She tightens our embrace. "Thanks again for doing this."
Cooper steps up behind me, and I move toward the door to let him hug his mom goodbye. "You listen to Aunt Brooke," Alex says sternly.
Cooper rolls his eyes teasingly. "Have fun, Mom. Tell Coach we have a big game tomorrow. I want you both home at a decent hour.”
Alex and I shoot each other a cocked brow. Cooper strolls past me and walks right out the door.
Flicking off the TV after only half an episode of Food Truck Wars, I decide I'm starving. This is why I can't watch shows like this. Especially when I'm not at my apartment with showtime snacks readily available.
Cooper left about a half hour ago to meet up with Erik and Gavin, the Flames' assistant coaches. Tonight the team is doing their own thing for dinner, so they decided to try out a restaurant downtown. With Levi out with Alex, there was room at their table, and when they found out Cooper was coming, they insisted that he join them. It's sweet how they've bonded with Coop since his spotlight for the Spark the Flame program. He spent about a month interacting with them a few times a week—joining them on the bench and at practices, even attending meetings and a coaches breakfast. And now, with Alex and Levi married, they see each other more than ever.
All I asked was that they have Coop back to our hotel room in time to watch the new zombie movie and fall asleep sick to our stomachs on dessert. My nephew may be getting older, but he's still one of my favorite people to hangout with. They made no promises, but if theyknow what's good for them, they won't come between me and movie night with Coop or some molten lava cake.
Now, though, I'm on my own for dinner. I contemplate ordering room service and eating a toasted veggie panini, fries, and a carton of ranch in bed—this is as close to a vacation as I've gotten in a while, and I might as well indulge. But it's also my first time in a five-star hotel and my one—or at least safest—opportunity to explore it.
Crawling off the mattress, I walk the four feet it takes to get to the bathroom. I tousle my brunette, collarbone-length hair and use my fingertips to fluff it at my roots. Leaning onto the white and gray quartz countertop, I bring my face just inches from the glass and spin my thin gold nose ring so the spot where the metal clamps together is hidden underneath.
This was my most recent addition to my look. Every once in a while I get the itch to go under the needle, either piercing or ink. I have a dozen tattoos stickered on my body. Nothing overly big or extravagant, but enough that you can see at least a few unless I’m dressed for a blizzard—another thing about me that drives my mother crazy.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s really the permanent markings on my skin that she can’t stand or the idea that it’s the only thing I’ve really committed to in life. Part of me would like to stay single forever if not just to watch her squirm. But then I think about why I’m here alone and my best friend is off doing God knows what with the man that she loves, and I'm reminded that driving her nuts isn't worth it.
Barely.
Reaching over, I flip on the light to check my makeup more closely. The room is immediately illuminated in an offensive brightness that most hotel restrooms offer, but because this one isfancy,there aren't just fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. The mirror is backlit by an LED strip that erases every shadow and ensures there is no running from fine lines or wrinkles. And it leaves me feeling way too exposed.
I tilt my chin from side to side, then lean in closer, before once again pulling away from my reflection. I'm no witch, butman. Drew's now not the only thing I'll be hiding from in this hotel. Smacking down theswitch, I use just the light from the main room to check my reflection.Much better.
Maybe it's the idea that I'm currently hiding away from a twenty-five-year-old. Or maybe it's my mom's voice that seems to live inside my head, reminding me my clock is ticking. But right now, I feel every bit of thirty-one.
It's then that I decide a seat at a bar that's not The Pub's and a cocktailIdidn't mix is calling my name. Maybe there will be an older single guy there sipping a scotch. A little flirting never hurt, and there's no temptation when I'm coming back to Cooper. But nothing says young and vibrant like someone buying you a drink. And who knows, maybe there's a boyfriend waiting there for me.
Digging through my suitcase, I grab my favorite leather jacket and slip it on over the cropped gray t-shirt I’ve been lounging in. I never changed out of jeans, but these faded Levi’s are more comfortable than any pair of leggings. So, I tug on the high waist, slip my feet into my combat boots, and head for the door.
Single and starving. Party of one.
6
Drew
Ignoring my dad's call yet again, I step off of the elevator. Walking down to the hotel bar, I slip one hand into the pocket of my athletic joggers and tug at the collar of my Flames hoodie with the other. I decided to switch it up for dinner. It's not much of a change, but maybe it's enough to shift the energy this season. Normally, I'd grab food with some of the boys if we aren't eating as a team, but I thought some alone time would do me good. Give me a minute to myself before having to perform for millions of people.
The lobby hums with familiar sounds as I make my way through it—the low murmuring of guests, the dings from the elevator, the shuffling of suitcases being dragged along the floor. But as I pass, those noises are slowly replaced with calming jazz music as I step closer into the far corner of the room. The lights grow dimmer, and the chaos fades, the combination of it all creating the perfect easy ambiance.Exactly what I need.
The hotel bar is one long, sleek counter lined with about a dozen leather stools and a warm glow that travels the length of the marble. Shelves of all the highest priced liquors sit behind it on a wall made of a deep cherry wood. There is a young couple on one end, both sippingwhite wine, an older guy on the other nursing a whiskey, and a dude with his back to me sitting right in the center.
The guy in the middle is built like a tank—tall, broad shoulders, biceps bulging from his too-tight shirt. He has a head that's twice the size of mine and is wearing a velour tracksuit.Wait a minute.
The only person I know who still owns one of those things is…
"Petrov?"
I pull out the stool next to a familiar face, confirming it's my teammate. He lifts his eyes from his phone before glancing over at me slowly. Sitting in front of him is what's left of a sandwich, an empty soup bowl, and…is that a fucking Shirley Temple?
I stare at the glass topped with maraschino cherries a minute too long, and when I look up at him, he's staring at me blankly, his expression unreadable. He's either planning my death or waiting for me to initiate conversation.
"Why aren't you out with the guys?" I ask, sitting down on the seat and shifting it closer to the counter.
He brings his gaze back to the device. "Because I never eat with the team," he says in his thick Russian accent, his deep voice cutting through the otherwise smooth, rhythmic music that surrounds us.
