She rolls her tongue over her top teeth and sinks a little further into the cushion. "Well, I know the goal celebrations aren't you unless you like just throwing cash down the drain."
I laugh, my eyes on my jeans as I zipper them up. "Yeah, no. They used to be, back when I was a kid. But that shit is typically a dick move in the league. Hockey's awesport, so showboating like that only really flies because I know how to toe the line."
"And because that's what the people want."
"Exactly." Plopping down on the middle of the couch, I pull her calves onto my lap and throw my arm over her legs.
"And the parties, the world traveling, the ladies-man thing. You're saying all of that's for appearances?" Her tone's not accusatory, though she wiggles her eyebrows like she's giving me shit.
"I mean, don't get me wrong—I like a good party or trip as much as the next guy. But I'd much rather kill a case with my friends or lay low in the mountains somewhere than close down the club or rent out an island."
She nods slowly, taking it all in. "And the women?"
I heave a deep sigh and trace a wave she has tattooed on her ankle. "I like to fuck, I think that's obvious." I glance up at her, her expression not giving me any reaction. "But those women you see me out with, adifferent celebrity every few days, that's not me. They're fine, I guess, but I don't like them like that. Hell, sometimes they don't like me either."
"But it looks good?"
"It paints a sexy picture. Keeps me relevant off the ice. It's the whole "women want me and men want to be me" thing. It's good for branding and marketing and shit, and all of that brings the Flames more attention. But they're not my type."
"Uh huh," she says, playing with the string of her shorts. "And what is your type then?"
"You."
My answer is quick and definitive and causes that faint blush that every so often creeps up her neck. But this is the first time anyone's ever talked this through with me. The first time anyone's ever really cared. And I'm not wasting it by tip-toeing around my thoughts.
"So… brunettes. Tattoos, nose rings, hilarious…"
"No," I say sternly. "Just you."
She smirks deliberately. "You think you're smooth."
"Well, yeah," I quip. "But I'm also serious, Brooke." I drag my hand up her leg, stopping just above her knee and brushing circles on the bottom of her thigh with my thumb.
She shuffles in her spot, wedging her hands between her legs. "Okay, so the angsty music is definitely yours. And so is the bike. I would have assumed you owned like a dozen different Lambos instead." I go along with her topic change, allowing my eyes to grow wide, impressed and agreeing that she's right about the ride.
"And the style…" She continues, sitting forward and looking me up and down. "The clothes and tattoos are you—badass but not flashy about it. But I'm gonna say the signature hair and gold chain are for thelook."
Out of habit, I run my hand through my overgrown locks. "You got the hair right. That's one of the first things I changed. I was told togrow the flow."
She giggles, and I clear my throat before continuing. "But the chain, no, that's uh, that's me actually." She pulls her head back in surprise as I pick up the necklace and brush my thumb along the metal beforedropping it again. "My mom gave it to me when I started high school. It was the last thing I got from her before she died."
She doesn't respond, not verbally at least. Instead, she reaches out and places her hand over mine that's resting on her knee. My eyes land on her touch, and I realize Brooke might know more about me after this short time than any other living person. It's surprising in a way, but also not at all. What does shock me, though, is how good it feels to be known. Seen. Listened to.
"She had pancreatic cancer," I continue unexpectedly, spinning the thin gold band on her middle finger. "Late-stage. We didn't find out until she only had about six months left. It all happened really fast, which is good and bad, I guess. She was my… my rock, really. My dad was always a lot, constantly pushing me. But my mom, she was—she was just different." I finally meet her eyes. "She kept me grounded."
Once again, Brooke stays quiet until she sits up and runs her hand past my cheek. I lean into her touch, my eyes closing softly when she pulls me to her and kisses me firmly. I sink into her lips. The wave of guilt that typically crashes in my chest when I think about how different I was when Mom was alive, only ripples by.
When we separate, I leave my forehead pressed to hers. "You're a good listener," I whisper.
She smirks and pulls back. "In case you were wondering, I like the chain."
Her avoidance once again hits me like whiplash. And this time, I'm not breezing past it. "You know, for what it's worth, I don't usually do this either."
"Do what?"
"Open up. Talk about feelings and shit."
She blushes before offering a shy smile. "Am I that obvious?"
