The palm hooked around the handle of my bag grows clammy, a slight panic taking over as I get closer to the tunnel door. I start to overthink if I should even join them—considering the conversation I know he planned to have, maybe this calls for a bit of a boys day. But just as I begin to hesitate, the faint sound of music seeps through the crack in the door.
"What the… ?"
I take a few more strides, and the noise grows a bit louder, the vocals calling me closer.
Sticking my fingers through the inch of space that separates the door from the wall, I pull it open. A folded piece of paper that must have been wedged in the frame to prop it open, falls to the floor. I pick it up, humming the familiar tune to a song I've listened to a million times in the last month—one off oftheplaylist. I shove the paper in my pocket and step into the tunnel, the sound of the door slamming shut, ricocheting off the walls around me.Damn, Drew was right.
Moving toward the ice, I expect to see Drew and the boys taking shots on net or passing the puck back and forth across the blue line. Instead, Drew, Brett, and Alexei stand at center ice in street clothes and skates. And they're all staring directly at me.
"Hi, guys," I say hesitantly, stepping onto the bench.
Drew skates forward as the other two stay put. Brett and Alexei both wear straight faces, Burnsey clearly struggling more than Storm with the task. When he gets to the boards, Drew stops on a dime.
"Hey you." He smiles that boyish smile, and just like that—despite the weird freaking circumstances—all of my nerves disappear again.
"Twelve," I say back, my voice still wary. "What are you doing?"
He raises an eyebrow, attempting to maintain his confidence. His cheeks grow rosy, though, and something tells me that it's not from the temperature of the ice. "It seems you're officially off the Flames' clock."
He tips his chin up toward the stands behind me as the song fades out. I turn around to see a very giddy Alex sitting in the third row, her phone in her hand.
"Al?"
"Hi, he's right. I just met the new girl, so you're no longer needed," she explains quickly.
I scoff, faking offense. "Well, damn. Thanks a lot."
She rolls her eyes playfully. "You know what I mean. You're no longer employed by the Flames, and therefore, free to see whoever you'd like." She wiggles her brows at me, and I narrow my eyes in her direction. "Not that it really matters," she mumbles under her breath.
"WhereisMcHottie?" I ask, passive aggressively.
"Who now?" Drew hurries to lean forward, but I ignore his question, my attention still on my best friend.
"I don't know, reviewing film from the game or something. But you're good, I promise! And I'm here to document." She shakes her phone at me, and I spin back to Drew.
"Document what?"
He pulls his bottom lip in and drags it between his teeth. Between that and the way he's looking at me—mixed with my full reign to kiss him in public—I'd be turned on if I wasn't so confused.
"Well," he starts, resting his forearm on the boards. "I remember something about you asking for a performance."
My eyes go wide as I consider all the ways he could possibly meanperformance."No."
Drew nods, glancing at the boys over his shoulder.
"No," I say again, this time dragging out the last letter as several dots connect in my mind.
"Let 'er rip, Ward!" Drew yells.
His voice echoes around the rink until it's replaced by music—the opening to my, and nowDrew's, favorite song.
"No," I deny for a third time as he bends over the boards between us and grabs a pile of hockey sticks. Drew throws one to Brett and one to Alexei before kissing me on the cheek and skating back to center ice.
Machine Gun Kelly's voice rings out, and when it does, it mixes with Drew's as he sings the lyrics into the butt of his stick. "Oh my God," I whisper.
I stare in awe as he belts out the whole intro, Burnsey and Petrov bopping behind him. They mix in a few spins here and there—Alexei still stone-faced despite his pirouettes. But no matter how ridiculous they look, I can't seem to fully rip my eyes away from Drew.
When the first verse starts, he pushes off his back foot and glides toward me, his hockey stick microphone still in hand. He stops at the boards, and slides his hand past my cheek, serenading me with a pop song and two backup dancers who are doing surprisingly well prancing around on skates.
