I guess not much has changed.
But in the last few years, I've found it peaceful. I first visited after I signed with the Flames. I wanted to be the one to tell Mom that I finally made it. Not that anyone else would have done it because I don't think Dad's been here since the funeral. But, since then, I've come back a few times a week just to fill her in. Part of me thinks I'm just hoping one day she'll talk back—give me permission to release some pressure and have fun like she used to. Until then, I enjoy the peace this place brings—the solace I get from knowing there's no pretending in here. I don't know any of the backstories that belong to these people, but their graves are a good reminder that we're all human after all.
Stepping out of the cemetery, through the iron gate that swings ever so slightly when the wind hits it just right, I continue my run down the back streets of Golden City. Right on cue, the familiar scent of Drippy's coffee shop wafts past me at the corner, as I pass the row of luxury brownstones that I'd kill to live in. They hold so much history compared to my highrise. But back when I was first looking for places in G.C., they didn't quite fit the brand I was attempting to build.
These are seasoned. Riddled with history and charm from their rounded bay windows to grand stoops begging for quiet mornings and lingering conversations. There's history in the stone—stories of those who have lived inside them over the last two-hundred-years woven into the walls. They're occupied by long-term residents or settled families—couples starting over or roommates looking for calm in the chaos of the city.
My apartment is nothing like that. It's new, chic—low-maintenance, high-luxury—and just a few floors above the action. There's a spa and gym, a pool, and a concierge service, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the steady flow of passing people and moving headlights. Theview is a constant reminder of the city's pulse—and it does nothing to help slow me down.
But running past these brownstones always stirs something in me. I'd love to feel like I belong somewhere quiet and lived in. My place is perfect on paper—sexy and young. But despite the statement it makes visually, with its glossy exterior and intimidating presence, there's still a part of me that would prefer the more understated beauty of something real.
Picking up speed, I turn down a narrower street as the rest of the city wakes up around me. The song in my ear changes to a classic that Burnsey has named one of my angsty songs as I squeeze past a mailman and dodge a few papers tossed carelessly on the sidewalk. Increasing my pace again, the complete opposite of the slower beat of the drums in my ear, I all but sprint further into the busy part of the city.
Closing out the end of my run in the direction of my apartment, I always give it all I have left. It's funny how I run to escape the noise, yet I find myself moving faster as I head back toward it. The last few days scroll through my mind, driving me to dig even deeper, my sneakers pounding the pavement with each heavy step. The test, the trip, my dad, the game…her. All of it so simple, yet so fucking complicated.
Before I know it, I've passed my building, my pulse thumping, chest heaving, as I finally decrease my speed. Jogging the length of another street, I eventually stop, pulling my phone from my pocket and silencing the music, letting the buzz of the city replace its tempo. Plucking my headphones from my ears, I slip them into the pocket of my mesh gym shorts, rip my t-shirt off and slap it over my shoulder, then place my hands on my head. I spin around to find my bearings, my heart and breathing-rates slowly recovering. There are a few dozen people already out and about, so I step closer to the darkened windows of a storefront beside me.
With one heavy exhale, I drop my hands to my knees, sucking in air through my nose as I take my swinging gold chain into my mouth. My head hangs between my arms as the door to the building begins to open, and when I slowly lift it, I freeze, my body still bent, the metal still clenched between my teeth.
"Oh, hi."
I stand up slowly, my eyes dragging up the view in front of me, the jewelry only falling from my lips because of the new curve of my mouth. "Mystery Girl."
Brooke, who looks hot as hell in an off-the-shoulder cropped sweatshirt and leggings, her hair slicked with sweat and tucked behind her ears, rolls her eyes. "What was all the fuss about learning my name if you aren't even going to use it?"
A chuckle escapes me as I bring my hands to my hips. "Hello, Brooke."
"Twelve."
I still, cocking one brow, then shake my head. "What are you doing here?" Realizing I don't even know wherehereis, I step back, glancing up at the building.
Before I can finish reading the sign, she says, "I just did a workout class."
I finish scanning the name—Beats & Barbells—then look her up and down. "Please tell me it was old lady Zumba."
She smothers a smile. "Something like that."
I wipe my brow with the side of my hand, struggling to hide the stupid grin on my face as her eyes home in on the ink on my exposed skin. "I saw the posts from the game. And the stories." My cheeks grow warm thinking about Brooke taking a series of photos of me, and I thank God my face was probably already pink from my run. "They were good."
Brooke adjusts the strap of her puffy black bag that hangs off her shoulder. "I have to ask Levi for a real camera, but they turned out better than I thought."
"You had a handsome target."
Nowhercheeks glow. "Yeah… Brettiseasy to look at."
Tilting my chin down, I roll my tongue over my teeth. "Don't play with me, Brooke."
At the same time, a man in short spandex shorts and a tight black tank top reaches for the door. Brooke smiles at him, and he smiles back devilishly before throwing me a wink. I nod, flattered, and Brooke steps aside, forced to move a foot closer to me.
"Drew, it's not happening. I told you I—"
Before my brain catches up with my body, my hand is in her hair, and my mouth is on hers. Maybe it's the runner's high lowering my inhibitions or the wordbelievewritten underneath her collarbone egging me on. Or maybe it's just the idea that I finally fucking feel something—but suddenly I can't hold back.
Brooke inhales quickly, her body tensing as her lips remain still, but just when I think I should retreat, she melts into me for the briefest of moments, resting one hand on my ribs. Her lips part slightly, but although I'm dying to sweep my tongue across hers, I don't. Instead, I pull back before she can.
Her expression drips with surprise, but I felt it. It was there—her acceptance. Her contentment.
Our eyes lock, both sets searching the other for a reaction.
