He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, then dips into the hall, taking the real promise of my words with him as he goes.
28
Drew
"Granger had it comin', huh Stormy?" Brett slaps his arm over Petrov's shoulders as we step into the locker room.
Alexei shrugs Burnsey's hand off instantly, but tips his chin down at him. "Our opponents will respect our goalie."
The team erupts in claps and whistles, celebrating the two minute cross-checking call that Petrov took after the Lightning's forward snowed Ward at the whistle in the beginning of the third period.
"Yeah, thanks, brother!" Carter calls from the opposite side of the room. Petrov grunts and tosses his gloves into his stall as Brett sits on the bench next to me to untie his laces.
"Way to go, bud," Burns says, sliding his first skate off. He gets to work on the other as he scoots closer to me, his voice low. "What was with you out there, Cap? Awfully quiet today."
Anxiety bubbles in my chest despite knowing it was coming. He's the first to mention it, but he damn sure won't be the last. After my run-in with Brooke, I spent the next two periods doing everything I could to playmygame. I scored once, a backdoor goal, and rather than the throwback dance that Jane suggested earlier this week, I kept my head low, high-fived my team, and skated back to my position on the line.I avoided eye contact with my dad as the fans shouted their usual low, drawn-out "Drewww." But they all went quiet almost immediately when I gave them nothing in return.
The rest of the time was spent making simple plays, sending safe passes, and taking clean shots. It was hard at first to lose the act, but when I started to struggle—falling back into step or worrying about the repercussions—I held onto Brooke's words. I pictured her face.
Having her close is like hearing my favorite song for the first time all over again. She envelops my senses, each look like the bass hitting me right in the chest, each touch like lyrics I didn't know I needed to hear—intimate, electric. Her smile is the chorus I could never get sick of, her laugh the melody I never want to forget. Being near her doesn't just feel good, it fucking resonates. Like I've been waiting for her rhythm my whole damn life. I know there will be fallout from making the changes I started tonight, but having her by my side might be the perfect sound to drown out the noise.
"Just trying something different," I say flatly, grabbing my jersey between my shoulder blades and dragging it off over my head.
"Do I have to worry about you?" he asks, his focus still on his laces.
"Nah, man. I'm good."
Burns slips his other skate off and springs to his feet. "Alright, then." He turns, ripping his own jersey off. "You let me know if that changes, eh?"
As if on cue, Emma Dean walks into the locker room, all legs and tits, her usual cameraman on her six-inch heels. She locks in on me and saunters over, her high ponytail swaying with her hips.
"Drew Anderson?" she questions, her voice dripping with sarcasm. I spin around, nothing but my gitch still on at this point, but she doesn't care. She prefers it that way. "Oh, it is you. I wasn't sure after what I just watched out there."
"We lost 4–2, Emma," I say through a sigh. "We were down by one, pulled Ward with a minute left, and the Lightning scored an empty net goal. Games like those are a dime a dozen. Come on..." I narrow my eyes and tilt my head knowingly.
"Oh, I didn't mean the game," she persists. "I meantyou."
My gaze lingers on her as I slide my thumb under my chain and brush it back and forth, my learned arrogance coming to light. "Oh, I knew what you meant."
She smiles sweetly, looking back at the balding cameraman at her service and finally pulling the mic up from her side. "So, Drew, we didn't see much of your usual performance out there today. Any insight?"
I lick my lips, looking right into the camera. I lean down so my mouth nearly touches the microphone and paint a cocky smirk. "None, actually."
Emma squints at me coyly, her free hand landing gently on my bicep. "Oh, come on. There's absolutely no reason for the complete one-eighty? Not even… one line? One little bump?"
Heat burns behind my eyes and rage swirls in my gut as she points the mic back at me. Emma and I hold our stare, my jaw tight, her expression perfectly relaxed—neither of us wavering. For a second I contemplate laying it all on the table—spilling the truth or at least giving her and the world a piece of my mind. But when I part my lips to speak, my hands both balled into fists outside the view of the camera, there's a forearm on my shoulder.
"It was nice of Cap to share the spotlight tonight. He's so generous, aren't ya bud?" Burnsey's eyes burn a hole in the side of my head, but mine are still piercing through Emma. "Humble too, huh, Em?" Brett tosses the reporter when my motives are clear.
Her eyes dance back and forth between the two of us until Burns steps closer to her, boxing me out. "I—"
"I know you saw that top-shelf goal," he adds, cutting her off. "Dirty dangle then popped it up glove-side. Goalie's still lookin' for it, am I right?"
I miss Emma's undoubtedly lackluster response as I turn back to my stall and pretend to be busy searching in my bag. My teeth are clenched so hard I'm afraid they might crack, my nostrils flaring with each sharp breath. I grab a hold of a roll of tape in my duffle and squeeze it with everything I have, crushing the tube in the middle so the two separated parts collapse in on each other. I search my mind for a song, one off ofBrooke's playlist or the fucking ABC's at this point, but nothing tunes out the ringing in my ears.
Time moves in slow motion as a list runs through my head of every person, reporter, or profile I'll hear from if this were to continue. Emma's just the start. This was one game.
And already, I can't take the heat.
