She blows through her lips. "Actually, I do because apparently you can't take a hint even when I spell it out for you."
I laugh, instantly put back at ease by her stubbornness, and run my tongue over my bottom lip, unlocking the door with my finger. "That's because you can't spell for shit."
I push it open, then step inside, and Brooke follows as the door closes behind her. We walk through the equipment room that leads to the shooting area, the walls lined with sticks of every size and color, gloves hanging from hooks from floor to ceiling, and skates sitting on the mat running the length of the wall. Brooke pauses at the sharpening machine, looking at it closely before continuing past the racks of spare visors and cages and crates of tools stacked on top of each other.
When we make it through to the shooting bay, she stops at the synthetic ice. "This is it?" she asks, her eyes sweeping over the space.
There's not much in here—two non-regulation nets with goalie cutouts, a cracked set of plastic targets, a video monitor for speed and playback, and a dozen loose pucks scattered across the surface. Her response doesn't throw me.
"That's why I love it." I walk over and grab a spare stick leaning against the wall, scooping a puck onto the blade and tossing it in the air. "It's simple." I catch it and let it drop. "Quiet."
Brooke shoves her hands into her back pockets again and closes some of the gap between us. "I would have thought a guy like you would prefer the high-end spa or the decked-out gym."
Of course she did."Hmm, yeah." I wind up, smacking my stick into the puck with a crack. It flies through the air and into the target in the top corner of the net. "You'd think."
Brooke's eyes sink into the side of my head as I reach for another disc. She doesn't press me, which makes mewantto explain.
"I started coming here as a rookie. Late-nights, early mornings—whenever l needed a break from it all. An escape from the chaos. I guess it stuck. Now it's just… my spot."
I shrug, then shoot again, burying the puck into the opposite pocket. "In here it's just hockey. Kind of like when I used to play in my driveway in middle school." I smile at the memory, pausing to lean my weight on the blade grinding into the tile. "God, I'd be out there so long my mom used to have to drag my ass inside."
Brooke smiles, soft and knowing. "Well, I'd say the obsession paid off. She must be proud."
Inhaling deeply, I swallow hard and let the comment roll off of me as best I can. Standing up straighter, I slide another puck my way and wind up again. "I hope so," I say, flicking my wrist.
Brooke's forehead creases, and before I can stop myself, I continue… again. "She died when I was fifteen."
I never say that out loud. Of course my teammates know, but even so, it's not a topic that we ever talk about. But she always seems to have this effect on me. From the moment we spoke at the gala, I was different around her. Now, there's something about her being in this space with me—or just something abouther—that makes me open up again.
Her eyes grow wide as she strides over to me. "Oh, Drew. I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
Her energy shift catches me off guard, and my mouth reacts before I can stop myself from pushing her away again by doing too much.
I step to her. "There's a lot that you don't know about me, Brooke."
She searches my eyes, hers wandering back and forth between the two. When she doesn't instantly deny me, my hand pushes the moment, moving from the stick to tuck her hair behind her ear. That quickly though, my mind catches up, and I pull it back down.
No, not this time.
Brooke licks her lips, her gaze dropping to mine. For a second I thinkshemight lean in—this spot, my confession, stripping down her walls. Still, I don't waver.
Your move, Mystery Girl.
She hesitates another moment, and just when I think she may actually do it—might finally let go for just a second—the keypad hums from the other side of the door.
"Oh, shit. My bad, guys," our equipment manager says, halting in his tracks.
Brooke steps back quickly, clearing her throat, but my feet—and eyes—stay planted.
"All good, man," I say, without looking away. She's flustered, clearly affected by our conversation—by me.So, why is she resisting so much?
"We were just, uh—he was—" she stammers.
"I was just showing her around," I offer through a sigh, finally turning to Max. "She's helping with social media for a while."
Max chuckles knowingly, walking to a crate of pucks in the corner of the room. "Well, don't let me stop you." He picks it up and heads back toward the door without so much as another word.
When it latches shut, I look at Brooke who is chewing at her bottom lip, arms folded tight like she can't trust herself otherwise.
