Chapter 20 Drew
Drew
"Have I mentioned this is my favorite room?"
Brooke looks up from where she's buttoning her pants and shrugs. "Only ever with me in it, which is interesting."
She paints a sly grin as I stride over to her, pushing her hair back and away from her perfectly flushed face. "You must have that effect on me."
She smothers a full smile, leaning slightly into my palm. "I never told anyone that before, ya know?" She stands up straighter as she inhales slowly. "That I let my P.R. manager set those things up."
"That's really not you?"
I shake my head almost shamefully. "I mean, I guess it used to be. Sort of. Or who I became. But after everything went down last season… I just—I couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't fake it. At least not on my own."
She drops her head, pretending to still be playing with the waistband of her pants, and my hand falls with it. "Drew," she says, her voice cautious. "How would we even do this?"
I blow a breath through my lips and trail my fingers down the outside of her arms. "Talk to me," is all I say.
Brooke turns and moves to her stuff, crouching down and searching through her bag.
I try my best not to stare at her as she does it but, fuck, this girl is beautiful.
When I met her here, I had no intention of things ending up like they did.
But that's what happens with me and her.
Things escalate unintentionally, or at least for me they do.
Every look burrows through me, every touch like a branding.
Every conversation ends with me all but baring my soul.
After a few seconds of digging, she pulls out a claw clip, and like muscle memory, she twists her collarbone-length hair back into it. Her clip sits in her mouth as her hands work their magic, and all I can think of is how her lips tasted on mine.
"You just told me that part of this life of yours revolves around planned outings with models and celebrities." She pulls a few pieces of hair loose so that they frame her face. "Of which I am not, if you weren't aware."
"You could be."
"Oh, but I couldn't."
I chuckle softly. If only she realized how much of a bonus that is. My face grows serious again as I step closer to her, brushing my hands up and down her arms. "Yeah, but that's the point. I don't want that anymore."
"So, what? You're just gonna completely flip the script? Change your whole life around?"
"Isn't that what you're doing?" I ask quickly.
She nibbles her lip, considering my answer. "But I'll still be working for the Flames," she says rather than responding to my question. "I told you I think I might want to do this for real. I can't mess up the only chance I have at proving that I'm capable. I need this."
I drop my hands, and she slings her bag over her shoulder. I know what she's dancing around—she can't mess up the only chance she has because of me. Because she knows if we go all in—if we make this official—that pull we have toward each other is capable of dragging us away from everything else.
But maybe that's the point.
Grabbing hold of the strap of her bag, I yank her back to me and brush her chin with the pad of my thumb. "We'll figure it out, I promise."
She cocks a brow in her usual way. "How?"
I bring my hand to the back of my neck and massage the tension building there.
As much as it kills me to say this, I think it might be the only way.
"What if we..." I groan, dreading the rest of my sentence.
"What if we don't make any big decisions about us—good or bad—until you're done with the Flames gig?
That will give you some peace about the job situation, and it'll give me time to sort all this shit out with… everyone."
I planned to say Jane, but the truth of the matter is, I'll have a lot more people than my all-business P.R.
manager to answer to if Drew Anderson plans on changing his tune.
I'm not so worried about my coach and teammates.
Monte would probably be happy to see me out of the gossip, and the boys would understand eventually, I know that.
But my dad will damn sure have something to say when his limelight player simply fades into the game.
"And what?" she asks. "Bang in secret?"
"Sure, sounds good to me," I quickly answer jokingly. Brooke slaps my arm, and we both smile. "I'm kidding. Well, I mean, we can definitely do that. But I also want to just be with you. Hangout. Eat food."
"Wow," she says bluntly. "You really were telling the truth, weren't you?
" She scrunches her face and sticks out her chest. "I don't know, Brooke.
We could like hangout and eat food," she says, mocking me in a voice two octaves lower than her own.
I snatch her up, her body collapsing in on me as I pull her close.
"You really don't find your own dates." She laughs, throwing her arms around my neck.
