CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
MEET ME IN THE MIDDLE
LOLA
The lights of the arena pulse overhead, and the noise builds the closer we get to game time. I’ve been excited for the home games, looking forward to spending more time with Tully and his family. I’m sandwiched in the family suite between Goldie and Juju, and Dahlia’s on the other side of Juju. They have had me laughing since we got here. Everett’s a few seats down, chatting with Tully’s brothers and Milo about line changes, and Grayson and Chloe are playing near Grandma Nancy and Grandma Donna. The whole crew is here tonight, a protective cocoon of flannel, team scarves, and the faint smell of hot chocolate.
Wade and Kip are here too, keeping an eye out for Daniel. According to Joe, Daniel has been lingering around my apartment and my shop. He hasn’t texted again. I think he’s thrown off with me being gone. At least I hope he is. I hope he’s shaken up. I’m sick of his threats hanging over my head like smelly smoke.
I’m wearing Tully’s jersey. It’s oversized on me, thesleeves rolled twice so my hands don’t disappear. It still smells faintly like his cologne mixed with whatever laundry detergent the team uses.
Down on the ice, warm-ups are in full swing. Tully is one of the first to glide out in that easy, sexy way of his. He begins with tight figure eights that showcase his impeccable balance. His hips sway rhythmically, rotating open and closed in a turn that’s almost hypnotic—legs spreading wide, then snapping back together with controlled power.
Then he drops low into a crouch, knees bending deeply as he performs side-to-side shuffles that make his quads bulge and release in rhythmic pulses. His body lowers even further, making my lustful thoughts run rampant when he hovers just above the ice, his hips grinding in small circles. You can see the strain and release in his muscles, the way his breath quickens, fogging slightly against the cold air.
“Oh God. I can’t look when he does that,” Goldie complains, covering her eyes and peeking at me. “Tell me when it’s over.”
“I’ll have to tell you—Lola can’t look away,” Juju says.
They all laugh, and so do I, but then his knees splay wide, his ass on commanding display, and he glides his knees up and out as I drool. Music pulses in the background, upbeat and driving, and I feel like I’ve just experienced a half hour of foreplay. If that’s a warm-up, consider me warmed.
Heat pools low in my belly, insistent. I cross my legs, trying to look casual. My pulse is loud in my ears.
“One time these two older women ruined the game for me,” Goldie says. “‘God, look at him stretch like that,’ one of them said. ‘That ought to be illegal.’ And the other one was like, ‘Right? How is he real? I need a cold shower just from the drills. I wish he’d drill me!’” She shudders and groans,and she’s probably rolling her eyes, but I can’t look away from Tully to find out.
I don’t want to miss anything.
“I do not need to hear horny old women talking about my twin like that,” Goldie adds.
Tonight’s going to be a long three periods.
The Fierce are on fire tonight, and I’m in complete agreement with those women Goldie was talking about. I’m a mess. My skin feels too tight, my pulse hammering low and insistent between my legs, all because of Tully. I remember this feeling from watching him in college, how I couldn’t wait to get my hands on him after a game, but now it’s magnified.
The periods blur. Hits, saves, goals. The Fierce pull ahead, and every time Tully touches the puck, my stomach flips. He’s everywhere—forechecking, blocking shots, setting up plays with that intensity that draws every eye to him. When the final buzzer sounds, the scoreboard lights up: We win, 4–2. The arena erupts.
Tully skates toward the boards instead of heading straight for the tunnel. There’s this little boy, maybe four or five, his face pressed against the glass, his eyes huge and shining. He’s wearing a too-big Fierce jersey with Tully’s number on the back, and his hands smack the plexiglass in excitement.
Tully slows, and with his devastating grin, he drops to one knee so he’s at eye level with the boy. He taps his stick gently against the glass right where the kid’s nose is smooshed, then presses his palm flat against it like a high-five through the barrier. The boy goes wild, bouncing and laughing so hard. Tully says something, and the kid nods frantically, and thenTully stands and thumps his chest once before skating off with a little salute.
My chest caves in, melting and aching at the same time. Our child would have been around that age.
I haven’t let myself think about having a child one day, not after the loss of our baby threatened to send me under. But now…maybe…maybe I can let hope in. Maybe we’ll get another chance.
The neon sign above the door flickersRebel Markin red and electric blue as Tully and I step inside. The shop smells the same—sterile green soap, faint incense, old leather, and the metallic tang of ink. My chest warms with nostalgia.
Ken’s behind the counter, the gray streaking his beard heavier than I remember. His face splits into a grin the second he sees me.
“Lola,” he booms, coming around to pull me into a bear hug that lifts me off my boots for a second. “Look at you, kid. World famous now, huh? Clients flying in from everywhere just to sit in your chair.”
I laugh, hugging him back. “Not quite world famous. Just…busy.”
“Bullshit. I’ve seen your portfolio. I’ve heard the buzz. That watercolor sleeve you did for that musician last year? People lost their minds over it.” He releases me and claps Tully on the shoulder. “And you brought this guy.Tully Whitman. Good to see you again, man. Been following your career. Doing Minnesota proud.”
Tully nods, easy smile in place. “Thanks, Ken. I appreciate that. It’s good to see you too.”
“You’re in a little better shape than the last time I sawyou.” Ken points at Tully. “I’m glad to see the two of you worked things out.”
I glance at Tully, and he lifts a shoulder. “I put Ken through an interrogation when you left.”
