Center Ice (Boston Rebels Book 1)

DREW:

Sorry, couldn’t stop and talk with Jameson right there. He just read me the riot act about not going near you. Anyway…I hear cookies are tonight’s plan? Send me your and Graham’s order and I’ll meet you at the location on Boylston Street.

“Did you tell Drew where we were going for cookies?” I ask Graham.

“Yeah, he said that’s his favorite place too.”

Of course they both have the same expensive-ass taste in cookies.

“What kind do you want tonight?” I ask him as we leave the rink and head to the car.

“I think…”—he carefully ponders his options—“tonight feels like an M&M cookie kind of night.”

AUDREY:

So sorry to have missed THAT conversation. Graham would like an M&M cookie, and I’d like a salted caramel, please.

I don’t tell Graham that Drew is meeting us there. I try to convince myself it’s because I don’t want him to be disappointed if Drew doesn’t show, but maybe it’s also because I don’t quite want to get my own hopes up and potentially be disappointed myself.

Drew seems like a different person, in a different place in his life now, but his reputation is unchanged. If anything, according to the media, he’s even wilder now than when I knew him in college. And he let me down in the biggest way six years ago, so it’s going to take a bit for me to trust him again.

Of course, we manage to find parking right in front of the store—benefits of going after the work crowd has left the city—and Graham practically shrieks, “Mom, Drew’s in there! Do you think he came to see me?”

“I bet he did,” I say, giving him a smile in the rearview mirror as I unbuckle.

“Can I go in?”

I glance across the wide expanse of sidewalk between the curb and the store, and there’s almost no one around. “Sure, go ahead,” I say as I open my door and step out. He zooms out, slamming the car door behind him, and makes a run for the door to the store, which he’s barely able to pull open by himself. Through the large windows, I see him bouncing up and down in front of Drew, who looks nervously beyond him at the door.

When I walk in, Drew looks relieved. “I was worried you weren’t coming,” he says to me as I approach the table.

“Yeah, I just let my five-year-old run wild in the city by himself.”

“You do not,” Graham insists. “You don’t even let me cross the street without holding your hand!”

“Good,” Drew says definitively, and that has Graham’s eyes snapping back to him. “I grew up in Boston too, and cities aren’t safe places for kids to run around by themselves. So make sure you’re always with your mom or a trusted adult, okay?”

Graham nods, then looks up at me. “Is Drew a trusted adult?”

“I don’t know,” I say, eyeing Drew. He bites his lower lip like he’s trying not to smile and shakes his head at me—he thinks I’m teasing him, and in a way, I am. But I’m also serious. “I think we should probably get to know him better before we decide.”

Next to me, Graham nods like I’ve said the wisest thing in the world. “Are those cookies?” he asks as he eyes the large box sitting on the table in front of Drew.

“Sure are. I thought maybe we could take them and eat outside since it’s such a nice night. Copley Square?” he asks me.

“For a few minutes. It’s getting close to bedtime.”

Drew glances at his watch. “Alright, we’ll take a quick walk down there, eat a cookie, and then get you home in time for bed.”

I know he doesn’t mean he’s coming home with us, but it half-way sounds like that’s his intention. And I don’t hate that idea.

Yes, you do. It’s a terrible idea.

My mind is at war with itself, reminding me why I can’t be interested in Drew, while simultaneously reminding me that there’s a distinct possibility he might be around more often if this all goes well. Which means I’m going to have to keep my fucking hormones at bay so I don’t screw this up for Graham.

“Uhh, you ready?” Drew’s looking at me like I’m a bit deranged, which is when I realize that he and Graham are ready to go, and I’m standing like a statue blocking their path to the door.

I turn to head out, ushering Graham in front of me, and there’s Drew’s hand again, on the small of my back, just like the other night. This time, he doesn’t drop it when we get outside. Instead, his palm lies flat against my spine and his fingertips press into my sweater like five points of contact anchoring him to me.

As we walk, he traces his thumb along a muscle in my lower back and a chill ricochets up my spine as my body reacts. It’s probably just because I’m getting my period soon, so my lower back is already stiff and sensitive. But a quick glance sideways tells me that he’s noticed, and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea, so I look down, holding out my hand to Graham, who takes it and falls into step with us.

We pass the Public Library and cross the street to where the grassy square, dotted with trees and benches, spreads out before us. At the far end of the grass, Trinity Church stands in all its Romanesque Revival glory. This US National Historic Landmark, with its heavy arches and huge towers built of granite and brownstone, spawned my love affair with architecture. I spent countless hours here as a teenager, in the shadow of the massive, mirrored Hancock Tower, sketching this building and drawing up my own designs.

“This is my mom’s favorite building,” Graham says as Drew sits on a park bench and opens the box of cookies in his lap.

“Is that so?” He hands Graham an M&M cookie, then glances up at me through his impossibly long lashes. The same ones that line Graham’s eyes.

I nod as I sit down next to him.