"Hey, I'd do just fine on my own." I dip my hand up and past her cheek, pulling her lips mere inches from mine. "But yes, I was telling the truth. And now, it doesn't matter." Pressing my mouth to hers, I inhale deeply, the obstacles bound to come somehow lighter already knowing she's in my arms.
"Okay, so a few weeks, huh? We'll just give it a shot and see how it goes?"
"A few weeks," I echo, wanting the time to speed by and drag on simultaneously. "But I'll warn ya, baby… I score on most of the shots I take."
There's no hiding the smile that spreads on her face, or mine that forms in reaction.
I kiss her again, hard at first but then softly, shoving down all the uncertainties that creep to the surface. My dad's latest idea, Jane's calendar, my teammates' questions—all of it just hurdles.
And I'd climb mountains if it meant getting to hold her like this.
"Okay, Twelve. I'll give it to ya. I didn't know you could be so persuasive."
Bringing her mouth to mine once more, I run my tongue past the seam of her lips. When she opens, I dip back in one last time, sucking her bottom lip as I pull away.
"I told you, Brooke," I say, running the tip of my nose up from the line of her jaw to the base of her ear. "There's a lot that you don't know about me."
"Offsides!" Monte yells, and almost immediately, the ref blows his whistle.
The Hurricanes' forward throws one hand in the air and shakes his head before skating over to his bench with the rest of his team. There are three and a half minutes left in the third period, and this will be the last TV timeout.
The boys and I head to our bench to wait out the break, when the jumbotron starts with the Look-Alike-Cam.
"Oh, bullshit!" Burnsey calls over the noise. "That dude looks nothing like Michael B. Jordan. He's a three at most. MBJ is an easy eight."
"If Jordan's an eight, name a ten," Ward says, tapping his stick to the beat of the song.
Brett peers over at him, one brow raised.
"You?" Carter laughs. "Yeah, fat chance."
"Dude, look at me! I..."
Burns's voice drifts off as I lock eyes with a ten of my own.
Brooke is sitting with Coach's girl and Cooper in their usual box in the stands.
The three of them seem to be in some sort of heated debate, possibly similar to the boys' considering their pointing at the Look-Alike-Cam.
Even from here, Brooke's smile lights up the room—and my goddamn senses, even when it's not directed at me.
After we left the bay earlier, my head was fucking spinning even more than it normally is.
I get to be with Brooke. Maybe not openly or with titles involved, but I get to spend real time with her after all these months of craving her.
She may not have shoved me down on one knee, but my mystery girl, who is stubborn and sarcastic and full of excuses, finally let me in just a little.
The conditions are honestly what's best for us—we both need time to figure things out.
She needs to see that I'm serious about changing my ways while keeping things professional.
And I… well, I don't exactly have a plan to do this without having Jane and my dad and the rest of the world on my fucking back.
The ref's second whistle interrupts my thoughts, signaling the end of the TV timeout. I glance up at the jumbotron as the Dance Cam fades out and look back at Brooke. Alex and Cooper are now sitting back down, but she's still standing… her eyes on me.
My instinct is to burn a hole into her—not moving back to my spot on the ice until she knows exactly what I'm trying to say with just one look.
But my line's already moving into position, and the last thing I need is to draw attention to myself and my lingering gaze up to the box in the sky.
Instead, I wink quickly, hoping that alone will tell her everything she needs to know.
Brooke smiles softly as I push off the bench, my mind habitually resetting back to the game.
Peering up at the scoreboard, I'm given the unnecessary reminder that there's still a little more than three minutes left and we're only up by one.
Like clockwork, a wave of adrenaline-laced anxiety washes over me.
My body's amped just the right amount, but my mind kicks into overdrive.
Luckily, I now have someone worth performing for.
It never used to be like this. Hockey used to be the easy part. I never made it a point to stick handle more than I had to. Never went out of my way to make a goal into an epic celebration. But once upon a time, I still had fun.
