Curiosity causes my thoughts to race, but Drew stares straight ahead, clearly uncomfortable. If anyone knows a complicated relationship with a parent or the deep desire to avoid all feelings, it's me. So, instead of asking for more information, I coat the topic in humor instead. "Wow, okay. Came extremely close to meeting your parent on night one."
He looks at me side-eyed, offering a grateful smile.
"Great game," I say, continuing the topic change.
"Yeah, thanks." He slips his hands into his pockets.
"You had the whole stadium out of their seats straddling the blue line like that at the end there."
He turns toward me and winks casually. "That's the point."
The floor number in front of me continues to rise as I face him. "So, you really do all of that showboating intentionally? How? I can barely keep up with the game as it is."
He laughs, shrugging his shoulders. "Honestly? It's habit at this point. I used to do that goofy shit all the time for fun in Juniors and stuff. Now, it's more about appearances. Forced. It's like singing a song that you hate just because it's stuck in your head. It's annoying as hell, but you remember the words."
"Is that where you learned that little celebration you did too?" I ask, chuckling softly, wondering how the chill guy in front of me is the same one that used his stick as an oar an hour ago.
The elevator settles at what I know from the last time is Drew's penthouse floor, and the doors chime open. "That little celebration will cost me a couple grand," he says, using his arm to hold the door open.
"What? As in thousands of dollars?" I ask, still standing in my spot.
"As in three probably, yeah."
I stare at him, my mouth open and his closed nonchalantly. After a few seconds of his arm still slung over the opening, he looks into his apartment, then back at me. "Are you gonna…"
"Oh, shit, yeah, sorry," I stammer, stepping into his place, still wrapping my head around his comment. "So, let me get this straight. You did a dance you didn't even want to do, and it's gonna cost you three thousand dollars?"
Drew steps off and the doors close behind him. "Yeah, it's not considered the most sportsmanlike."
"Why do you do this again?"
He raises his eyebrows as he steps toward the kitchen. "Give the people what they want," he says over his shoulder.
"Would they really care if you stopped?"
"Oh, they'd care," he throws back.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly defensive of him. "Well, what about whatyouwant?"
Drew freezes right as he reaches the island that was covered in smoothie the last time I saw it. He stands with his back to me for just a second before rounding the counter and leaning his forearms on the granite. He hangs his head between his arms briefly before looking back at me. When he does, his eyes hold a mixture of amusement and sadness.
"What?" I ask, walking over to him, leaning on the opposite side of the island, playing with the strings of his sweatshirt that I'm still happily drowning in.
He shakes his head shortly, inhaling deeply. "No one's ever asked me that before."
My eyebrows shoot up. "Ever?"
His lips turn down as he looks off in the distance as if he's trying to recall if he's missed an instance. "Not since my mom died."
His words, and my assumptions about him, hit me unexpectedly. I know what it's like for people to shove you down a path that you aren't interested in traveling. I've just been lucky enough to dig my heels in hard enough to avoid the forward momentum. But I've also had people like Blake and Aunt Ivy always on my side. It may be infrequent, or behindclosed doors, but their voices live rent free inside my mind, reminding me that what I want matters. And that they'll love me either way.
I think of Drew and how thousands of people judge him daily. Thousands of people, me included, assume that what we see is who he is. But we're wrong.
"So, whatdoyou want, Twelve?"
He smiles with his eyes before standing back up. "I used to love it, ya know? Fuck, I think I still do. Hockey, I mean. But the rest of it? The rest of it just feels like something completely different. It's not sport at all. It's a game. And I tried the whole lying low thing after my suspension last year," he says, continuing to circle around the question. "It was sort of necessary, so I used it to my advantage and cut out all that shit. No ego or extras on the ice. No parties, extravagant trips…"
He turns his lips in and narrows his eyes.
