I shove it back in front of him, inhaling deeply, my mouth still formed in a forceful grin.
Ellis-Hughes stands straighter, the corner of his lips turning upward. "Excalibur."
I nod, and thankfully, Ward steps up behind him, saving us both from any more indecisiveness.
"Claus."
I snort out a laugh. "What?" He simply shrugs and continues walking by as Petrov's presence shadows above me.
Still half giggling, I swallow down his massive size, tip my chin up to him, and hold out the mic. "Hey, Alexei, if your hockey stick had a name, what would it be?"
He pauses, contemplating, then glances down at his stick. After a moment of consideration, he looks back at me. "Volshebnaya Palochka."
"Oh," I say quickly. "That's, um—wow. Okay." He stares at me, his expression as unreadable as it normally is. After another beat of silence I assumed he would fill, I ask, "And what does that mean?"
"It is the same as you saywand." We both look at each other blankly. "Because with it I make the magic."
My eyes go wide as I tilt my head. "Huh. That's so… poetic."
He nods assertively then walks away. I track his movement, dumbfounded by the intricate depth of such a large man. When I turn around, Drew is standing there, leaning his weight against his stick, his helmet unstrapped and one eyebrow raised. "You gonna ask me?"
"Yeah, sure," I say before swallowing. I take an interest in my phone to ensure it's still recording and notice through the view of the camera that Drew is watching me.
The way he looks at me is different than I would have expected.He'sdifferent than I would have expected. I think back to our conversation earlier in the shooting bay. The way he spoke up for me with Levi. Everything about that night at the gala.
But that's onlyhimsome of the time.
And that's only one of our problems.
I reach my arm out to him, clearing my throat. "What would your stick be called if you had to give it a name, Twelve?"
Drew narrows his eyes and runs his tongue along his top lip. "Maybe—"
"The Hammer," Brett says, stepping up to Drew and throwing his arms over his shoulder. He knocks his glove into Drew's stick, and it falls to the rubber ground with a thump. "Look, Cap. Youdroppedit."
Drew scrunches up his face as he looks at him sideways, then puts his arm behind him and shoves him forward. "Get lost, Burnsey," he says through a chuckle.
Burns lets out his infamous cackle as he falls into step backward, away from us and the video. "My stick's name is Dixie, by the way! Dixie Normus!" he calls to us as he continues down the hall.
"You wish, bud!" Drew yells, then rolls his eyes to me.
"I'll just edit all that out."
"Good idea."
I tap the record button on my phone to stop the video. "I think I have enough anyway."
A silence falls between us. It's not uncomfortable, but definitely charged. Every interaction I have with Drew feels weighted. Not necessarily heavy, but dense. Maybe it's because I know how I feel—hell, I know howhefeels—but I won't act on it. Maybe it's because wereally do connect. But it always seems like there's a depth to our interactions—electric chemistry, intense banter, loaded questions. Like if I just let myself give in, we might fall from the cliff we're teetering on.
It gets me thinking that if I want to do my best here, I'm going to need some of the novelty to wear off between us. I can't work with him every day for a month, thinking there's some sort of unsolved mystery inside of him—some unlocked potential. I need things to be easy and casual. I need to see him as the man that he is and not the man I wrote him to be in my head that night. I need to see the Drew that the world sees—but for myself.
"What's your typical day look like?" I ask, capitalizing on the motivation I have.
He pulls his neck back, justifiably caught off guard. "Um, it's different all the time, honestly."
"Do you think you could show me?" His eyebrows shoot up before he blinks them back down, attempting to hide his surprise. "Maybe let me sort of shadow you for a day?"
His brow wrinkles slightly. "Like for content?"
