Her lips part slightly as Burns goes and resorts back to his impeccable timing, popping into the space at the end of the tunnel. "Yo, Cap, you comin'?"
"I'll be right there," I call to him. I turn back to Brooke, her arm now pulled across her chest.
"It's okay," I say, stepping back from the railing. "You don't have to admit it. We both know the truth."
I tap the metal with the blade of my stick, and she blinks hard. I start to walk away but pause after a few feet and turn back to see her still watching me. "I'll see you around, Mystery Girl."
Then, I wink and walk away.
9
Brooke
Holy shit.
What the hell did I get myself into?
This is going to be harder than I thought—especially if Drew isn't going to let this go. Maybe working for Levi, even temporarily, was a bad idea. It may even be a sign that I should retreat from this whole putting down roots thing. If I was a weaker person, I might have caved. Instead, I stood there dumbfounded with my mouth ajar, chest burning, as Drew winked and disappeared under the tunnel.
It doesn't help that I was reminded all morning of the way he stretches or how his smile shines even behind his mouth guard. Not to mention the charm that the world—andI—get sucked right into. Drew spent that practice dominating the ice. He's powerful and captivating and draws your attention. He might not literally be the biggest on the team, but his presence is unmatched.
Of course, the other guys aren't shabby either. A few times I forgotIwas the one doingLevia favor taking pictures from the outside of this boy aquarium. It sounds bad considering I should be professional—and future-Brooke definitely wouldn't approve of comments like this—butevery player on this team could totally get it. Burns is hilarious, I'd damn sure let Petrov throw me around, and their goalie can bend his body like a goddamn pretzel.
But Drew is just… Drew.
He really is a star. My God, he takes his helmet off for water and it's an image of perfection. Of course, he has his usual antics, but it's also so much more than that. He's a natural out there. I mean, the guy gets paid millions of dollars to play—but hockey isn't just what he does, it's part of him. His skates and his stick are like an extension of his body—his movements on the ice like rehearsed choreography.
Honestly, I'm jealous.
Most of my life I've felt like I have no real purpose. I know my worth and that there are things I'm good at, but sometimes it feels like I'm the one person who hasn't found their true calling. No, I don't feelbehindlike Mom might think I am—and I don't often let it show—but it does get to me. Unlike Aunt Ivy, who thrives on flying by the seat of her pants, I do havesomedesire to at least find my place in the world. It just hasn't come that easily.
Today was enlightening. I never considered myself a creative type—there haven't been many opportunities to use things like photography or content creation in my day-to-day life. But I had a lot of fun, and it turns out I might not be half bad at this.
It was easier than I thought to come up with a list of ideas before seeing the boys in action. I actually managed to get a few decent shots too, which is key. The logistics, though, still throw me a little. How close can I get? Where should I stand? Do I follow the boys into the locker room or is Brett Burns just fucking with me? It's all things I'd figure out, eventually. But none of it matters for the short time I'll be here.
I did make a mental note to check in with Levi after this weekend to see if the team has a nice camera lying around. I'm thinking a Sony or Nikon might create images better than what I threw in portrait mode on my iPhone. I did Yearbook Club back in high school so that I could get out of class to walk around and "take pictures." I think I'd remember my way around a lens. Maybe not as vividly as I'd remember my way arounda Swisher under the bleachers after fifth period… but it would come back to me, eventually.
Sitting in the stands now, waiting for the game to start, I swipe through the couple of photos that I favorited from earlier today. Most of them include Drew in some way or another, but after about five minutes of practice, I knew that's how it would be. I don't think it matters that I know what he looks like when he's coming undone. I think anyone watching the team would find their eyes drifting toward him.
My scroll wanders to a series of images I took back to back. The first is of Drew balancing the puck on his stick held parallel to the ground. The second is of the puck in the air, half a second after he tossed it, and the third is of him with his skate turned sideways, the disc just centimeters from touching the blade.
They're silly really and have nothing to do with the first game tonight. But the simplicity makes him look so… accessible. If you took off his practice jersey and deleted the view of the million dollar arena behind him, you wouldn't know if it was a guy out back having fun on his pond or a professional athlete preparing for battle.
This is the Drew that I connected with. He's softer than the guy I know from the media. Genuine. Human. The pictures are a reminder that I wasn't crazy—another version of him must exist. But they're also a visual representation of what I know I can't have.
A puck smacks the glass in front of me and I jump, startled. A kid two rows down yells something at the ice and claps his hands. I laugh awkwardly, then glance back at my phone, suddenly self-conscious about my internal monologue and deciding whether or not people could hear it aloud.
"Hey, that's a good one," Alex says from over my shoulder. I quickly swipe out of the photos as if she'd somehow be able to know what I'm thinking, and throw her a smile as she finds her seat.
"Yeah, I figured I could put some casual photos up on the page's stories, then pick a few to put in a carousel."
She looks at me blankly. "Huh?"
"My God," I say, shaking my head. "You and Levi are perfect for each other."
A blush creeps up her cheeks as she shrugs her shoulders. "I know."
"Someone had a good night last night." I raise my brows in her direction as she squirms in her seat.
