"Actually," she counters, inching closer, her neck strained upward to get more in my face than she could otherwise with me in my skates.
Suddenly, my helmet flies out from my arm, and I whip around to see Max standing behind us with it in his hand. He nods at me once, either completely oblivious to the vibe or doing a damn good job at pretending he doesn't notice, then pulls my stick from my other hand.
"I got you, bro," he says, and I tip my chin up at him as he turns and walks away.
The encounter reminds me that we're right between the ice and the locker room and neither of us can afford the attention. But unlike my usual response, I'm not shrugging this off.
"Shooting bay. Five minutes," I grind out.
She rolls her eyes then reaches for the tripod. I grab her wrist as it hovers on top of the camera and lower my voice just above a whisper. "And so help me God, Brooke, you better be there."
Her eyes double in size, the movements of her chest that I definitely notice, picking up speed. She stills otherwise, her hand left resting on top of the camera as I let go of her wrist.
"Five minutes," I growl.
I take two steps away from her before turning back. "And by then you better have found your voice, Mystery Girl."
19
Brooke
Being that I can't cut through the locker room of naked hockey players after practice, I have to go the long way to the shooting bay. By the time I get there, I have maybe another minute until Drew arrives, and my heart is hammering inside my chest.
I'm not quite sure if it's due to adrenaline and how I'd like to rip into him for the way he put this all on me or the fact that I now have to wait here like a sitting duck because I don't have access until he arrives with his finger.
Ourdiscussionin the tunnel was only somewhat expected considering I knew Drew would plan to talk about last night. I didn't, however, think he'd be so aggressive about getting answers from me, which proved to be hotter—and more annoying—than I thought.
Standing here, I'm not really sure what to say. He wants answers to why I've been so hot and cold, but honestly, none of them are justified. I guess if I admitted it, then yes. I was turned on all fucking day because of the parts of him that he exposed to me—physically and otherwise. And some of me did turn a shade or two of green when I saw beautiful models draped over him. But what really got me was how all day he was one way with me—and so openly interested—and thenthe second I gave him anything back, he hit the road to pick up the next girl. The problem is, none of that should matter.
But apparently it did.
After another minute and a half that feels like an eternity, footsteps finally thump against the floor. I slowly drag my head toward the sound, andgoddamn.Drew knows how to come prepared for an argument. At least one against me.
He approaches me, his hair damp and slicked back, his gold chain sitting outside of a skin-tight, grey long-sleeve shirt that shows every curve and indent of his muscles. I can't even hide the way my eyes glaze over him, attempting to take in every inch from head to toe. When they get to the pants painted on over his impressive bulge and massive tree-trunk thighs, I literally freeze.
"Are you wearing leggings?" I ask, any edginess I was previously feeling completely absent from my tone.
"I didn't change out of my gitch yet," he says, reaching for the sensor by the door.
The smell that wafts toward me is a messy combination of his cologne and residual sweat, and I never knew that was erotic until right this second.
Drew pushes open the door, the boulders on his arm straining through the thin material as he holds it open for me. I crease my brows, swallowing my lust and forcing my attitude to take the wheel again. "What's a git—"
"Move, Brooke."
I don't even bother disobeying, not that I could considering my thirsty ass started walking into the bay the second those two words rolled off his tongue. I take the few seconds he needs to enter the space and shut the door behind him to drop my things and rechannel how I felt last night when I insisted I was fine with Al.
"So..." he starts, his frustration dulled slightly from time. "Start talking."
"What do you want me to say, Drew?"
"I want fucking answers, Brooke. An explanation," he says, his irritation building once again. "I didn't expect you to come hunt me downthis morning and confess your damn love, but I at least thought we'd have a conversation."
"We're having a conversation right now," I quip.
He rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. "Arealconversation. About last night. I mean, am I fucking crazy or did you at least for a second think that you might want this?"
He gestures back and forth between the two of us, and my teeth clench despite the way my eyes dart to the floor. I watch as he rests his hands on his hips, my brain now torn between sharing his intensity and staring at his crotch through his second skin.
