Chapter 24 Drew
Drew
"You knew this was going to happen when you pulled up to The Pub tonight, didn't you?"
"Oh, I sure hoped it would." I wrap my arms around Brooke, who against my wishes, searches her tan dresser drawer for a pair of pants.
"Well, Twelve, you sure fuck like you're twenty-five. I'll give you that," she says, turning around in my hold with a pair of those sleep shorts girls wear that are just a step above underwear.
My eyebrows shoot up as I suck my teeth, pulling her close. "And what's all this say about you, huh? You started it."
Her mouth drops open in disbelief, as if she took no part in the highway foreplay we admittedly both initiated at about the same time. I roll my eyes playfully, continuing to tease her.
"Brooke, you practically groped me from the back of my bike." Her face scrunches up as she pushes me away. "Just admit it. I'm irresistible, baby."
My hands open wide as I gesture to myself, only in my boxers.
She shakes her head, bending to step into her shorts, and avoids eye contact.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she mumbles sarcastically, peering up at me with a smirk on her face.
"No one said putting down roots had to mean giving up getting laid. "
"Just getting laid by anyone but me." My words shoot out quicker and more stern than I mean for them to, but I'm definitely not sorry about it. I was serious when I said I wanted Brooke. And I didn't mean for only that night.
"You keep doing that thing that you did with your tongue just then, and I don't think we'll have any problems with that."
I huff out a laugh as she smiles coyly, then I throw her a wink. "All part of my charm."
Brooke's eyes look toward the ceiling as she walks through her bedroom door.
I follow her, studying the photos that line the navy blue wall, documenting everything from candids of a damn cute baby, to pictures of her with Coach's girl.
There are also photos of her with a guy that looks like he's probably her brother and even one of her with the blonde from the bar—the one that didn't scare me shitless.
When we reach the living room, I really see it for the first time.
We had to cross through to get to her bedroom, but when we busted through her apartment door like the hallway outside was on fire, my mind—and my eyes—weren't on anything but Brooke.
My jeans may be strewn over the back of her fluffy, cream-colored couch, but I wasn't watching where they landed an hour ago.
With her in front of me, my vision tunneled as it usually does.
I knew Brooke and I were compatible in more ways than one when we first locked eyes at the gala. Something in my bones told me she was different. But since then, I've realized just how alike we really are. Just how much we have in common. Starting with the bedroom.
She and I are both insatiable. I can never seem to be near her enough, on her enough, in her enough. And I know realistically, I can't be sure being that she keeps things close to her chest, but I am—the same way I was sure before—she feels it too.
It's the reason both of us felt the energy shift the second we stepped outside on our own at The Pub.
The reason our hands started wandering the second my tire cleared the lot.
One glance at each other and it's all either of us need.
And it's not even physical. It's just a pull between us, drawing us together.
One I never experienced before she walked into that ballroom.
"So, talk to me about this charm," Brooke says, settling into the corner of the couch.
I reach over her, purposefully leaning down a little more than necessary to grab my pants from just above her head. She kisses my chest gently before I pull away, and I swear it hits my soul.
"What about it?" I ask, ignoring the urge I have to take her here all over again.
"What parts of the Drew Anderson the world knows, would I actually be getting?"
I step into my jeans, Brooke watching my every move, as I contemplate my answer. "Why don't you tell me what you think?"
She rolls her tongue over her top teeth and sinks a little further into the cushion. "Well, I know the goal celebrations aren't you unless you like just throwing cash down the drain."
I laugh, my eyes on my jeans as I zipper them up. "Yeah, no. They used to be, back when I was a kid. But that shit is typically a dick move in the league. Hockey's a we sport, so showboating like that only really flies because I know how to toe the line."
"And because that's what the people want."
"Exactly." Plopping down on the middle of the couch, I pull her calves onto my lap and throw my arm over her legs.
"And the parties, the world traveling, the ladies-man thing. You're saying all of that's for appearances?" Her tone's not accusatory, though she wiggles her eyebrows like she's giving me shit.
"I mean, don't get me wrong—I like a good party or trip as much as the next guy. But I'd much rather kill a case with my friends or lay low in the mountains somewhere than close down the club or rent out an island."
