Chapter 26 Drew
Drew
Iwoke up this morning to possibly the sexiest notification I could have received.
The kind that makes me want to start my day off with an actual bang and turns morning wood into something that needs to be handled.
Rolling over, already battling the usual mixture of nerves and adrenaline about today's game, I read the one message that stopped everything cold:
Brooke Larkin has sent you a playlist.
I paused where I was, my face—and my heart—lighting up at the gesture.
I knew this girl was special. Clicking on it, a million other thoughts ran through my mind as it loaded.
Which songs did she pick? Why did she pick them?
What made her think to make this in the first place?
When it finally downloaded, I scanned the list, snickering at the ones that I knew.
The first few were some of the songs that played at the gym the morning that she shadowed me.
Then, there was the Blink 182 song that I almost forgot existed until she cracked that joke at the gala.
A couple were about being yourself and not giving a shit—ones I already know and love.
And then there was one that made me laugh out loud just because of the name—the last one on the list that I had never heard before.
At least not until it became my new favorite song.
The whole list has been playing on repeat my entire ride to the arena, but stopping at a red light, I pull out my phone and tap the last track again.
I roll into the arena's lot as MGK's Cliché plays through my headphones, and let the words rush over me for what feels like the millionth time already this morning.
It's more upbeat than some of the songs I listen to regularly, especially before a game, but it has all the same familiar bottom lines. The sound is uplifting, but the lyrics are raw and deep—a heartfelt confession that he knows he's flawed.
And a quiet plea for her to take a chance on him anyway.
It makes me wonder why she added it. Was it just the title? The one that must remind her of our new inside joke. Or did she hear something in the lyrics that made her think of me? Because it's as if I wrote the words myself—took a play out of Petrov's book and put my thoughts on paper. For her.
I sit on my bike after parking for a little longer than I should, letting the song play until the end.
The chorus lingers in the back of my mind as it rings out for the last time—words about how he and his girl could run away or build a home, even if technically, she's better off without him.
If only she would wait for him—until he has it all together.
I know I should get in there—warm ups start in an hour, and I like to be early enough to not feel rushed. But for a second, that doesn't matter. Because it finally hits me. And as the playlist ends, I repeat the song again.
Technically, Brooke could have chosen it because she thought it was funny. Or because something about the word cliché just reminds her of me now. But the lyrics hit too close to home for it to be so simple. It can't be. Because it's everything I haven't said out loud.
I'm trying to be open and show her I care—in the small gestures and the quiet details that I'm sharing about my life. But despite giving more of myself to her than anyone else, I haven't told her all of it.
The fact that I'm fighting to maintain my confidence with Brooke and that I'm scared the real me isn't good enough—for the world or for her.
I'm scared that she's right—I'm too young to have it all together like she needs.
And I'm terrified that if I don't figure out how to show her I do, that she'll move on without me, and I'll be left more trapped than I am now.
But she sees that. She sees me. And this song is proof. It has to be. This girl, with her curated confidence and strategic silences, made me a goddamn playlist. And she knew exactly what she was doing—this is her way of opening up.
The thought sends a heat both to my chest and further south. I thought Brooke was sexy as my mystery girl, but that was before I got this side of her. The vulnerable side—even if it takes some reading between the lines.
Eventually, I take my headphones out, kill the engine, and swing my leg over my seat, setting my helmet on the cushion like I always do.
It's time to lock in—to gather myself for the game and put on the face I need to wear in an hour.
But right now, the only thing on my mind is showing Brooke how much I loved her gesture.
And how much it fucking turns me on that she's finally comfortable giving me a little more.
Walking toward the locker room, I pull up our text chain. I consider telling her exactly how I'd like to repay her for the playlist, but I decide I'd rather show her after the game instead. I begin typing out my message, a cheesy smile on my face, when a familiar voice catches me off guard.
"Son."
My head flies up, my eyes landing on a set of blue eyes that perfectly mirror my own.
My dad's standing there, his silver hair perfectly gelled away from his face, his beard trimmed and sculpted as always.
He pushes off the wall he's leaning on, his hands tucked into the front pocket of his Flames hoodie, his fresh Nikes brushing against the pebbles on the pavement as he walks toward me.
"Dad, not now," I say, trying to save any residual buzz from my ride over while attempting to finish my text to Brooke.
"Did you hear about Cam Rourke?"
"Nope," I answer bluntly, my fingers hovering over the letters I can't seem to focus on.
"He just called a press conference."
I fumble through a word or two before losing my train of thought. "Okay."
"Drew..."
I sigh, stopping next to him in front of the door and surrendering, shoving my phone back into my pocket—text unsent. I know Dad's dancing around the real reason he brought up Washington's star forward. And rather than waste anymore time with this conversation, I decide to get it over with.
"So, he's retiring."
Dad tucks his lips in and nods. "Looks like it."
"And what does that have to do with me?"
He tilts his head, questioning me. "You know the shoes the Titans will have to fill. They'll need a new goal scorer. A new personality. Someone to lead their team and bring the recognition to their organization that Cam did."
I hike my backpack up on my shoulders and tuck my hands into my suit pants, my jacket suddenly warmer than it was before. "And you think that should be me?"
"Don't you? Scott sure does. He said—"
"What the fuck?" I yell. "Why are you talking to my agent?"
He waves me off as his eyes flutter toward the sky.
"It was just casual, relax." I scoff as if that's the point, but he continues.
"Think of what they'll be willing to give you, son.
How much of an impact you could make there.
They've got a good team, but they need fresh eyes—new skates. You could make huge moves over there."
"In Washington? Dad, why would I want to leave Golden City?"
He exhales, dropping his head briefly before meeting my gaze again. "You've made your mark here. Got your Cup. You don't want to stay stagnant."
"Stagnant? What? It's called foundation. Roots. Loyalty."
"Loyalty? What about that test they never let you forget?"
My eyes grow wide in disbelief. He can't possibly mean the same test I failed trying to avoid his judgement. "Are you serious? These guys are the only ones who have let that go."
He opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it again, keeping his initial response to himself.
"Just keep it in mind like we talked about, okay?
This could be your shot to move on from here.
To start somewhere fresh and still be that big fish.
" He steps forward, placing his hand on my shoulder.
"Think about it, son. Change might be good. "
I suck my teeth, my blood pumping and his words echoing in my mind, but not the way he intended them to. I realize Dad's thoughts aren't relevant anymore—they're just noise. Because if there's anything I need to outrun, it's him.
"Yeah, I agree," I say, Brooke's playlist humming in my chest like a second heartbeat, her face at the forefront of my mind. "I definitely think a change would be good."
Dad looks at me satisfied, assuming that we're on the same page, and I don't bother correcting him before I clap him on the shoulder. "I'll see ya in there, Dad," is all I say before heading through the door.
I barely make it halfway down the hall toward the locker room in search of some sort of distance from him—some sort of relief in general—when my phone pings in my pocket.
I groan, holding my breath as I pull it out, waiting for a follow-up text from Dad.
Instead, Brooke's name flashes across my screen.
I suck in a full breath for what feels like the first time since stepping off of my bike, and swipe it open immediately.
Mystery Girl
Good luck today!
I bite my lip, stifling a smirk as that ache to thank her creeps back in below my belt at full force. Without checking the time or overthinking it, I respond with my natural reaction.
I need her.
Where are you?
I bust through the locker room door, waiting for a response. A handful of guys throw me a, yo or what's up?, but I respectfully brush them off as I stride to my stall. I shrug off my backpack and suit jacket, hanging them up as my phone vibrates again.
Mystery Girl
Just leaving the social media office. Gonna head back toward the tunnel to prep.