Chapter 30 Drew
Drew
"Dad, enough. I'm not talking about this," I say, my heart pumping way too hard because of him this early in the morning.
"Drew, you just completely flipped. The last time this happened—"
"It's not like that, okay?" I move toward the window, raking my hand down my face. "I'm just over the bullshit."
Dad clicks his tongue. "That bullshit is what made you, son."
"No, Dad," I snap through gritted teeth. "I'm what made me."
There's a pause on his end that gives me the slightest bit of hope.
Until it doesn't.
"Drew, all I'm saying is—"
"Don't." I pace back through the living room, peeking into the bedroom to find Brooke still sound asleep. "The only reason I even answered is because you won't stop fucking calling me at the ass-crack of dawn," I whisper loudly.
"I'm sorry, I thought you'd be getting ready to run," Dad says, almost hesitantly.
"Yeah, well, I'm not."
He inhales deeply and blows out hard. "Well, just stay focused, okay? If you want any shot at going to Washington, they're going to want to see consistency from you."
My whole body freezes, my grip growing tighter on my phone. "Washington?" I scoff. "That's why you're concerned I played differently last game? Why you're worried something's wrong? Because it'll ruin my chances to replace Rourke on the Titans?"
"I mean, yeah. I thought—"
"Fuck, Dad" I groan louder than I mean to, glancing behind me to make sure Brooke's not standing in the doorway. I run my free hand through my hair instead of continuing my response.
What I want to add is that he doesn't know me.
That he clearly stopped giving a shit about me or what I wanted when Mom died—if he ever really cared at all.
I want to tell him that he's high on the list for why things were different yesterday, but that nothing is wrong with how I played.
If anything, besides Brooke, it was the only thing that felt right in a long fucking time.
But I don't admit to any of that.
Not because I can't say it.
But because he won't hear it.
Instead, I sigh. "Just drop it, Dad. Please."
He takes a steady breath on the other end of the phone, and I think for once he might listen. He might actually think before he speaks. "I can't promise that, son. It's my job as your father to help you decide what's best for you."
No, Dad. It's your job as my father to love me either way.
"I have to go," is all I say before tapping on my screen to end the call.
I squeeze my phone so tightly in my hand that I'm afraid it might crack.
But then for a second, I think, maybe that'd be the best thing to happen yet.
Peering out the window of Brooke's apartment, all I can think about is how I wish I could call my mom so she could undo everything that he just did.
So she could remind me of who I am—and who I'm not.
A lump crawls up my throat as the sound of footsteps creak behind me.
Swallowing it down, I turn to find Brooke in my t-shirt from yesterday, the soft fabric hitting her mid-thigh.
"Hey you," I say, my shoulders falling as soon as she offers me a smile.
"Hi," she answers, her voice still full of sleep.
She slinks over to me with her arms across her chest and burrows her face into the crook between my neck and collarbone.
She fits there perfectly, her lips against the pulse at my throat, and it takes everything in me not to tell her that she's the one thing keeping it alive.
"Did I wake you?"
Her cheek brushes against my skin, still warm. "No, I just rolled over, and you were gone."
My heart throbs in my chest. She missed me. "Do you have plans for the day?" I ask, avoiding sharing any information on the reason I was up in the first place.
"Most of my posts for this week are already planned out. I had a lot of free time to fill yesterday before you got here thanks to Cooper being too cool for me now." She peers up at me and rolls her eyes. "But I was gonna head to the rink to film some sort of content. Brett said he'd meet me."
"Brett?" I ask, jealously clearly lacing my tone.
Brooke gives me a suggestive grin. "I can't just post you, Twelve.
People will get suspicious." I narrow my eyes, but she ignores my instant possessiveness.
"I'm just trying to batch-make some posts this week, or at least collect pictures and videos for whoever's starting permanently.
" She inhales slowly, releasing it gently.
"So they aren't starting with nothing when they get here. "
Brooke stills, taking a deep breath. I press my lips to the top of her head and close my eyes, letting the quiet between us settle, my previous envy now meaningless. "It's coming up fast," I murmur, turning my head to rest my cheek against her hair.
I don't need to explain. I can tell from her body language that she knows what I mean.
"I know." She drops her arms around my waist like an anchor, and it's all the confirmation and reassurance I need.
