"What's up, G.C.," he yells over the song. "Just wanted to say thanks for all the b-day shout outs." He swallows quickly, his eyes darting to either side of the camera. "I appreciate all your support over, uh, this past year. Twenty-four was… well… I learned a lot."
He pauses for just a second, looking past the camera instead of directly at it, before another guy comes up behind him and throws his arm across his shoulders. Drew glances back at him before switching his demeanor, but if you're paying attention, you'd notice his smile is dimmer than it was before.
"Anyway, I gotta go tear it up with these assholes, but… I love you guys."
A girl with long, wavy red hair slinks up to him and places her hand on his chest, just as the video comes to an end. I roll my eyes, brushing my thumb as fast as I can back to the first picture.
Scrolling down, I glance through the comments. There's everything from basic birthday wishes to insults, bro responses to thirsty messages.
BBurns_06:HBD, my dude! Here's to an epic year.
Sp0rtsBr01980:Over. Rated.
JustCallMeLola:Holy hell, for the sake of my vagina, please do not get hotter with age.
Shay_Bae:I have a present he can unwrap…
Hockey.Fan.4Lyfe:This guy's twenty-five? Way too old to be acting like he does.
RedHotRedHead21:What a wild night, babe.
Rolling my eyes, I try to ignore the way hate heats my chest and how that last one churns my stomach. Instead, I focus on the fact at hand.
I knew Drewwas young. In fact, I vaguely remember Alex telling me about it this past season, but at the time it was all a pipe dream. In reality, the difference between thirty-one and twenty-five is only six years. That's not even one dog year—barely a first grader. Maybe I shouldn't admit this, but I've had underwear longer than that. It somehow just feels different when it's the years between our ages.
At the time, the numbers didn't seem as wildly different as they do now. Maybe because the way he acted—the way we connected—felt like we were one and the same. But now, ten months, countless headlines, and one new life goal later, his age is just an added reminder that we're not just living in different stages of life—we're on completely different planets.
So, the man's a good lay. But this seals the deal—that's all that it was. This time last year,Iwasn't even ready to start building a life for myself. There's no way a twenty-five-year-old professional athlete who lives a life of lust and luxury would be even remotely on the same page.
Glancing around, my clothes suddenly all seem like completely acceptable choices. Jean jacket? Perfect. Black denim? Great. Combat boots? Works for me. Of course, I want Drew to remember that night—it still stands out to me for so many reasons. But I'm no longer afraid of how he'll act toward me. It doesn't make a difference. He could be my intriguing mystery or the world's charming Romeo—it's irrelevant when we don't make sense either way.
My phone vibrates again, this time in two quick buzzes. Grabbing it, I find an incoming message from my brother. I swipe it open and groan aloud.
Blake
You better not be bailing on dinner again. I'll see you in a half-hour.
Damn it.The last few weeks, I've been lucky enough to be scheduled at The Pub during my family's weekly dinners. Apparently tonight, my luck runs out. I consider bailing anyway. I have things to pack andnow…Instagrams to stalk. But I do miss my niece—and the rest of my family, I guess. And ithasbeen awhile since I've had to play a game of Dodge-Mom's-Passive-Aggressive-Critiques-Of-My-Life-Choices.
I do like to stay sharp.
I grab my nearest jacket from the pile—my sage green bomber—and shrug it on over my black t-shirt and jeans. I slip into my combat boots, which are already piled next to my bag, and make a mental note to put them back there later so I don't forget them for our trip.Ugh, our trip.
Just like that, the image of seeing Drew up close and personal crashes into my mind, and there's an instant pulse between my thighs. Luckily, the next wave of thoughts brings with it the reminder that no matter how I remember him, he's not the guy from that night last year. He's Drew Anderson—hockey all-star, Golden City hero, ladies' man.
A twenty-five-year-old phenomenon.
And now, even Mom and I have more in common.
4
Drew
Stretching over to my bedside table, I groan as I attempt to end the constant fucking whirring coming from my phone. When I finally reach it, I crack one eye, leaving the rest of my body plastered chest-down onto my California king. Peeking at the time, I let out a heavy sigh.God dammit.I have to get up. Not that it matters really—sleep doesn't help much when it's your soul that's tired.
It's game week, and we have to travel to Grand Oaks in a couple of hours. I'm ready physically, but I'm not sure I'm prepared mentally to step back into the season. Never being out of the public eye is exhausting. Even during the off-season, there are always cameras and signings, interviews for something—the draft, training camp, Flames events. But these next nine months will bring even more unwanted attention.
I've grown used to being a topic of conversation in the hockey world. People love me, they hate me, they can't decide which way they lean more. There's no winning when it comes to the media. If I don't score enough, my contract's questioned. If I score too much, I'm not a team player. I'm used to being ridiculed and held to a ridiculous standard.
