Drew looks at me, confusion written on his face.
"Protein powder," I whisper.
His mouth forms an O shape, and I'm drawn to his lips. "I was gonna say..." he starts, moving to another cabinet and producing a tub. "Nothing vanilla about me, baby." He says it jokingly, throwing me a wink as he unscrews the top, but there's my smutty mind again, dropping to her knees.
"Just put it in," I order with a roll to my eyes. He gapes at me, and I exhale heavily. "You know what I mean."
He obliges, filling the scooper from the container with the sweet white powder and dropping the protein into the blender.
"That it?" I ask, picking up the lid. I almost have it on when he holds up a finger, telling me to wait. He walks to the pantry, bringing with him a small bag of tiny black beads. "Chia seeds?"
He winks again and shakes some in. "Chocolate chips."
We both smile, and it hits me just hownormalthis is. The showman, the playboy, the Flames' franchise forward, simply making a smoothie and pretending it's a treat instead of a makeshift meal. At 6:30 this morning, I never would have guessed I'd be joking around with Drew in his kitchen. I pictured some hockey, sure, and okay, there's a photoshoot later, but I would have imagined more limelight than banter—more cool guy than boy next door.
Drew reaches past me, the movement putting him so close to me I can smell the body wash he used after practice. The smell, the proximity, my body's natural reaction—all of it causes a panic in me.
Without thinking, I push the start button, desperate to do anything but run my hands through his hair—hear anything but his name fall from my lips. The second I do, dust flies from the blender, green chunks of soggy kale flying in every direction.
"Oh my God!" I squeal over the whir of the motor, my hands flying to my face.
"Oh, shit!" Drew yells.
"Turn it off!"
He nudges me out of the way, his fingers fumbling the buttons, the sound only changing from the settings he's hitting rather than the off switch. "I'm trying!"
Droplets of sludge continue raining down on us both, the grinding blade now mocking us at full speed.
"Drew!"
"Brooke!"
Finally, the buzzing stops, the chaos of the noise and the kale confetti ending with it. I drop my hands slowly, the aftermath of the unfortunate event painted all over the kitchen, our clothes, and my mortified self.
Drew and I both stand frozen, his gaze glued on the appliance from hell. When his eyes make their way to mine, we stare at each other for just an instant before both of us lose it. We bust out laughing, me wiping tears away from my milk-splattered face as he's doubled over, bracing himself on the now-messy island.
When our laughter slows, and we catch our breaths, Drew stands back up, looking down at himself.
"I'm so sorry," I say, embarrassment creeping back in.
Drew shakes his head, lifting the collar of his shirt over his nose to wipe it clean. "Don't be," he says. "I haven't laughed that hard in years."
"No way," I reply, peeling leaves off my arms. "You have yourself plenty of fun."
Drew pauses, his expression growing serious—almost heated.
"What?” I ask, taken aback by the shift.
"You don’t get it yet, do you?” He turns his whole body to me, using the pad of his thumb to brush a seed from my cheek. His knuckles linger near my jaw as his eyes travel down my face.
My lips part, but I don't know what to say. "Drew, I—"
"Nevermind,” he interrupts. "Don't answer that." He steps back and offers me a polite smile. "Let's get you cleaned up. I have a shirt you can wear."
16
Drew
