He shoots me a warm smile and nods. "Likewise."
It takes everything in me not to glance back, but I need alcohol, like, yesterday.
Spotting the bar nestled in the far corner, I head in that direction. It's your typical reception setup with the drink selection sitting out on display and no stools in front to keep the line moving. There are only a few other people waiting, which I take as my sign from the gala gods that it's time for a hefty glass of wine. On the short walk to the wooden bar that's painted a stain so dark it almost matches the black outline of the Flames logo behind it, the mystery man's face pops into my mind.
He's smoking hot, undoubtedly younger than me, but there was history painted in his clear blue eyes. Most guys who spend that much time admiring me have dilated pupils and hooded lids. But he wasn't undressing me, at least not that way. He was stripping my layers as if he was reading my soul instead of getting me naked, and that alone made me want to lose these stockings for reasons other than their annoyance.
I run through the names of the people Alex has talked about as I approach the counter. Coaches, Levi's friends, his brother, but noneof them stick out as the one I'm now admittedly wet for underneath these god-awful tights. Something about how he so casually made my stomach flip—how he was sitting so relaxed but made me feel anything but—intrigues me more than I'd like to admit.
A man capable of that must be accustomed to a life like this. I bet his pants aren't drivinghimcrazy. He's probably used to a suit that hugs him in all the right places. I, on the other hand, am more of a ripped jeans and cropped-tee kinda girl.
It hits me that he has to be an athlete. He's too young to be a coach or in some sort of team leadership role. He must be a Flame. Growing up only a year younger than Blake, I can hang with the guys better than most girls, but I don't make it a habit of watching sports in my free time. The only games I've seen lately are those of the hockey team my best friend and her son have been associated with for the last few weeks. There are athletes from all over Golden City here to support the Flames, but he has to play hockey if he seems familiar.
I think back to the few games I've watched, and none of the players' actual faces come to mind from behind their helmets. There's not many I observe too carefully except maybe the panty-dropping showman I'm admittedly intrigued by. The one who failed his drug test earlier this week and…oh my God.I pause in my tracks at the same time I reach the counter.That's it.
The mystery man.
He's Drew fucking—
"Anderson! My guy, what's goin' on?" The bearded bartender calls to someone behind me. I don't turn around, but a presence lingers nearby in the same way that the eyes from earlier did.
"What’s up, man?” The words are spoken all but into my ear and send goosebumps up my body, making me suddenly glad that the skin on my lower half is covered.
"Tough week, huh? What can I get ya?”
There’s a shift beside me as the man I can now confirm is Drew Anderson, the Flames’ starting forward, leans his forearms on the bar. "I think she was here first," he says, and once again I know he's looking at me without even turning my head.
I finally face him, making eye contact for the first time since I connected the dots. This close, his irises look like two crystal clear oceans you'd see on an island, the blue of his suit only further enhancing them. I rush to take him in, immediately realizing the reasons why I didn't put two and two together sooner.
This is not the Drew Anderson that I've seen on TV. That guy is in full hockey gear, his helmet rarely off, and when it is, he's dripping with sweat or squirting water seductively into his unruly hair. He's flashy and bold, and even when he's not trying to showboat, just the way he handles his stick or plays with the puck makes it look like he's performing.
But not now.
Now, he's swapped his gear for a suit that was clearly made for his impeccable body. His locks are gelled back rather than falling on either side of his forehead, and he's calm—almost despondent—as if he's trying to blend in rather than be the star of the show.
"Right, no, of course," the bartender says quickly, bringing me back to the moment. "What are you drinking?"
I reluctantly turn away from the guy I'm used to drooling over through the screen in my living room. "I, um—red wine please," I stutter, simply caught off guard by my realization. I use the time it takes Drew to ask for his beer to fully make my way back to the present, and when I do, I add on to my order. "But, like big, please." I hold my hands up, one about six inches on top of the other, palms facing in. "Heavy pour." The bartender smiles politely before turning to grab our drinks.
"Rough night?" Drew asks, tilting his head toward me. Thankfully, I'm not easily thrown, at least not on the outside, because… wow.This guy.
"Work sucks." We take our drinks from the counter in front of us.
"I know," Drew says, immediately taking a long pull of his beer.
I smirk, trying to decipher if his answer was coincidental or if he understood the musical reference, as he takes a second sip. "Rough night?" I mimic, stepping aside, surprised at how watching his throat move up and down ignites a heat between my legs.
He shifts so he's standing next to me again. "Rough fucking week."
For a moment we stare at each other, and it's as if the rest of the ballroom falls away. Drew goes back to looking at me like he was at the table—like he's memorizing me from the outside in. His gaze slinks down my chest, past my hips, and over the tights I now wish I had removedfirst.
I'm not shy about copying his movement, trailing my eyes down his well-built body. This man is like a Greek god, and this iswithclothes on. He's taller than me, but not by much in my heels. He's maybe 6'2" or 6'3", but his presence is that of an actual giant. His frame is broad, the threads of his clothing pulled tight around his obvious muscle, and the hand around his beer tells me what he's packing underneath has to be proportionate.
When our gazes meet again, his eyes aren't the clear water they were before. They're dark and murky, more like an ocean at night than a Caribbean sea. His jaw ticks as he adjusts his feet so he's closer than he was before, both of us aware that whatever is happening here isn't your typical friendly conversation.
"You want to talk about it?" I ask, twisting my shoulders to search the room for Alex and Cooper—to give myself any excuse to turn away from his unrelenting eye contact. Alex is still nowhere to be seen, and Cooper is now at the dessert bar, a plate in each hand, as Erik adds pastry after pastry on top of each growing pile.
"Not even a little," he says, pulling me away from the sugary scene.
