She sticks her lips out in a pout. “It won’t take long. Please?” She puts her hands together, begging.
Tully sighs, but it doesn’t deter the trio. The other two pull out their Whitman jerseys too, along with a Sharpie, and they hold them out for Tully to sign.
“Sorry,” he says to me.
“She doesn’t mind, do you?” the ringleader says, givingme a snarky smile. “You’re a superstar,” she says to Tully. “Comes with the territory, right?”
She doesn’t bother to hide the fact that she slips a paper in his hand. He looks at it and tries to hand it back, but she steps away. He sets it next to him and signs the next jersey. They linger for a few minutes when he’s done, and he answers their questions with one-word answers. He’s putting out all the signals that he’s not enjoying this without being outright rude. When they finally walk away, he turns and faces me.
“I am so sorry about that.”
“They were a bit pushy.” My eyes go wide. “Do you think they followed us here?”
He makes a face. “Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if they did. I didn’t want to be a jackass, but they were making it difficult.”
We both laugh, soft and stunned.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says.
Outside, the night air feels cool after the warmth of the conservatory. The parking lot is nearly empty now. I’m happy to not see the girls lingering nearby.
I lean against the car, and his hand finds my waist.
“It’s been an amazing night.”
“The girls didn’t ruin it?”
My nose crinkles. “It wasn’t my favorite part of the night, but no, they didn’t ruin it.”
His thumb traces my cheek. “I’m glad. I’m not ready for the night to end.”
I look up at him. “It doesn’t have to.”
The question hangs there, fragile and electric.
“Come over?” he asks.
Every nerve in my body hums. We haven’t crossed that line yet. We’ve circled it and pretended we weren’t inching closer every time we touched. But tonight I don’t want to becareful. When we’re together, anusfeels inevitable and a little bit sacred.
“Yes,” I say softly.
He gives me that heart-stopping smile.
He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide inside. As he rounds the hood of the car, he glances at me through the windshield like he can’t quite believe I’m real.
I feel the same way about him.
When he gets in, our hands find each other again before the engine even starts.
A chorus of wolf whistles hits us when we walk inside Tully’s house.
“Look who finally brought a girl home!” A guy’s voice booms from the living room, where he’s sprawled on the massive sectional with a beer in hand and a grin that promises trouble.
Two other guys are lounging nearby, controllers in their laps, a game paused on the giant TV. The house smells like pizza and whatever cologne hockey players—or college guys, in general—think counts as subtle.
Tully’s arm tightens around my waist. “Ignore him,” he mutters, but there’s a flush creeping up his neck.
“Impossible,” the same guy calls, sitting up straighter. “Lola, right? The one who’s got our boy walking around with hearts in his eyes. Welcome to the hockey house. I’m Dax. Watch out. We’re wild around here.”
