ward, another I had a question for Coach, and when Burnsey asked, I just told him to fuck off like I usually do.
The bottom line is there's still no sign of her, and that's a problem.
Partially because I have to get out onto the ice like…
now. And partially because I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since our little mishap on her steps.
I went out with Cheyanne last night because I had to. Because that's the deal that Jane and I made. But that never means I have to enjoy it. I thought about Brooke the entire time.
When Cheyanne batted her lashes, Brooke's eyes came to mind. When she flashed her smile, I thought of Brooke's. And when she threw herself at me, way too tipsy after two glasses of wine, all I could think about was my mystery girl.
Usually, my date and I agree that we might as well at least get a night out of it.
Sometimes we're even on the same page, and we blow through dinner just to get to the fun part.
But last night, no one but Brooke would have satisfied that craving.
And there was no way I was sleeping with Cheyanne.
She wasn't happy, but I was thrilled to go home.
Ready to fall asleep and wake up, only to rush to the rink this morning.
For nothing.
"Fuck," I groan, standing from my stall and snatching my helmet from the shelf. I cross through the locker room, running my thumb under my chain. Pushing the door open to the tunnel, I attempt to talk myself off the ledge.
I've made it this long, I can wait until—
I exhale heavily the second I lay eyes on Brooke's chocolate hair, the front hanging in her face as she looks down at her iPad. She's leaning against the wall at the front of the tunnel, the perfect barrier between me and the ice.
"Hey you," I say once I'm next to her. She doesn't answer, so I reach out and brush her elbow.
She startles and lifts her head, her eyes darting to where my fingers still linger on her skin. When she sees it's me, she pulls out a headphone, her eyebrows shooting up before her whole face settles into a blank stare.
"Hey," I say, smiling. "I've been looking for you."
One corner of her lips turns up as she looks down at the screen in her hand. "Well, here I am."
Her tone's a mix of frankness and irritation. It takes me aback, but I brush it off. "I see that." I lean on the wall next to her, my hand now hanging by her leg. I sweep my thumb up the hem of her jeans and watch her swallow. "What's goin' on?"
Brooke clears her throat, her eyes still trained on whatever she's working on. "Not much, just trying to get this set up for after practice."
"Another question video?"
"Mhmm."
I'm thrown by her energy. Even when she was fighting this with everything she had, she was more open than she is now.
Then, after last night, I thought we were getting somewhere.
"Cool," I say hesitantly. I don't want to push her, but I don't want us to waste more time either.
"So, do you still want to talk?" I lean into her, my attempt at grabbing her attention from the screen. "About last night?"
She finally glances up at me, but when she does, I almost wish she hadn't. Her eyes are cold despite her warm cheeks. "No, I'm good. I don't really think there's much to talk about."
I pull back, searching her expression for an explanation. "But, I thought you—"
"Listen, Drew." She turns fully to me, but as she does, she takes a step back, widening the gap between us. "I'm kind of busy here, and you have like a minute to get on the ice before practice."
She swings her iPad back up toward her chest, and before I can stop myself, I grab it from her hands. "Brooke, what's wrong?"
She narrows her eyes at me, her intention to look pissed, but there's a layer hidden underneath of something else. "Nothing," she snaps. "We don't have anything to discuss, and we both have things to do, so it's probably best to just—"
"Wait, are you serious?" I cut off her excuses, shortening the space between us again. My voice is low, my tone dripping with the same frustration that's ripping through me.
"Yes, Drew," she says sharply before she stands up a little straighter. "It's fine." She shrugs, dismissing me like this wasn't supposed to be the moment that everything changed for us.
"Yo, Cap. Coach needs you." In his perfect timing, Burnsey is at the boards yelling over the bench, his thumb thrown behind him where Monte is standing huddled with the boys at center ice.
I pause before answering, finding her again, questioning her with no words at all. She avoids my eye contact, crossing her arms over her chest and biting at her bottom lip. When she doesn't speak—doesn't even look at me—I call back to Brett. "I'm coming," I say dully, my eyes locked on her.
I hold out her iPad, all the excitement I've had since she first blurted out those words last night on her steps, completely depleted.
When she takes it from me, our gazes finally meet.
For just an instant, she looks like she might speak—offer any sort of explanation.
But instead, she puts her earbud back in, tuning me out like I tune out the world.
Like I tune out everyone but her.
"No way, bro. Look at the pictures. It's definitely the one on the right."
"Yeah, but look at the left one. That's a statement right there."
Stepping off of the bench and into the tunnel, Burns and Ward's argument, about whatever the hell they must be looking at, ripples down the hall.
They're standing next to each other in full pads, blocking what I assume is the situation I've been avoiding since Monte blew the final whistle.
This time being last on the ice had nothing to do with wanting to hang back and talk, but still everything to do with Brooke.