She nods slowly, taking it all in. "And the women?"
I heave a deep sigh and trace a wave she has tattooed on her ankle.
"I like to fuck, I think that's obvious.
" I glance up at her, her expression not giving me any reaction.
"But those women you see me out with, a different celebrity every few days, that's not me.
They're fine, I guess, but I don't like them like that.
Hell, sometimes they don't like me either. "
"But it looks good?"
"It paints a sexy picture. Keeps me relevant off the ice. It's the whole "women want me and men want to be me" thing. It's good for branding and marketing and shit, and all of that brings the Flames more attention. But they're not my type."
"Uh huh," she says, playing with the string of her shorts. "And what is your type then?"
"You."
My answer is quick and definitive and causes that faint blush that every so often creeps up her neck. But this is the first time anyone's ever talked this through with me. The first time anyone's ever really cared. And I'm not wasting it by tip-toeing around my thoughts.
"So… brunettes. Tattoos, nose rings, hilarious…"
"No," I say sternly. "Just you."
She smirks deliberately. "You think you're smooth."
"Well, yeah," I quip. "But I'm also serious, Brooke." I drag my hand up her leg, stopping just above her knee and brushing circles on the bottom of her thigh with my thumb.
She shuffles in her spot, wedging her hands between her legs.
"Okay, so the angsty music is definitely yours.
And so is the bike. I would have assumed you owned like a dozen different Lambos instead.
" I go along with her topic change, allowing my eyes to grow wide, impressed and agreeing that she's right about the ride.
"And the style…" She continues, sitting forward and looking me up and down. "The clothes and tattoos are you—badass but not flashy about it. But I'm gonna say the signature hair and gold chain are for the look."
Out of habit, I run my hand through my overgrown locks. "You got the hair right. That's one of the first things I changed. I was told to grow the flow."
She giggles, and I clear my throat before continuing.
"But the chain, no, that's uh, that's me actually.
" She pulls her head back in surprise as I pick up the necklace and brush my thumb along the metal before dropping it again.
"My mom gave it to me when I started high school.
It was the last thing I got from her before she died. "
She doesn't respond, not verbally at least. Instead, she reaches out and places her hand over mine that's resting on her knee.
My eyes land on her touch, and I realize Brooke might know more about me after this short time than any other living person.
It's surprising in a way, but also not at all.
What does shock me, though, is how good it feels to be known. Seen. Listened to.
"She had pancreatic cancer," I continue unexpectedly, spinning the thin gold band on her middle finger.
"Late-stage. We didn't find out until she only had about six months left.
It all happened really fast, which is good and bad, I guess.
She was my… my rock, really. My dad was always a lot, constantly pushing me.
But my mom, she was—she was just different.
" I finally meet her eyes. "She kept me grounded. "
Once again, Brooke stays quiet until she sits up and runs her hand past my cheek.
I lean into her touch, my eyes closing softly when she pulls me to her and kisses me firmly.
I sink into her lips. The wave of guilt that typically crashes in my chest when I think about how different I was when Mom was alive, only ripples by.
When we separate, I leave my forehead pressed to hers. "You're a good listener," I whisper.
She smirks and pulls back. "In case you were wondering, I like the chain."
Her avoidance once again hits me like whiplash. And this time, I'm not breezing past it. "You know, for what it's worth, I don't usually do this either."
"Do what?"
"Open up. Talk about feelings and shit."
She blushes before offering a shy smile. "Am I that obvious?"
I pick up her hand and lace my fingers through hers. "Only to someone who does the same thing."
"Oh, so you also avoid most emotions by shoving them down or blowing past them with humor?"
I shrug once and nod. "I usually lean more broody than funny but yeah, same idea."
She gives me a knowing look, and I cock a brow. "Angsty shit," we say simultaneously.
She snorts, and I huff out a quick laugh before I grow more solemn, pulling her hand back into my lap.
"You've been pretty open with me," she says, brushing her thumb across mine.
"Exactly," I say simply. "Because I'm trying here. But I'm not usually like this."
She nods without looking at me. "I'm just not big on… feelings."