I'd make the occasional trick-shot or do some sort of inside joke of a celly with my teammates. But that was my natural enjoyment shining through. The general happiness I felt in my escape during a time that would be hard on anyone, let alone a young teenager. And I think people recognized that.
I was a personality on the ice, but that wasn't who I was, just how. Now, it's all different. Those things are what's expected, but all over the top. Now the "fun" is more-muscle memory than innate behavior. All of my natural joy for making the game my own, lost among the rest of it.
To be this close in score doesn't typically help with the heaviness.
But then again, I don't usually have her watching me.
Not like this, at least. I take note of the way that even the thought of Brooke calms that uneasiness.
It doesn't matter if I have to lie to Jane or hide from my dad or sneak her into the back of my car like I'm seventeen again.
In four minutes, I get to have her. And that's all the motivation I need to end strong.
Bending over my stick, I get into position, the ref hovering between our center and the Hurricanes'.
The whistle starts the clock again as the puck is dropped between them, hitting the ice with a smack.
Their sticks tangle together as they both push for possession, and I glide forward toward our opponent's net.
The puck sails backward toward our zone and Burns steps up, cracking it up the boards.
Petrov is there to receive it, two of the Hurricanes' defenders heading toward him.
He skates behind the net as the rest of my line and I get into position to shift the puck around.
Alexei deeks right but sails left, and instead of dumping it into the net himself, he kicks it out to Burns as one of the defenders rams into him.
Burns pulls his stick back and fakes a shot, following through past the puck and tapping it to me behind him.
I inch toward the blue line, unnecessarily close.
My skates cross over into the neutral zone, the puck nearly touching it.
It hovers so close that if the incoming Hurricane skated any quicker, the breeze he'd cause would push it out, forcing my team to recover.
I play with the puck for an extra beat before passing it to Petrov by the boards and sprinting past my defenseman.
In one fluid motion, Alexei sends it to me—a tape to tape pass under two players' sticks—and I rip my shot.
As smooth as butter, the puck sinks into the corner of the net, and the horn blasts through the arena.
Like Pavlov's law, I fall into a rhythm after the sound, cruising toward the boards and skating past the bench.
All the while, I sweep my stick past me on either side of my body, "rowing" myself past my coaches and teammates.
When I clear the blue line, I throw my hand to my helmet, my pointer finger running along the top of my shield as if I'm searching the stands for a safe landing from the ice's rough waters.
And maybe I am.
I spot her once more, but just as I do, I also find a rip current from the corner of my eye. My dad tips his chin up at me from his usual seat at center ice—pride and annoyance both present on his face—and it's no surprise that a weight settles in my chest again.
It hasn't always been like this. I used to look up to my dad—aim to please him. But that came from wanting him to be proud of me for succeeding in something that I know he loves. But after Mom died, I realized it was never about me. And if anything, losing her just made it worse.
I could be drafted into the NHL, win Rookie of the Year, make captain for our hometown team, and I'd still never be enough to fill the holes left in his heart from his first two loves.
I tolerated it for years—busted my ass to get here so Dad could finally see Anderson on the back of an NHL jersey—but lately I've realized he brings with him some of the loudest noise that I'm trying to avoid.
"Nice," Petrov says as I step through the boards. He tips his chin down at me, his hands wrapped around his stick that sits between his legs.
"It'll do," I pant, squeezing water into my mouth. I hand my stick to Max, knowing at this point I won't be going back in, and slip my helmet off before running a hand through my sweat-locked hair.
"Good shit, Drew," Monte says, tapping the pad at my shoulder.
I wipe the dew off my brow with the sleeve of my jersey, then nod back at him. "Thanks, Coach."
With my body turned away from the ice, I glance up and immediately lock eyes with Brooke. She arches one brow at me seductively, and my jaw tenses, my racing heart settling into a slow pounding rhythm.
I don't normally celebrate a win like I used to. Game nights off are one of the exceptions with my deal with Jane. But something tells me that I won't be soaking in my ice bath at home, listening to music, and decompressing from the last two hours like I'm used to.
Well… at least not alone, I hope.