Chapter 37 Brooke #2
He's taught me that we're all navigating how we want life to unfold.
That it doesn't matter if you're twenty-five or thirty-one, sometimes it's not about knowing what you want.
It's about going after something real. I thought because he was younger than me, that there was no possible way that he'd be ready to settle down.
But what I didn't consider was that readiness doesn’t come with age—it comes with intention.
And Drew, with all his chaos and charm, is intentional with me.
With the way he looks at me, the way he listens.
The way he lets me in.
I used to believe that settling down meant having all the answers—a steady job, a stable relationship, a five-year plan.
And all of that felt so big—so possible to fail at.
But Drew Anderson, Mr. Showman himself, has proven to me that it’s not about perfection or appearances.
It's about what's on the inside—whether or not you let your heart grow roots.
It turns out there's no age requirement for the real thing.
No perfect timeline or magic moment for finding someone who makes you feel seen for the first time.
Love isn't about a number or a date or a checklist. It's about being there—showing up.
And in the middle of this rink side concert with hockey player rockstars, I'm even more sure—that's exactly what Drew does for me.
As the second verse starts, he comes back to me, smiling as he pants and tossing his stick behind the boards.
"You're insane," I yell over the music.
Drew laughs, glancing back at the boys who are skating toward the side wall. "Insane… ly talented?" he asks, his dimple making its usual appearance.
"Something like that," I chuckle. He presses his lips together, puffing air through his nose as he grins, and all of him—all of this—overwhelms me. "Insanely easy to fall in love with."
Drew's eyes double in size, his grin blooming into a full-blown smile. He looks like he might speak, but instead, he dives into me and kisses me hard—saying nothing and everything all at once.
"I like the song choice," I say when he pulls back.
He winks at me, tucking a hair behind my ear. "Angsty shit."
I nod, the lingering weight of this moment settling into the space between us. "So, was this just a fantasy you've always had with the boys or… ?"
Drew tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. "Not quite."
"So, what then? A joke? A dare?"
Suddenly, he pauses. "How did you get in here?"
Confusion washes over me as I reach into my pocket and pull out the folded paper. "Max told me the door was propped. This was shoved in the frame."
Drew looks at the square in my hand and tilts his chin up toward it. "Open it," he says.
I hesitate, but his face is serious, so I do as he says and unfold it crease by crease. The small cube expands to a full sheet of paper, words scribbled across the center. I peer up at Drew, who raises his eyebrows, encouraging me to read it.
So I do.
Brooke,
You've always been my mystery girl,
but you've become my whole damn world.
I see clearly who you are,
and you see me despite my scars.
Together we're the perfect team.
A power play—a real-life dream.
The shots against us? There's a few—
But sinking shots is what I do.
Together we will build and grow,
but there's one thing I need to know.
Brooke, you've changed my life somehow.
So, can I be your boyfriend now?
"Wait, did you write this?" I ask, my eyes darting from the poem to him. My voice carries now that the music has faded, but I don't care who hears.
He cocks an eyebrow coyly. "Ehh, I may have had a little help."
My forehead creases until it clicks.
"Petrov," we both say together.
"God, there's so much more to all your friends," I mumble, shaking my head. I place my hand on his gripping the boards. "And to you."
Drew smiles, then opens the door and joins me on the bench. "So, what's it gonna be?" he asks, taking my hands in his. I reread his note quickly then peer up at him. "Your move, Larkin."
I stare at him, attempting to memorize his face more than I already have—his crystal blue eyes, the new fade of his hair, the indent in his cheek. He's beautiful. And for the second time today, I'm experiencing a moment that feels like the start of something new—better.
"You sure about this, Twelve?" I joke. "Rumor has it I'm a little older than you."
Drew laughs in an attempt to hide the growl that crawls from the back of his throat as he closes what's left of the small gap between us. "Haven't you heard that I no longer give one single fuck about rumors?"
I drape my arms around his neck and push to my tip-toes, our mouths nearly touching already. "Well, in that case," I whisper. I press my lips to his, and it's just as natural—and as life-altering—as it was that night last year at the gala. "Yeah, Twelve. I'm good with that if you are."
Drew lights up, and as if it was planned that way, the song starts over. The volume increases as a low rumble mixes with the introductory notes.
"Oh, please tell me there's an encore," I quip.
Drew laughs and rubs his forehead with his first two fingers. "If Brett had his way, there would be several."
With that, the nose of the Zamboni peeks out from the storage room. I look at Drew trying to decide if this was part of the plan or if we're being not so subtly kicked out of the rink, and he breathes in deeply.
The full machine comes chugging onto the ice, and I freeze, stunned, watching Carter Ward drive it, with Brett Burns straddling the top, a massive speaker lifted above his head.
"What the hell is happening?" I yell over the music.
"Jamboni!" Brett calls back as Carter continues driving past us, a sleek strip of glossy ice left behind them.
"Jamboni?" I question, turning back to Drew.
"You're lucky. He wanted to add strobe lights and a disco ball."
I laugh for what feels like forever before growing more serious, my heart so full from these last few hours. "You did all of this for me?"
Drew leans down and kisses me gently. "I'd do anything for you."
I glance at the poem again before returning my eyes to him, taking the time to soak up his words. "So, uh, I guess you're my boyfriend now, Twelve," I finally say.
He slips his arms around my waist and picks me up. I squeal as my legs curl around his hips like they always do, his eyes branding me like they always have.
"It's about damn time, Mystery Girl."