Chapter 21 Brooke
Brooke
Standing at the end of the hallway that leads to both an exit and the locker room door, I have to make it a point to do something for "work.
" The truth is, I've been posting stories on Instagram and Facebook all night, have a reel and TikTok both scheduled to go out of footage I took from the first period, and a list of ideas to dive into next.
But I can't just wait here for Drew without looking busy.
What if his teammates notice? Or worse—what if whatever we're doing doesn't include seeing me after a game?
So, instead of setting myself up for possible failure, I pulled out my phone when I rounded the corner from the equipment office and walked past the locker room to the end of the hall.
I have my camera app up and have been asking the players that don't look completely wrecked to show me their "big win face" before they walk out the door.
Only two guys have left so far, one of which was Hughes—who I have learned to differentiate from Ellis off the ice by his eccentric style—and the other was Carter Ward.
I didn't expect that the goalie would be the first out the door, humming The Macarena may I add, but I've come to the conclusion in my first week here that my research is right. They're totally strange.
I'm looking at Carter's picture, one eye winking and two finger guns aimed at the camera, when a man I don't recognize rounds the corner at the other end of the hall.
At the same time, the door between Drew and me blows open, and my whole body stands on edge as it has each time it could be him walking out.
Once again, it's not. Instead, Petrov's massive body charges into the space and nearly swallows the man behind him, who I barely had time to look over before he blocked him from my view.
I smile at Petrov, whose usual stone-cold expression erases the mystery man from my mind.
One day I will get this guy to smile. I wait for him to approach me, and as he does, I can finally see past him.
Drew must have snuck out right behind him because he's standing with the man looking six kinds of gorgeous in his full game suit, the slate blue color taking me right back to the gala.
He starts talking to the guy, his voice so low I can't hear a thing, but I do notice that he and the man bear a striking resemblance.
"Brooke." The Storm's voice rumbles through me like thunder during a… huh… fitting. It catches me off guard and draws my attention back to him.
"You remembered my name," I say, surprised and impressed.
He continues to stare at me blankly. "You have only one."
My eyes run down the length of him in his jet black… everything, as I attempt to figure out how this poetic version of him fits into his overall picture. I purse my lips when I fail to see it, but am still just as taken aback by him. "That I do, Alexei. That I do."
He moves to exit through the door, and when he does, I spot Drew out of the corner of my eye.
He throws an arm in the air pointed in the opposite direction, a faint whisper of anger trailing through his low voice now bouncing off the walls.
When he starts heading my way, he adjusts his jacket, huffing through his nose. I try to pretend I don't notice.
"Oh, wait," I say, grabbing at Petrov's arm.
It's obviously massive under my very average grasp, but damn—his bicep could eat my hand for a snack.
He steps backward into my space. "Show me your big win smile," I say cheerfully.
As expected, his expression doesn't change, but he looks into the camera as if he's giving it all he's got.
"Uh, thanks." I smile, and he busts through the door just as Drew finally reaches me.
"Mystery Girl," he says, his voice more depleted than I expected after such a win.
"Twelve," I answer with a grin. I'm not exactly sure how to approach this, and it hits me harder now that waiting for him after his game might have been a little presumptuous.
"So, Anderson," I say, pivoting my thoughts. "Show me your big win—"
"Let's get out of here, Brooke," he whispers.
A warmth grows on my face, but it's nothing compared to the one that starts between my legs. God, he really does have an effect on me.
I tip my chin down nonchalantly, waiting for him to direct me on how I should do this.
"You drove here?" he asks, his voice still low. I nod just once, as if somehow the walls suddenly have ears. "Alright, there's probably going to be cameras outside. Can you meet me at my place?"
Suddenly it all feels real—the last six hours and everything that came with them, rushing past my mind. Surprisingly though, it's not anything but excitement that hits me. Almost as if past-Brooke is taking the driver's seat once again.
"Sure," I say confidently.
He smiles that genuine smile that I'm telling myself is reserved just for me, his adorable dimples finally joining the conversation. Drew slings his backpack around to the front of him, unzips it, and reaches inside.