We haven't talked about what's next—what it will mean when we're finally able to be seen together.
To be together. I don't want to spook her, and I've had so much other shit on my mind the last few days.
But even with it all looming, I'm not worried.
Because with her here, next to me, all of it—the image, the opinions, my dad's relentlessness—feels a hell of a lot lighter.
Like maybe I could actually survive the fallout because for the first time in years, I'm not alone in the spotlight.
With that in mind, I don't stop the next words from pouring from my mouth. "What if I gave you some content?"
Brooke's head pops up. "This is not that kind of show, Twelve."
I chuckle, nudging her cheek with the tip of my nose. "No, I think I want to cut my hair."
Her eyebrows hit the roof as she scans my face. "Seriously?"
I nod, rubbing the back of my neck, the locks sweeping against my knuckles. "Yeah, I've been over it for a while now. It's never really been me." My eyes meet hers. "Unless you like it."
She shakes her head, her wide eyes narrowing with sincerity. "I just like you, remember?" She winks as a brush off, then reaches up and combs her fingers through my hair. "Are you sure about this? That's a statement for Drew Anderson." She cocks a brow and tilts her head.
I blow a breath through my lips considering her words, regardless of how ridiculous it is that she's right. "I think that's the point."
Brooke tips her chin down definitively. "Then, it's settled." She rakes her hand through my hair, gripping it at my nape and yanking me toward her in the sexiest way. "Looks like it's makeover day."
Just hours later, Brooke and I are standing outside of a barbershop on her side of town that's wedged between a sandwich hut and a laundromat.
"You, uh, do know I usually have someone come to my house to cut my hair, right?
" I smile politely at a man with a face tattoo as he walks past us on the sidewalk.
"It's one of the things about this job I actually like. "
Brooke jabs her elbow not as gently as I'd like into my side and shushes me. "Trav's been cutting Blake's hair since he was small enough to sit in the racecar chair. He's the best. And I called in a favor." She reaches for the handle of the door. "He owes me."
Before the words even fully leave her mouth, I place my palm on the door to stop it from opening. "I'm gonna need you to explain that one to me."
Images that have no business flashing through my mind make their presence known in my head. Did they sleep together? Date? Did Trav fuck over my girl, and now, I have to kill him and keep my long hair?
"I save him the corner booth at The Gilded Pub every year on Fantasy Football Draft Night. Trust me when I tell you, it's a hot commodity."
Relief flies from my chest and is quickly replaced with embarrassment. I clear my throat and lower my hand, shoving it into my pocket and hoping Brooke doesn't realize I thought she was banging the barber. "Cool," I respond with attempted ease.
She hesitates before pulling on the long metal handle, then smiles coyly. "Oh, and we banged that one time," she says quickly, ripping the door open and leaving me frozen.
I catch the bright red wood just before it swings fully shut and walk in after her, my heated gaze landing on a guy at least sixty-years-old, with a gray handlebar mustache and two silver braids framing his face. Brooke turns back to me with a smirk and says, "Drew, this is Trav."
I suck my teeth at her idea of a joke before stepping forward and extending my hand toward the very stylish, but very not-Brooke's-type barber. "Nice to meet you, man. Thanks for doing this."
"Yeah, of course," Trav says, draping an apron over his neck. "Brooke here is a saint for saving my guys and me that table each year. People are vicious out there, ya know?"
"Yeah," I say. I glance into the mirror in front of his black swivel chair and run my hand through my hair one more time. "I get that."
"Well, listen, I'm just gonna wash you up real quick since you got some length to ya, and then you can talk me through what you're lookin' to do today."
My eyes dart to Brooke nervously who, with one look, reassures me that this is all going to be okay. "Sure. Sounds good, man," I choke out.
Trav nods as a phone rings in the distance from what must be his office in the back. "Shit, give me a few minutes. I've been waiting for my supplier to call me since yesterday."
"Take your time," I say.
"I can get him started," Brooke chimes in quickly. We both give her our attention. "With the wash, I mean. I can wash his hair while you handle that, and then he'll be ready to go when you're done."
Trav pushes his bottom lip out and nods before spinning his heel on the black-and-white checkered floor and leaving me with an anticipatory hard-on.