Chapter 21 Brooke #2
"Why do you do this again?"
He raises his eyebrows as he steps toward the kitchen. "Give the people what they want," he says over his shoulder.
"Would they really care if you stopped?"
"Oh, they'd care," he throws back.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly defensive of him. "Well, what about what you want?"
Drew freezes right as he reaches the island that was covered in smoothie the last time I saw it.
He stands with his back to me for just a second before rounding the counter and leaning his forearms on the granite.
He hangs his head between his arms briefly before looking back at me.
When he does, his eyes hold a mixture of amusement and sadness.
"What?" I ask, walking over to him, leaning on the opposite side of the island, playing with the strings of his sweatshirt that I'm still happily drowning in.
He shakes his head shortly, inhaling deeply. "No one's ever asked me that before."
My eyebrows shoot up. "Ever?"
His lips turn down as he looks off in the distance as if he's trying to recall if he's missed an instance. "Not since my mom died."
His words, and my assumptions about him, hit me unexpectedly.
I know what it's like for people to shove you down a path that you aren't interested in traveling.
I've just been lucky enough to dig my heels in hard enough to avoid the forward momentum.
But I've also had people like Blake and Aunt Ivy always on my side.
It may be infrequent, or behind closed doors, but their voices live rent free inside my mind, reminding me that what I want matters. And that they'll love me either way.
I think of Drew and how thousands of people judge him daily. Thousands of people, me included, assume that what we see is who he is. But we're wrong.
"So, what do you want, Twelve?"
He smiles with his eyes before standing back up.
"I used to love it, ya know? Fuck, I think I still do.
Hockey, I mean. But the rest of it? The rest of it just feels like something completely different.
It's not sport at all. It's a game. And I tried the whole lying low thing after my suspension last year," he says, continuing to circle around the question.
"It was sort of necessary, so I used it to my advantage and cut out all that shit.
No ego or extras on the ice. No parties, extravagant trips… "
He turns his lips in and narrows his eyes.
"It's okay, you can say it. Believe it or not, I have slept with men before you," I tease.
His jaw grows tight as he cracks his neck to one side.
He clears his throat, then nods. "Yeah, no wild one-night-stands.
" He places his palms on the island and leans into them.
"Turns out, I loved it. That was never who I was until I got here.
The fans hated it though. They want me as the guy they painted or not at all I guess, which is my own fault in the first place so… here I am."
"Why would they care?"
Drew scoffs, pushing off the counter. "They care about everything." My face must read my hesitation because he sighs heavily, then continues. "Brooke, I once got hate for cutting my hair."
"Well, why'd you cut it?"
"I didn't!" He rubs his forehead with his first two fingers, then looks at me with sorrow in his eyes. "But that's my point."
My brain slowly catches up to the Drew that I've seen over the last week or so.
The one that's hidden underneath the showman antics and bad boy lifestyle.
I think part of me knew he was there the moment we locked eyes at the gala.
It's why I really felt drawn to hide who I was.
Part of me knew that I would fall for him—despite his reputation, despite his age. And yet… here I am.
Before I realize it, I'm rounding the island, my eyes—and my heart—set on my prize.
Drew turns to me when I reach him. He peers down at me sternly, as if he's waiting for my judgement, but it won't come.
I'm all too familiar with feeling like you have to please everyone else but yourself.
I just never thought I'd be considered the lucky one.
My whole life has been built on top of their disappointment. It's a quiet friend that tags along, but it doesn't steer my way. In Drew's life, he's that friend. Someone else is driving, and he's just along for the ride.
"So, what do you want, Twelve?" I repeat my question, but this time, I expect another answer.
He raises one eyebrow slightly and searches my face. "I thought I just kind of told y—"
His words drop off when I dip the tips of my fingers into the waistband of his pants, shaking my head. His eyes shoot to my hands, then back up to mine as I echo the same words. "What do you want?"
Drew's gaze grows heavy, his lips just barely parting, and I tilt my head as if to say, well?
After a quick pause, and a deep breath, he finally answers. "A banana," he says seriously.
I pull my head back, trying to gauge if that's some sort of weird kink or double entendre that I'm missing. He must read my confusion because he chuckles softly as his hand sinks past my cheek and into my hair. "To eat," he clarifies.
I can't help but smirk as my brows knit together tightly. "Okay, not what I—"
"So I don't cramp like a motherfucker when I finally get to you."