I can’t.
With Tully’s face still burned behind my eyelids, I wonder if love is supposed to feel this much like survival. Because I’ve had to fight to do just that ever since I walked away from him.
CHAPTER THREE
IMPOSSIBLE TO MISS
TULLY
Age 21
The bass thumps through the floorboards of the hockey house like it’s trying to crack the foundation. Bodies pack the living room—sweaty, laughing, shouting over the music—and the smell of the electrolytes in the mysterious beverage we’re drinking does little to mask the smell of vodka. We aren’t supposed to be doing this. Coach made it clear after the game:“Celebrate responsibly, and get plenty of rest. Practice starts at seven a.m. sharp tomorrow.”But we just smoked our biggest rival 5–2, and the guys decidedresponsiblycould wait.
I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a beer I swore I’d only sip—no way in hell I’m touching that drink—and watching my linemates turn the place into their personal playground. Dax has two girls giggling against him on the couch, already half-undressed in his mind if not in reality. Trey’s in the corner doing shots with a cheerleader who’swearing his jersey like a dress. Manwhores, the lot of them. They live for nights like this—hookups with no strings. Which is great for them, I don’t judge. Me? I’ve never been built that way. I want the real thing. The kind of connection that sticks around the morning after. The kind of love my parents had.
Then the front door swings open, and the air shifts.
Lola Donavan walks in with two friends. I’ve seen her around campus. She’s impossible to miss. Tattoos curl up her arms like dark vines, her blonde hair falls in loose waves, and her confident stride says she knows exactly how good she looks and doesn’t need anyone else’s approval. Black crop top, ripped jeans, combat boots. Sexy in a way that’s sharp, yet still has soft edges.
My pulse kicks up. I straighten without thinking and set the beer down harder than I mean to.
She scans the room, her lips curving in faint amusement at the chaos. Her friends scatter toward the makeshift dance floor in the living room, but she hangs back near the entryway, arms crossed, watching like she’s deciding whether this party’s worth her time.
I push off the counter before I can overthink it. As captain, I’m supposed to keep my head on straight and lead by example, but right now all I can think about is getting close enough to talk to her.
“Hey,” I say when I’m a few feet away, raising my voice just enough over the music. “You look like the fun kind of trouble.”
She turns, eyebrows lifting. Her eyes—ice blue and assessing—lock on mine. Her full lips tilt up, and my heart beats out of control. “You must be too if you recognize it that easily.”
Damn, her voice is sexy. Low and raspy, it curls over myskin and makes every nerve ending stand at attention, dick most certainly included.
“I guess you could say that.” I grin, then nod toward the crowd. “I’m Tully Whitman. You here to dance or just observe?”
“Lola Donavan. Observe first, then decide if I feel like dancing.” She smirks. “You guys always throw parties you’re not supposed to?”
“Only when we win big.” I grin, trying to play it cool even though my palms feel damp. “Want a drink? We’ve got beer, very special vodka, and water. Or I can just stand here and try to impress you with my sparkling conversation.”
She laughs, and it hits me like a body check. “I’m good. Not really a puck bunny, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The words land like a challenge. I hold her gaze, not flinching. “I’m not thinking that. Puck bunnies aren’t my thing.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Then what are you doing?”
“Trying to get you to dance with me.” I step closer, just enough that she has to tip her chin up a fraction. “One song.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a spark there—curiosity, maybe. “You’re nervous.”
“Little bit,” I admit, because lying feels pointless with her. “You’re intimidating. In the best way.”
She considers me for a long beat. “One dance.”
“I can work with that.”
I offer my hand. She looks at it, then at me, and finally she takes it. Her grip is firm, warm, and she lets me lead her toward the living room, where the music’s the loudest. We dance to “Levitating” by Dua Lipa, and her body is made to dance. I feel drunk on her.
The song shifts to the seductive rhythm of “BLOW” byEd Sheeran, Chris Stapleton, and Bruno Mars. Everyone presses closer. I turn to face her, hands hovering at her waist until she steps in first, her palms sliding up to my shoulders. I’m so intrigued by her tattoos—I want to trace them with my eyes, maybe someday with my fingers, if she ever lets me.
We move together, slow but deliberate. She smells like a combination of vanilla and chocolate. I keep my hands in a safe spot, but I can’t help the way my thumbs brush the bare skin just above her jeans.
