Chapter 28 Drew
Drew
"Granger had it comin', huh Stormy?" Brett slaps his arm over Petrov's shoulders as we step into the locker room.
Alexei shrugs Burnsey's hand off instantly, but tips his chin down at him. "Our opponents will respect our goalie."
The team erupts in claps and whistles, celebrating the two minute cross-checking call that Petrov took after the Lightning's forward snowed Ward at the whistle in the beginning of the third period.
"Yeah, thanks, brother!" Carter calls from the opposite side of the room. Petrov grunts and tosses his gloves into his stall as Brett sits on the bench next to me to untie his laces.
"Way to go, bud," Burns says, sliding his first skate off. He gets to work on the other as he scoots closer to me, his voice low. "What was with you out there, Cap? Awfully quiet today."
Anxiety bubbles in my chest despite knowing it was coming.
He's the first to mention it, but he damn sure won't be the last. After my run-in with Brooke, I spent the next two periods doing everything I could to play my game.
I scored once, a backdoor goal, and rather than the throwback dance that Jane suggested earlier this week, I kept my head low, high-fived my team, and skated back to my position on the line.
I avoided eye contact with my dad as the fans shouted their usual low, drawn-out "Drewww." But they all went quiet almost immediately when I gave them nothing in return.
The rest of the time was spent making simple plays, sending safe passes, and taking clean shots. It was hard at first to lose the act, but when I started to struggle—falling back into step or worrying about the repercussions—I held onto Brooke's words. I pictured her face.
Having her close is like hearing my favorite song for the first time all over again.
She envelops my senses, each look like the bass hitting me right in the chest, each touch like lyrics I didn't know I needed to hear—intimate, electric.
Her smile is the chorus I could never get sick of, her laugh the melody I never want to forget.
Being near her doesn't just feel good, it fucking resonates.
Like I've been waiting for her rhythm my whole damn life.
I know there will be fallout from making the changes I started tonight, but having her by my side might be the perfect sound to drown out the noise.
"Just trying something different," I say flatly, grabbing my jersey between my shoulder blades and dragging it off over my head.
"Do I have to worry about you?" he asks, his focus still on his laces.
"Nah, man. I'm good."
Burns slips his other skate off and springs to his feet. "Alright, then." He turns, ripping his own jersey off. "You let me know if that changes, eh?"
As if on cue, Emma Dean walks into the locker room, all legs and tits, her usual cameraman on her six-inch heels. She locks in on me and saunters over, her high ponytail swaying with her hips.
"Drew Anderson?" she questions, her voice dripping with sarcasm. I spin around, nothing but my gitch still on at this point, but she doesn't care. She prefers it that way. "Oh, it is you. I wasn't sure after what I just watched out there."
"We lost 4–2, Emma," I say through a sigh. "We were down by one, pulled Ward with a minute left, and the Lightning scored an empty net goal. Games like those are a dime a dozen. Come on..." I narrow my eyes and tilt my head knowingly.
"Oh, I didn't mean the game," she persists. "I meant you."
My gaze lingers on her as I slide my thumb under my chain and brush it back and forth, my learned arrogance coming to light. "Oh, I knew what you meant."
She smiles sweetly, looking back at the balding cameraman at her service and finally pulling the mic up from her side. "So, Drew, we didn't see much of your usual performance out there today. Any insight?"
I lick my lips, looking right into the camera. I lean down so my mouth nearly touches the microphone and paint a cocky smirk. "None, actually."
Emma squints at me coyly, her free hand landing gently on my bicep. "Oh, come on. There's absolutely no reason for the complete one-eighty? Not even… one line? One little bump?"
Heat burns behind my eyes and rage swirls in my gut as she points the mic back at me.
Emma and I hold our stare, my jaw tight, her expression perfectly relaxed—neither of us wavering.
For a second I contemplate laying it all on the table—spilling the truth or at least giving her and the world a piece of my mind.
But when I part my lips to speak, my hands both balled into fists outside the view of the camera, there's a forearm on my shoulder.
"It was nice of Cap to share the spotlight tonight. He's so generous, aren't ya bud?" Burnsey's eyes burn a hole in the side of my head, but mine are still piercing through Emma. "Humble too, huh, Em?" Brett tosses the reporter when my motives are clear.
Her eyes dance back and forth between the two of us until Burns steps closer to her, boxing me out. "I—"
"I know you saw that top-shelf goal," he adds, cutting her off. "Dirty dangle then popped it up glove-side. Goalie's still lookin' for it, am I right?"
I miss Emma's undoubtedly lackluster response as I turn back to my stall and pretend to be busy searching in my bag.
My teeth are clenched so hard I'm afraid they might crack, my nostrils flaring with each sharp breath.
I grab a hold of a roll of tape in my duffle and squeeze it with everything I have, crushing the tube in the middle so the two separated parts collapse in on each other.
I search my mind for a song, one off of Brooke's playlist or the fucking ABC's at this point, but nothing tunes out the ringing in my ears.
Time moves in slow motion as a list runs through my head of every person, reporter, or profile I'll hear from if this were to continue. Emma's just the start. This was one game.
And already, I can't take the heat.
"Yo!" Burns calls just feet from me as if it wasn't the first time he tried to get my attention. I exhale all of the air in my lungs to the point where my chest burns and my abs are so tight I think they may cave in before twisting back around.