"Here, take this." He pulls out a ball of black fabric from his bag, wafting his usual, welcomed scent toward me. "Put this on before you walk up to the building. Hood up. I'll wait for you in the lobby and tell the doorman to let you in."
That realness hits me again, bringing with it a few nerves this time. Swallowing it down, I mask it in my usual way. Gesturing to my tight black long-sleeve v-neck, I say, "What? You don't like my shirt on me?"
He steps closer so we're just inches apart, and my whole body senses the shift in mood.
Drew makes no attempt to hide the way he can undoubtedly see down my top and into my cleavage from this proximity.
"Oh, I fucking love that shirt on you. And I bet I'll like it even more off of you.
But for at least the next few weeks, I need you to blend in.
" He blows a heavy breath through his lips.
"And, baby, you do not blend in with that on. "
Pulling my bottom lip into my mouth, I let my teeth run over it. "Well, okay then," I say, taking it from him.
"I'll meet you there."
"Should I give you some sort of head start?" I ask, suddenly desperate to avoid waiting outside of his billion dollar building in a black hoodie with my head covered and no one inside to vouch for me.
"Nah," he says, taking one step forward. As he does it, he grazes my hand with his pinky discreetly and winks. "I rode the bike."
Once again, my anticipation suffocates the possible anxiety of reality as I picture Drew on his bike, the jacket he's wearing, stretched across his back as he hovers over the handlebars.
I instantly find myself wishing these next few weeks had already passed so I could be behind him, my hands slipped underneath the fabric, the bike's motor vibrating between my legs.
"You good?" Drew asks right before I completely slip into my fantasy.
I answer, my voice floating out accidentally suggestive. "Oh, I'm good."
The corner of his lip curls upward as he wraps his hand around my wrist. "I'll see you soon," he all but growls.
I inhale deeply. "See you soon."
"So, who were you talking to outside of the locker room?"
Drew presses the up arrow on the wall to signal the elevator, and I mentally curse myself for picking nosiness as my form of small talk.
"Oh, uh, no one," he says as the elevator doors ding open to let us in. Saved by the bell?
We step inside as I brush off his dismissive answer.
"That's not true actually," he adds before I have enough time to feel awkward about it. "I probably shouldn't start this whole living my truth thing out with a lie." I inhale quickly as the doors close in front of us, and Drew swipes a card in front of a sensor. "That was my dad."
Curiosity causes my thoughts to race, but Drew stares straight ahead, clearly uncomfortable.
If anyone knows a complicated relationship with a parent or the deep desire to avoid all feelings, it's me.
So, instead of asking for more information, I coat the topic in humor instead.
"Wow, okay. Came extremely close to meeting your parent on night one. "
He looks at me side-eyed, offering a grateful smile.
"Great game," I say, continuing the topic change.
"Yeah, thanks." He slips his hands into his pockets.
"You had the whole stadium out of their seats straddling the blue line like that at the end there."
He turns toward me and winks casually. "That's the point."
The floor number in front of me continues to rise as I face him. "So, you really do all of that showboating intentionally? How? I can barely keep up with the game as it is."
He laughs, shrugging his shoulders. "Honestly?
It's habit at this point. I used to do that goofy shit all the time for fun in Juniors and stuff.
Now, it's more about appearances. Forced.
It's like singing a song that you hate just because it's stuck in your head.
It's annoying as hell, but you remember the words. "
"Is that where you learned that little celebration you did too?" I ask, chuckling softly, wondering how the chill guy in front of me is the same one that used his stick as an oar an hour ago.
The elevator settles at what I know from the last time is Drew's penthouse floor, and the doors chime open. "That little celebration will cost me a couple grand," he says, using his arm to hold the door open.
"What? As in thousands of dollars?" I ask, still standing in my spot.
"As in three probably, yeah."
I stare at him, my mouth open and his closed nonchalantly. After a few seconds of his arm still slung over the opening, he looks into his apartment, then back at me. "Are you gonna…"
"Oh, shit, yeah, sorry," I stammer, stepping into his place, still wrapping my head around his comment. "So, let me get this straight. You did a dance you didn't even want to do, and it's gonna cost you three thousand dollars?"
Drew steps off and the doors close behind him. "Yeah, it's not considered the most sportsmanlike."