Page 24 of Love of the Game
It was a good thing I knew these roads so well, because Drake in that suit was completely distracting, enough so that I had to force myself to focus on the roadway, rather than snatch glances of him. It was bad enough that I’d fumbled and dropped my keys when he’d walked down the stairs looking like that. I’d always found him attractive, and certainly had appreciated his appearance when he’d walked into Hideaway, but this morning the good looks had been on another level.
Maybe it was the weight that had been lifted off his shoulders from the morning’s conversations, or the quality of the light streaming in from the living room. All I knew was that his curling blond hair matched the bright gold of his tie and pocket square, and the blue of his suit only enhanced the color of his eyes. Stunning. Beautiful. Mesmerizing.
And yeah, I snatched a glance or two while I was driving. Drake was—relaxed. Peaceful. Maybe even content.
“God,” he said, “I haven’t road-tripped to a game in anactual bus for so long. Glad it’s not one of those sixteen-hour road trips.”
“Thankfully, we only have a few that are more than eight. Most are like today—less than five. And we fly sometimes—especially during the playoffs.” Not that Drake would be here for those. Hell, I didn’t know if he’d be here through Christmas or New Year’s.
“I don’t mind. I didn’t mind back then.” Drake shifted in his seat. “You were right—about loving hockey. I used to love those trips. Being with my buddies. Bonding on the road. Playing in different arenas.” I heard the smile in his voice as he added, “Beating the crap out of those teams and shutting up their fans.”
“Oh, that part is always fun, isn’t it? The way the arena goes silent when you increase a lead, or the other team kills a penalty and you score anyway.” Those had been goose bump moments in both my career, and watching Papa win his Cups. “We usually do well against the Pickaxes. We’re their curse team, I guess.”
That got me a bright laugh as we pulled into the players’ lot at the Otters’ practice rink. Once we were parked, I was able to turn my attention fully to Drake. “It’ll be fun tonight, I promise.”
How could someone go so fully from being the personification of a rainy, cloudy day to one full of light? But that was how Drake looked now. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said.
We got out and headed into the arena. The team’s social media person, Monica, was out with her camera taking photos as we walked in, and I hoped that Drake’s photo made it out onto one of the channels today, because asking her for a copy would be embarrassing.
I still might do that, though, because goddamn.
I wasn’t the only one who thought he looked good, given the whistles when we entered the arena.
“Dragon’s giving Jonny a run for the fancy pants award,” Hardy said.
A flush of red touched Drake’s cheeks. “Dragonisbetter than Duck,” he murmured.
I just chuckled, feeling pleased as punch for that blush, that little smile, and the sunshine that had chased away Drake’s clouds.
On the ice, Drake was a new player—or rather, he was the player he’d been up with the Lions for two seasons. Controlled. Fast. Skilled. His wrist shot was deceptive and wicked and his skating sublime.
Mac pulled me aside when I came in from the ice. “I don’t know what you did, but that kid’s skating like someone cut a weight from his neck.”
“He did that himself,” I said. But a part of me worried—telling his therapist about the appearance of his sperm donor and sharing that with me must have lightened his spirit. But the psychological weight of that was still there. Yes, he was handling it now, rather than bottling it up, but these types of shakeups had their highs and lows.
Hopefully, Drake had the tools to deal with the lows. Maybe playing good hockey again would help that.
We were back in our suits for the bus ride to the game in Harrisburg. Drake set the suit jacket and tie aside. A lot of guys, including me, did that. They’d get put on when we got close to the Pickaxes’s arena.
Drake caught up to me as we were milling around, waiting for the bus to pull up. “Hey,” he said. “Where’s the best place for me to sit? I know teams have their spots on the bus and plane and all that… I don’t want to cause any more problems.”
“A couple of the guys move around a lot, so there’s not exactly a whole reserved space thing with the team. I mean, except with Clancy and Ivan, but they’re goalies, so they’re weird.”
Ivan cuffed me gently on the back of the head, and said in beautiful Russian-accented English, “I heard that, Mr. Biker Leather Daddy.”
God. Embarrassment rose like heat from a July parking lot. “I’mnota leather daddy.”
Drake raised his eyebrows. “I’ve seen you in leather.”
And didn’t that get the boys oohing and ahhing. I rolled my eyes. “A leather jacket and chaps doesn’t make you a leather daddy. I’d just rather not lose skin if I bite the road, that’s all.”
There was more chatter and ribbing, but that ended when the bus pulled up and we helped the equipment guys load our gear.
“So,” Drake said, “sit anywhere?”
“Sit with me,” I replied. “Unless you hate the window. I sit in the aisle, usually alone. Hate the window.”
His lips quirked into a smile. “I love the window.”
