Chapter 29 Brooke
Brooke
"Just tell me that Levi doesn't have anything to worry about. Because we all know how that ended after Drew's… after last season."
"Al, I told you at the game," I say, moving toward the window, faint screeching coming from outside. "He doesn't. Drew's good. He's just… figuring some stuff out."
"Okay," she sighs. "And you? Are you good?"
"Is it supposed to rain?"
"B..."
"What? I just heard Frank yelling like he usually does like three minutes before the first roll of thunder. Man, that guy has some sort of sixth—"
"Brooke!"
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Yes, I'm good."
Alex hesitates before asking again. "Are you sure? Have you heard from Ivy?"
I exhale heavily. "No, I texted the last number she messaged me from, but you know how she is. That was probably a phone she won in a poker game that she used once, then dropped into the guitar case of some subway busker."
She laughs, and I roll my eyes at the thought. "And your mom doesn't know anything?" she asks next.
"Not that she's told me at least."
Alex is quiet in agreement on the other end of the phone. "Okay, and back to the Drew thing. How are you doing with that? Have you seen some of the headlines?"
I scoff, but swallow hard, glancing out the window just in time to see Frank's unkempt locks flopping behind him.
Have I seen them? How could I not? At this point, though only temporarily, it's my job to keep up with the Flames' presence on social media.
Not to mention that my phone ads and click-bait articles are now completely geared toward Golden City Hockey.
Every time I open the internet, there's a new gossip headline or short clip of the game or a link to the Emma Dean interview.
And the hardest part is I haven't even gotten a chance to talk to Drew about any of it.
It broke my heart to see his raw reaction online, though no one else would quite understand it.
The last time I saw him was after the game, and that was before this all unfolded.
But for this much to be happening because of one game is mind-blowing to me.
I've read some unavoidable comments and people aren't holding back, that's for sure.
All of it only lends itself to his massive hesitation.
"People seriously need to get a life. It was three damn periods for God's sake."
Alex chuckles on the other end of the phone. "You clearly don't understand your boyfriend's influence in our city, my friend."
"He is not my boyfriend." I texted him earlier, and he still hasn't answered.
"That is not the point. B, hockey fans are intense—borderline crazy. And Drew is like some sort of god around here. It may seem like one game to you, but after last season, any off-day for Drew Anderson triggers panic."
The image of Drew from earlier flashes through my mind. The panic on his face because of what he knew was coming—because of exactly what Alex is talking about now. These people put him on a pedestal. They see him as a hero and an icon, but what they don't realize is that he's just… human.
He's a friend, a teammate, and somebody's son.
He's a guy making his living off of a sport that he loves, but that has been slowly molded into someone he hates.
He's not my boyfriend despite what Alex says, but he's also whatever he is to me.
And as I sit here wishing he'd text me already, I'm reminded of just how quickly the idea of that is growing on me.
"Well, I think it's bullshit," I say simply, rather than repeating all of that aloud.
Alex clicks her tongue. "And so do I, but we don't make the rules."
"Which is also bullshit."
A roll of thunder cracks through my apartment, interrupting my latest complaint. The pitter patter of rain on my windows quickly follows, and I hum through a heavy exhale as the noise fills the room. "Frank's never wrong," I say softly.
"Well, let's hope you aren't either. I'm all for you figuring this thing out with Drew, but if you know anything… please give Montgomery a heads up before it flies out of left field."
Moving toward the kitchen, I swipe the bottle of red from the counter and yank the cork out. "That's the wrong sport," I say, filling a glass. "Or the wrong brother, depending on how you look at it."
Alex chuckles, but something about this conversation has put me even more on edge about not hearing from Drew—each drip on the pane like a ticking clock since the last time I saw him. Maybe the wine will help weather both storms.
"Just keep me posted," she reiterates. "And thanks for taking Coop. Sorry again that he sort of bailed."
The word bailed hits me right in the gut as I attempt to swallow the gulp I just took. I know Drew isn't ditching me. Hell, I'm the one who made plans in the first place. But I thought maybe with everything going on, he'd seek comfort here. That he'd escape the chaos and run to me.
