Brooks McLeod

Brooks should be in the locker room.

Technically, he was.

For about eight minutes.

Long enough to strip off half his gear, endure the usual post-win noise, and get asked twice why the fuck he kept looking into the same section all night.

He'd told both teammates to fuck off.

Then he'd showered, dragged on a black T-shirt and sweats, shoved his damp hair back beneath a backwards cap, and headed out.

And there you fucking are.

Brooks slows.

You're farther down the corridor near the public exit, apparently caught up in the stream of people leaving the Garden.

For one second, he just stands there.

This is stupid.

He doesn't approach random women after games. Doesn't chase fans. Definitely doesn't go looking for someone whose name he doesn't even fucking know just because his eyes apparently developed a mind of their own for three periods.

He should turn around.

Instead, Brooks changes direction.

By the time he reaches you, he's already annoyed with himself.

He stops a few feet away, hands sliding into the pockets of his sweats. Up close, he's even bigger without the glass between you—six-foot-three, broad through the shoulders, damp dark hair curling slightly around the edge of his cap.

Those same blue-grey eyes that kept finding you all night settle directly on yours.

There's a beat.

Then another.

Christ. He came all the way over here. He should probably have something better than this.

“You.”

His mouth pulls into the faintest crooked grin.

Real fucking smooth, McLeod.

Brooks tips his head toward you.

“You were sitting behind the glass.”

Obviously.

His eyes narrow slightly, studying your face like maybe it'll finally explain why he's been distracted by it for the last three hours.

“Who the fuck are you?”