His voice softens as he asks, “What do you love about it?”

The light is fading as sunset approaches, so when Graham hops up on the ledge lining the fountain across from us, I call out, “Be careful, please!”

Graham doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking cautiously along the ledge as if his actions are his response.

“So? What is it that you love about Trinity?”

“How much time do you have?”

“For you, I’ve got all night.”

I roll my eyes. “Do those kinds of cheesy lines usually work?”

“I was being serious.” In the golden light, the line of his cheekbones stands out against the skin cast in shadows below them. His nose is perfectly straight, and his lower lip is a bit fuller than his upper lip. He’s too good looking for his own good. “But also”—he gives me a sheepish grin—“yeah.”

I shake my head. “We’re not in college anymore, Drew. You’re not going to win your way into my bed with cheesy pickup lines, followed by a cheeky grin.”

He leans into me, knocking his shoulder against mine playfully. “Should I be trying to win my way into your bed?”

“No.” I say the word firmly, even though my body is screaming, Yes! “Partnership, remember? Nothing more.”

He presses his lips together, but nods. There’s amusement in his voice when he says, “Right. Partnership.”

“Drew,” I say, like he’s a child.

“Is that your you’re in trouble voice, Audrey?’ He leans in a little closer and raises an eyebrow. His breath ghosts across my lips when he says, “Because, just a warning…I like that quite a lot. Makes me wonder what else I should do to get a reaction out of you.”

The heat creeps into my neck as the flush works its way toward my face. His words have me thinking about all the ways he could get a reaction out of me, but that line of thought needs to stop, so I change the subject.

“I got the video you sent of your mom’s house. I showed it to Jules, and she felt like we could probably fit that in this winter. But we need to see it in person, and I need to take some measurements and draw up some plans. Think it’s possible for us to stop by sometime?”

“Of course. I’d like to be there when you do, so it doesn’t confuse my mom.”

“Absolutely. We can coordinate something. When’s your first road game?”

We talk a bit about scheduling and realize that because Jules is leaving tomorrow for Maine and will be gone all week, and then he’s traveling, it’ll be almost two weeks before we can make it work. “Alright, I’m putting it in my calendar right now,” I say as I pull out my phone.

Just then, Graham gives a helpless squeal as water splashes out of the fountain in front of us. He stands there, one leg in the water and one leg on the ground, straddling the ledge he’d been walking on.

“Shit,” I mutter, pissed at myself for letting him walk on there in the first place, and already anticipating having to get his sneakers dried out before school tomorrow.

Drew stands, setting the box of cookies on my lap, and is over to Graham in three steps. He lifts him up, setting him on the ground, then kneels down in front of him.

“You have a pretty wet leg, my friend,” he says to our son.

From this profile view, I can see that Graham’s eyes are filled with tears and his lower lip is trembling as he tries to hold it together. Mostly, I think he’s embarrassed. He just nods back to Drew.

“Well, that would be an uncomfortable walk back to the car,” he says. “How about I give you a piggyback ride instead?”

Graham looks at me, checking that it’s okay, and I give him a little nod and smile. Drew looks over his shoulder, and says, “Climb on.”

I watch Graham throw his arms around Drew’s neck, and Drew hooks his arms under Graham’s knees to anchor him in place. As I stand and carry the box of cookies over to them, I can’t help but notice how easily Drew just diffused the situation. Where I might have reminded Graham that I told him to be careful or given him a little lecture as I made him walk back to the car with his dripping wet shoes and pant leg, Drew acknowledged that it happened, and moved on.

His place on Drew’s back makes Graham a head taller than me, and he looks over at me and says, “I’ll be more careful next time, Mom.”

“Sounds like a good plan, Bud.” And then, because I’m struck by how much they look alike as Graham sits there with his chin resting on Drew’s shoulder, I ask them to pause for a picture together. I expect Drew to balk at the idea, but he doesn’t. They both smile happily.

“Send me a copy?” Drew asks as we start walking again.

“Sure.” I text him the photo, and when we arrive back at my parked car, Drew shuts the door after Graham climbs in the backseat, then turns toward me.

“Thanks for carrying him back,” I say. He’s big enough now that carrying him several city blocks would have been nearly impossible.

“I’m happy to help. Really,” he says, then reaches out, tilting my chin up so I’m looking at him. Then his fingertips slide along my jaw and tuck my hair behind my ear. The wave of longing that runs through me is damn close to incinerating me. “If you ever need anything, just call.”

“Thanks,” I say, then move to hand him the box of cookies because I need to put some physical distance between us so I don’t jump him.

“You didn’t have yours yet,” he says, nodding his chin at the box in my hands. “You should keep them.”

“How many cookies are in here?” I ask, eying the box.

“Enough.” He gives me a small smile and turns, walking down the street. He hangs a left at the intersection, moving out of view, and as I watch him walk away, it occurs to me that I’m not mad about him being back in my life. In fact, I’m kind of liking his presence a little too much.