"Yeah, of course," I answer.
"Love ya, B."
I smile despite the faint gnawing in my stomach. "Same here."
With a light click, the line goes dead, and my teeth find the inside of my cheek.
I almost can't tell what's eating at me more—the fact that I miss him or that I could guess how he's handling all of today's aftermath alone.
It's funny, I used to be so afraid of my own emotions—still am in so many ways—but it's almost as if feeling them doesn't hit half as hard as empathizing with someone you care about.
I down another large sip of the wine as the realization that I care about Drew rolls past me.
Maybe subconsciously, this is why I never got too deep.
Maybe my body—my heart, my soul—knew that when I did, I wouldn't just slip into feelings I've tucked away for so long.
I'd fall. Hard and fast. The way I think I'm falling for him.
Suddenly, a chime rings out from the intercom, causing me to nearly throw my glass against the backsplash.
It takes me a second to gather myself before hesitantly setting down my wine and making my way toward the door.
Part of me wants to be excited. Could it be Drew waiting down on my steps?
But another part has been here before and is half expecting Alex to come barreling through my door with more alcohol and a greasy bag of tacos.
For the millionth time, I curse myself for choosing an apartment that doesn't have a video system, and slowly bring my finger to the microphone button. "Hello?" I ask suspiciously.
"Hey you," a voice pants through the intercom.
"Twelve?"
"Yeah, Mystery Girl. It's me."
My shoulders sink as the emotional energy I was clearly holding onto from the events of the entire day, drains to the floor.
The ache in my chest quickly turns to more of a glow.
Is this what the Grinch felt like when his heart grew three sizes that day?
Is the man waiting out in the rain my own little… Cindy Lou Drew?
I cringe to myself for even thinking it when another thought hits me—the rain.
"Oh my God, wait, sorry. Get in here!"
With that, I press the button on the system that clicks open the door at the main entrance.
My mind swirls with everything I should be doing in the time it takes Drew to trek up the steps to my apartment—check my hair, grab my wine, put a bra on…
or not. But it's like my body's frozen. Drew has this effect on me that no one else has ever had.
He paralyzes me but in the best possible way.
If you ask people to describe me they'd probably say something like: bold or independent.
Also, desperately funny… obviously. If you ask my mother, she might give a slightly less positive version of the same—like unattached.
But Drew's changing me. It's as if I can literally feel the pull he has on me.
Like my heart is tethering itself to his.
And knowing he's just on the other side of the steps, knowing he probably needs my support, I don't care about anything else right now besides waiting for him to get to me.
With one deep breath, I pull the door open, just in time to see Drew standing with his fist raised, ready to knock.
His free hand is tucked into the pocket of his grey joggers that are now darkened and clinging to him in all the right places, the front piece of his damp hair hanging onto his forehead.
The smile he gives me is all the answer I need as to whether or not I'm falling for him. It used to hit me between my legs, but, shit. Now, I feel it all over.
His gaze drops to my chest, and his expression darkens, his throat moving up and down. "I thought you might leave me out there," he says, slowly dropping his arm to his side.
"I didn't know you were coming," I quickly explain, unapologetically looking him over.
Drew's jaw grows tight, his eyes burrowing through mine with an intensity that tells the story of how things have played out since I saw him last. "Neither did I."
I attempt to hide the heat that flushes my body as I pull the door open further, but I doubt it works. "Well, come in. You're soaked."
Drew steps inside, and the scent of his cologne fills the room, the moisture on his clothes amplifying the smell.
He reaches for the hem of his hoodie and pulls it over his head, taking his undershirt with him the first couple of inches.
His V makes a brief appearance, and it takes everything in me not to drop to my knees in front of him. But is that what he needs right now?
"How are you feeling?" I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.
Drew hangs his sweatshirt on the hook by the door, then runs his hands through his over-grown hair. He pauses with his hand resting on the back of his neck and runs his tongue past his lips.
"Honestly?" he asks, stepping closer to me. I nod, desperate for his answer, meeting him halfway. "Like I've wanted to be inside you since you slid into the tunnel after the first."