Chapter 19 Brooke
Brooke
Being that I can't cut through the locker room of naked hockey players after practice, I have to go the long way to the shooting bay. By the time I get there, I have maybe another minute until Drew arrives, and my heart is hammering inside my chest.
I'm not quite sure if it's due to adrenaline and how I'd like to rip into him for the way he put this all on me or the fact that I now have to wait here like a sitting duck because I don't have access until he arrives with his finger.
Our discussion in the tunnel was only somewhat expected considering I knew Drew would plan to talk about last night. I didn't, however, think he'd be so aggressive about getting answers from me, which proved to be hotter—and more annoying—than I thought.
Standing here, I'm not really sure what to say.
He wants answers to why I've been so hot and cold, but honestly, none of them are justified.
I guess if I admitted it, then yes. I was turned on all fucking day because of the parts of him that he exposed to me—physically and otherwise.
And some of me did turn a shade or two of green when I saw beautiful models draped over him.
But what really got me was how all day he was one way with me—and so openly interested—and then the second I gave him anything back, he hit the road to pick up the next girl.
The problem is, none of that should matter.
But apparently it did.
After another minute and a half that feels like an eternity, footsteps finally thump against the floor. I slowly drag my head toward the sound, and goddamn. Drew knows how to come prepared for an argument. At least one against me.
He approaches me, his hair damp and slicked back, his gold chain sitting outside of a skin-tight, grey long-sleeve shirt that shows every curve and indent of his muscles.
I can't even hide the way my eyes glaze over him, attempting to take in every inch from head to toe.
When they get to the pants painted on over his impressive bulge and massive tree-trunk thighs, I literally freeze.
"Are you wearing leggings?" I ask, any edginess I was previously feeling completely absent from my tone.
"I didn't change out of my gitch yet," he says, reaching for the sensor by the door.
The smell that wafts toward me is a messy combination of his cologne and residual sweat, and I never knew that was erotic until right this second.
Drew pushes open the door, the boulders on his arm straining through the thin material as he holds it open for me. I crease my brows, swallowing my lust and forcing my attitude to take the wheel again. "What's a git—"
"Move, Brooke."
I don't even bother disobeying, not that I could considering my thirsty ass started walking into the bay the second those two words rolled off his tongue.
I take the few seconds he needs to enter the space and shut the door behind him to drop my things and rechannel how I felt last night when I insisted I was fine with Al.
"So..." he starts, his frustration dulled slightly from time. "Start talking."
"What do you want me to say, Drew?"
"I want fucking answers, Brooke. An explanation," he says, his irritation building once again. "I didn't expect you to come hunt me down this morning and confess your damn love, but I at least thought we'd have a conversation."
"We're having a conversation right now," I quip.
He rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. "A real conversation. About last night. I mean, am I fucking crazy or did you at least for a second think that you might want this?"
He gestures back and forth between the two of us, and my teeth clench despite the way my eyes dart to the floor. I watch as he rests his hands on his hips, my brain now torn between sharing his intensity and staring at his crotch through his second skin.
He pauses briefly, waiting for me to fill the silence, and when I don't, his arms fly in the air. "Okay, since you're not denying that, then what's the excuse this time?"
My head shoots up, my armor now in place. "There's a lot of reasons."
He raises his brows expectantly. "Like what? The fame? The image? Because I play professional hockey? Or is it because I'm on your friend's husband's roster? Because you do realize how you got this job, right?"
My lips drop open, wanting to argue, and my hand twitches at my side, desperate to wag a finger in his face. But he's not wrong. I know I only got this gig because Levi's married to Alex, and with how much it's changing my plans for the future, I'm actually so grateful that's the case.
He stops briefly before his eyes close slowly and scoffs. "You still don't think we could be on the same page because of my age."
I cross my arms over my chest, leaning into my last excuse. "You're twenty-five, Drew."
"And you're thirty-one, Brooke!" he yells. "And you don't seem to have it all figured out."
"Yeah, that's the point! Imagine how little I had figured out six years ago."
"Okay," he mocks in agreement. "So, is that it then? You're older than me, so I couldn't possibly want the same things as you?"