"You have two choices here, bud. Start talking or start drinking. And honestly, I'm good with either."
"Yo, Drew! Where the hell ya been?" Jace Holloway, the Gators' rising rookie, slaps his palm into mine and claps me on the back. The motion sloshes the beer in my hand, causing droplets to splash from the can and run down my wrist.
"Just busy, man," I explain, bringing the metal to my mouth.
I run my tongue up the side to catch the last drip and slurp up the beads that sit along the rim.
With the signing bonus I know Jace got, he can afford to have someone clean up my mess.
But it's not the mess I'm worried about—it's the waste of the alcohol I so desperately need.
Jace laughs as he spins his Golden City baseball hat, then nods. "Yeah, I feel you. Good to see you out though, brother. Caught the last two periods earlier… you seemed a little off, I can't lie."
I slug down another two gulps of the cold, bitter liquid and hold the can out to him as my only response before a group of his teammates pull him back toward the kitchen.
Scanning the room, I spot the back of Brett's head behind the black leather couch, probably losing at Chel against Ward and another one of the Gators.
There's a group of guys playing pool in the massive game room through the door on the right, a woman hanging off of each one, and some dude I've never seen before messing with the laptop hooked up to the speakers.
Brett and I have been drinking since after the game, starting with just a six-pack between the two of us at his house to take the edge off.
I wasn't sure what else could fix this day besides seeing Brooke.
She found me after, and told me how proud of me she was, then kissed me like she meant every word.
But apparently Coach's girl asked her to take Cooper for the afternoon, and she had to agree—something about her owing her one after the secret she's kept.
The way her eyes sparkled when she said it told me that I just may have been that secret, and there was nothing discreet about how that affected me.
The alcohol has been a close second as far as relief goes, though it definitely doesn't hit like it used to. A guy my size would need a lot more than three beers to numb any pain, but as I stand here attempting to chip away at it, I'm realizing nothing will work like she does.
My anxiety kicks up as I once again feel completely alone in a fucking room filled with people. This isn't my scene. It never was. But it feels even more foreign now that I've gotten a taste of the old me—of the real me that I haven't seen in so long.
Sipping again at my half-empty can, I continue to let my eyes wander the room.
They land on a girl now posted up by the couch that I recognize from these types of parties.
A puck bunny or cleat chaser—doesn't matter, really.
They all seem to run in the same social circle, just like us athletes.
She's objectively good-looking with strawberry blonde hair that flows down in waves past her shoulders.
She has a tank top on despite the weather that looks at least three sizes too small, and she's staring through me, lust in her eyes, tempting me to approach her.
I run a hand through my hair as I blow out a breath before taking one last sip of my beer.
Slowly striding forward, I set my can down on the narrow table that runs along the back of the sofa.
I drag my thumb under my chain, letting her look rush past me.
It hits me in the chest as I lean down, lowering my voice.
"Hey, I'm gonna get out of here."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah… definitely."
I pull my phone out and turn it on. I powered it off after my dad's third call and Jane's fifth all-caps text. There was no way I was screening those notifications—and so many others—the whole time I was here.
"Alright, bud. You okay to get home?" Brett pauses his game and looks over his shoulder as I glance up at my newest admirer.
"Yeah, man. I'm good. I'll call the car service."
"You that buzzed?" he asks, his brows creased together.
I huff out a laugh, nudging his shoulder. "No, dipshit, you drove me here."
Brett snorts, rubbing his forehead. "That's right."
"You good?" I chuckle.
"Oh, yeah." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the TV screen where his player is still frozen mid-stride. "Brutal O.T. Brain's cooked."
I shake my head and grin, dropping my hand onto his shoulder. "I'll see ya later, buddy. Thanks for the hang." He slaps me on the arm and winks before turning back toward the screen.
When I fully stand up, I lock eyes with the girl.
She's staring straight through me—even deeper this time, and once again, it hits me between the ribs.
It's not lust or desire or even curiosity that drills me.
What knocks the wind out of me is ache, longing, maybe even need.
Her attention doesn't make me want her, it reminds me of the girl I actually crave.
Tapping on the screen, I light up my phone.
It's riddled with missed calls and texts from everyone—Jane and my dad, one from my agent and even a couple of the guys.
My heart sinks as I scroll through them.
They may not all be related to the game, though I'm sure my P.R.
manager and father will have notes. But I don't even get a chance to read them.
Wedged between a voicemail notification from dad and a missed FaceTime from Jane is a text that stands out amongst the rest. One that starts my heart beating again.
Mystery Girl
Coop left early to go to a friend's. Am I losing my touch as the cool aunt? Text me later if you want to hang out now that I'm free apparently.
That ache in my chest snowballs into something deeper. More primal. Once again she's able to drag me out of the trenches of my mind—of my whole fucking life. And exactly when I need her most.
In the time it takes me to pull up the number for our team's 24/7 confidential car service Monte put in place his first year here, I completely change my plan.
I know where I am, and I know where Brooke lives.
And thanks to not giving a single shit about what I looked like at this party, I'm in joggers, a hoodie, and the sneakers I created with my last brand deal.
I can get to her place in less time and miles than it takes for me to complete my morning run.
And if I'm lucky, I'll be just sweaty enough that she won't see the tears of relief that may happen to fall as I sprint toward my one place of solace.