I walk slowly, my swagger half because of the wobble from my skates on the rubber and half because I'm trying to get into the mindset that I typically don't have to fight off with her.
The one that says I don't give a fuck about what happened or what you think.
The one only worried about me—that can't get me hurt.
As I get closer, Petrov steps up behind them, placing his hands on their shoulders and pulling them apart. He slips in between them, his voice booming off of the walls of the tunnel as he offers his opinion. "I think the correct way is whichever way the giraffe prefers."
Brett and Carter look around him at each other, their faces riddled with both confusion and amusement. "Uh, yeah, I mean… for sure, Storm. That too."
Burnsey claps him on the back as Ward laughs off the comment, and the three move on, Petrov walking ahead of the other two who seem to hang back to whisper amongst themselves.
When their bodies are out of the way, everything I'm not ready to see comes into focus.
Brooke is standing where she was before, this time with a tripod set up, holding a camera, and her iPad in her hands, facing outward.
She has a smile on her face from her last interaction, and my jaw tightens knowing it'll fall flat when she sees me… just like it did before last night.
As I approach her, I wrestle with my options.
I can stop and talk, either ignoring our current situation and pretending all is fine like I should, or continuing to push her like I'd like to.
Or I could simply walk by. Ignore her and her question and let whatever is or isn't happening between us unfold as it may—keeping my distance.
With my face stern, I decide maybe blowing past her is best for everyone.
I told myself I'd be patient. That her actions will speak louder than her words.
But then I realize that's exactly what's happening.
Whether or not she took it back, she invited me in.
She finally gave me something. Then afterwards, she told me that we'd talk today about what happened. Fuck that.
I'm not going to let her go back to being scared. And I'm damn sure not letting her brush this off because of what? I glance down at her iPad. Two giraffes in goddamn neckties?
With that, I step to her, adrenaline pumping through me.
"Hi," she says awkwardly, once again looking anywhere but at my face. "So, the question is, would a giraffe wear his tie up here like this or down at the base of his—"
"This? This is what you were so busy with before practice that we couldn't talk about last night?
A fucking giraffe in a necktie?" My words come out more harshly than I intend.
But the blood pumping through me—a combination of post-practice flow and our current situation—seems to bubble over when our conversation from earlier boils down to a zoo animal in formal wear.
Brooke's eyes snap to mine, her hand flying to her hip. "Why, yes. No matter how ridiculous Drew Anderson thinks it is, this is my job."
The way she says my name stirs something in me. It's bitterness and anger, hurt and frustration, and years of assumptions all rolled into one. Ripping my helmet off, I tuck it under my arm and rake my hand through my hair in resentment. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Brooke blackens her screen, tucking her device into her bag on the floor, then stands back up, squaring her shoulders. "Exactly what I said."
I scoff, sucking my teeth and glancing behind me to make sure we're still alone. "So, we're back to this now? I'm Drew Anderson, when what? You're scared? When it's not just the two of us?"
I wait for her response, but it comes only in the form of her arms folding across her chest.
Something snaps in me that I would otherwise shove down.
A disappointment I'd typically swallow—like a kid who's been so excited for his party, and when no one shows up, he acts unfazed.
Only I don't act indifferent. Instead, like I usually do with her, I let my true self show through.
For once, it's harder to hide the truth than to just say how I feel.
"So, who did you uninvite inside last night then, Brooke? Or was me being Drew Anderson suddenly okay because you saw me half-naked and covered in girls. Were you jealous, is that it?"
I mean what I'm saying, but not how I'm saying it. It's just that instinct kicks in, and like second nature, my I-don't-give-a-shit attitude takes over.
Her eyes narrow, full of rage, and her lips part in a way that shouldn't be sexy considering the bed I just made, but fuck me.
It definitely is.
"Actually," she counters, inching closer, her neck strained upward to get more in my face than she could otherwise with me in my skates.
Suddenly, my helmet flies out from my arm, and I whip around to see Max standing behind us with it in his hand. He nods at me once, either completely oblivious to the vibe or doing a damn good job at pretending he doesn't notice, then pulls my stick from my other hand.
"I got you, bro," he says, and I tip my chin up at him as he turns and walks away.
The encounter reminds me that we're right between the ice and the locker room and neither of us can afford the attention. But unlike my usual response, I'm not shrugging this off.
"Shooting bay. Five minutes," I grind out.
She rolls her eyes then reaches for the tripod. I grab her wrist as it hovers on top of the camera and lower my voice just above a whisper. "And so help me God, Brooke, you better be there."
Her eyes double in size, the movements of her chest that I definitely notice, picking up speed. She stills otherwise, her hand left resting on top of the camera as I let go of her wrist.
"Five minutes," I growl.
I take two steps away from her before turning back. "And by then you better have found your voice, Mystery Girl."