"You don't want the same things as me! It's clear as day. The parties..."
"Uh huh," he nods, sarcastically agreeing.
"The attitude."
"Yep."
"The..."
He narrows his eyes, waiting for me to continue. When I don't, he crosses his arms over his chest. "Go ahead. Say it."
"Listen, I'm not judging your test from last year, but..."
His arms fly to the top of his head, and he brushes his hands down his face. "I don't fucking do drugs, Brooke," he says matter-of-factly.
My head snaps back, and I hold my hands up in surrender. "Okay, well, you can't deny the women."
A bitter laugh sneaks from his throat. "The women, huh? It's funny you're pretending to care because it sure seems like I'm the one who wants you and you're—"
"You want me?" I repeat, unconvinced.
His expression melts into one of frustrated confusion. "What?"
I actually smile as I shove my hands into my pockets.
"How was your date last night, Drew? Was that planned before or after you offered to stay at my place?
What? I didn't invite you in, so you had to go find someone who would?
" I stop mid-ramble, before starting a new one.
"Ya know what? No, you are free to do whatever you want.
And you should, really. But that's my point.
That's what you want. And that's fine! That's what I wanted way past twenty-five.
But if you're still there. If that's what you're looking for—then this.
.." I say, repeating his gesture from earlier. "Isn't going anywhere."
Drew turns around, rubbing the back of his neck before he whips back to me. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, don't I? You do realize that pictures of you and the blonde actress you were with last night are all over the internet."
"Yeah, I do," he snaps back.
I let out a dismissive laugh. "Oh my God, and I'm the crazy one?"
"Yeah," he nods, his whole body on edge. "You are."
"And how's that?" I throw back.
Drew's lips purse as if he's fighting to keep his next thought in.
"That's what I—"
"It's fake!" he shouts, cutting me off and stepping closer.
"What?" I ask, otherwise stunned.
"Fake," he repeats just inches from my face. "Not real."
My mind attempts to interpret what he's saying, but that same erotic smell from before keeps distracting it. "I, I don't—what?" I stammer out.
Drew leans in, his arms wide. "It was a goddamn set-up, Brooke. A stunt. A chance for paparazzi to catch me out doing the shit my fans expect me to be doing. All. Fucking. Pretend. Just like the rest of it."
I search his face for any indication that he's lying, but his expression is strong, his eye contact steadfast. "But why? I don't understand."
He turns around, pacing a few strides before returning to his spot in front of me. "Because that's what people want from me," he spews out. "Because that's who they think I am. That's the guy I fucking snorted drugs to maintain."
I remain speechless, both waiting for him to continue and not knowing what to say. He blows out a breath, tempering his volume. "But none of that's real."
"Okay," I say unsurely. "So, what's real then?"
He blows out a breath as if he's considering what he does and doesn't want to share.
"What's real?" he says under his breath.
His voice grows louder, his energy rising once again.
"What's real? Me bringing you here, that's what's real.
Talking to you about my mom and music and all the shit that's mine.
That I don't let anyone know. That's what's real. "
My stomach flips as I take in his words. That the guy I thought he might be—the one who he seems to be with me—is really in there. And has been all along.
Drew steps to me so the tip of his sock grazes the toe of my boot. I physically react, my pulse racing and my chest rising to nearly touch his.
"And this," he says, his voice almost a whisper. "This feels pretty fucking real."
His breathing is heavy, and I hyper-focus on whether that's from his passionate rant or his body's response to his proximity to me. I get lost in his inhales and exhales, the sound both calming and intoxicating me all at once.
He somehow locks in on me even more than before, his mouth tight, his nostrils flexing under the strain of his breath.
So many things fly through my mind—my mom's opinions, Ivy's words, Drew's actions throughout the day yesterday.
The way my heart sank when I saw the picture of him with Zombie Girl.
And how I feel now.
A deafening silence settles in, one where not even a shuffling of feet in the hallway can be heard underneath the door. We stay like that, motionless—stuck in a game of chicken where no one speaks but no one pulls away either.