I swing back in her direction. "I guess I thought you'd make a big thing of it."
She scrunches her nose, creases her brow, and folds her arms across her chest. "With good reason," she says, leaning into me. She lowers her voice. "Brooke, he'stwenty-five."
"What are you trying to say?" I deadpan.
Alex rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."
"Yes, Al, I know what you mean. But that was ten months ago."Not that I'm counting."I didn't have any plans of settling down yet. I was still out having fun and going with the flow."Before I realized everyone in my life was moving on without me."Blame the old Brooke."
She nods in understanding as she looks down at the ice. "Just promise me that won't happen again. You're on a good path—finally figuring out what you want. And I'm guessing whatever that is doesn't look like Drew Anderson."
I lean back in my seat, exhaling as I watch Drew skate a quick circle, then tap gloves with a teammate. "Yeah,” I mutter, more to myself than to Alex. "I know.”
That's the hardest part. The one thing that might have felt right in the moment isn't anything that could be sustained long-term. Like it or not, I'm drawn to him, but the Drew I got behind a locked bathroom door isn't the Drew I'd get out here. Hell, he's not even the twenty-five-year-old I'd get in the real world. A professional athlete's world is a whole other ball game even if you aren't the golden boy. And the combination of the two is deadly. The things I could ignore while we were entangled on the porcelain sink would flash like warning signs any other time.
The problem is that's sort of how I feel about everything right now. The change in dating, my makeshift job, this half-hearted attempt at adulthood,feelgood but seem just out of reach.
I sigh at the thought, and just then, Drew's eyes lock with mine. He freezes in his tracks, and I think maybe I'm seeing things until Alex leans over and says, "Doesheknow it was one and done?"
As if to answer, Drew slides his shield up, revealing those baby blues. He smirks, then pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. NowIfreeze, unable to react, but also not wanting to. Suddenly, Cooper's voice floatsover to me on the other side of his mom as he takes his seat. Alex's body shifts to face her son, but I'm still paralyzed by Drew's attention.
The horn bursts through the arena, signaling the end of warm ups. Both teams make their way to their respective benches, but still, Drew and I stare at each other. The lights dim as the crowd around me hoots and hollers for the players as they skate off the ice and dart into the tunnel toward the locker room. Finally, Drew slowly slinks toward the boards, all the while, his eyes still on me. When he gets to the gate, other players step past him to leave as he comes to a stop.
When he's one of the few people still on the ice, he lifts both thumbs and forefingers in two C shapes facing each other, just inches apart in front of his face. I look to Alex to see if she's watching—and if she can possibly explain what the hell is happening—but she isn't.
When I turn back around, Drew turns his head, framing one eye between his hands, and closes his lid, lifting and lowering his one pointer as if he's holding a camera and taking a picture… of me.
My mouth falls open, my only movement. How do I react to that? What do I do with rows of fans sitting between us?
Fortunately for me, I don't have to respond because before I can, Drew flashes me a charming smile and steps into the tunnel.
Then, just like earlier, he's gone.
10
Drew
"Well, we won. The Gladiators came at us harder than we thought, but we were able to stay ahead of 'em. Burnsey made a ridiculous one-timer goal from the blue line, and Petrov managed to escape without too many minutes in the box. Ward had a wild glove save on a breakaway too. But I guess you saw all that, huh?"
Pulling one leg up, I rest my elbow on my knee, rolling a blade of grass between my fingers. I let my eyes wander, following the shadows the lush trees cast across the ground on an otherwise bright fall morning.
"Tried out my new celly—another TikTok dance the fans ate up. That'll cost me. I know, I know… it's stupid. I don't know, Mom. I've been so done with this shit since last season. Nothing's felt the same since that fucking test. And it's crazy how much has changed in me since I've had to go back to beingthatguy. But it's like I have no other choice. When I did get to take off the mask, even briefly, the silence… Mom, it was so much louder than the noise."
Suddenly, my alarm rings out, mocking me for appreciating the quiet. Sighing, I click it off, then push to stand. "I'll figure it out. Don't worry." I brush a stray leaf off of the speckled tombstone before bringing my hand to my lips, then pressing it to the marble. "I'll be back soon. I still haveto tell you about the girl." I laugh, slipping my headphone back into my ear. "I love you, Mom."
I turn away from the site, and as if on cue, my screen lights up with my dad's name. I hit decline like I have the last few times he's called and, instead, click the next song on my playlist so that it rattles loudly through my ears. Taking off toward the path leading out from the cemetery, I continue my run—my feet landing on the stone road in time with the beat—and my thoughts on the game.
Like I knew I would, I fell right back into step. For sixty minutes of playing time I was exactly who I was supposed to be. I'm not sure I'd know anymore how to be anyone else. It's muscle-memory—a conditioned response. The second my skates hit the ice,hetakes over. A man on autopilot wearing a mask because out there, under the lights, surrounded by the roar of the crowd, he knows exactly who he is.
The rest of the time it's not so clear.
Sometimes I stress thinking Mom would be disappointed in me. For losing myself or investing so much time in being someone I'm not. But then I remember that wasn't her way. It's crazy to imagine, but I think my dad would be more pissed off if I stopped being the person he trained me to be—the person he built—than Mom would have been for not being myself.
It's part of the reason I've been avoiding him and didn't hang around for his post-game lecture last night. I figured switching up my pregame ritual seemed to come with benefits, maybe changing other things would help a little too. Plus, I don't want to hear what he has to say. He's on a new kick, and it's the last thing on my mind.
Following the path, I weave through headstones, some worn and aged, leaning with the weight of time, some with fresh dirt packed in front of untouched marble, the names and dates written across the front still stark and prominent as if they were written in bold. I can't hear the crunch of the gravel underneath my feet thanks to the music, but I feel it.
I didn't always visit. When Mom died my sophomore year in high school, I couldn't bring myself to terms with talking to a rock—with admitting that it's now my only way to speak to her. I was shocked and pissed off and instead of dealing with her death, I just sunk further into hockey. Letting Dad schedule as many extra hours on the ice and releasing any grip I still had left on my future—the hold only Mom encouraged—was my way of coping. You don't have to face the truth if you create a new reality. It was the only way it felt manageable.
