13. Lola

Lola

Outside, the air in Vermont is a bit chillier than it was in Vegas after the game, and I'm actually thankful for the Kraken scarf I have wrapped around my neck. I ride along in the crowd of people streaming out of the arena, but when I turn the corner to walk back to my hotel, I back up against the wall and press a hand to my mouth.

Standing there, their eyes darting around as if they're looking for someone, is a gaggle of girls wearing Dallas is Burning shirts. Before my most recent flop, I wrote a Western romance series that put me on the map. One girl has a T-shirt with the main character's face on it, while another is literally carrying a lasso.

With my eyes locked on them, I backpedal, desperately hoping they don't turn and see me here because it would be the nail in the coffin. There's already a ton of speculation online, and these girls look like the type to snap a photo of me here and upload it straight away. I spin on my heel, ducking into the nearest bar just to get out of the street.

Inside, it smells like booze and smoke, the way only an old establishment can. The wood paneling on the walls looks aged and yellow, like the tobacco is baked right in for good. There's also a film of grease hanging in the air, a promise of the fries and cheese balls they're sure to have. My mouth waters, and I wander toward the bar, thinking of ordering a burger, too.

"Hi!" I say, waving to the bartender, who gives me a once over, his eyes narrowing at the Kraken gear I'm wearing. I wince, hoping this won't encourage him to spit in my food. "I was wondering if you guys have any burgers?"

"You've lost your mind if you think I'm going to serve someone in a fucking Kraken jersey," the bartender says, his scowl growing deeper like he can't believe the shit he has to deal with.

I nod sheepishly, then turn to leave, embarrassment flushing my cheeks. Whenever something horrible like this happens to me, I tell myself I can use it later in a story—that the entire thing is really just research.

As though I'm not very well-acquainted with what it feels like to be humiliated.

"Hold on, Bert," someone suddenly says, their hand darting out and catching the sleeve of my jersey. They pull me back toward the bar and say, "She's with me."

I yank my arm away. I'm not particularly interested in eating here now that I'm worried they might spit in my food, and I also don't need a guy to stand up for me. At least that's what I tell myself until the man turns, and I realize it's my hockey player.

The guy from Vegas.

Devon Chambers.

My heart swoons a little in my chest, and my head races with how easily I could incorporate this exchange into a meet-cute in my book.

"Sit down," he says, his voice low. Despite myself, I find my body obeying that command and taking a seat on the bar stool next to him. My hands are shaking, and I lace them together to try and calm myself down.

"What do you want?" the bartender asks, raising his eyebrows at Devon but agreeing to take my order anyway.

"Do you have burgers?" I ask again, my voice smaller.

"Does a bear shit in the woods?" the bartender asks, his face dead serious.

"Um…"

"Just get her a fucking burger, Bert. Stop fucking around. Bring out some extra fries, too. And a beer."

I glance at Chambers, my eyes wide with surprise that he would talk to a server like that. Bert just rolls his eyes, moving his lips like he's mocking Devon right back.

"So," Chambers drawls, turning his attention to me once the bartender has disappeared into the kitchen. I feel his eyes roam up and down my body, and I can't stop the shiver that travels down my spine. "Are you stalking me?"

If I had a drink, I would spit it out. Instead, I choke on my saliva, which causes me to have a coughing fit. Devon quirks an eyebrow at me but hands me his pint. I take a sip and cough harder—I hate beer.

"Jesus," he mutters, his eyes wandering over me again. "Do you need some fresh air or what?"

"I'm okay," I rasp, my voice rough from the coughing. "And no, I am not stalking you! I didn't even know this bar existed. I just came in here to get away from—"

I cut myself off when I realized I didn't want to tell him about the fan girls on the sidewalk because that would embarrass me further.

"I'm not talking about the bar," he murmurs, pulling his beer back and taking a long sip. I notice the place where my lipstick left a smudge on the rim, and my insides curdle with further embarrassment.

Why do I feel this way around this man?

Usually, I'm smooth and capable when it comes to flirting, making my way through interactions like I have a very witty and quick script to read from. This feels like it's straight from a terrible reality TV show that I would have to stop watching because of the second-hand embarrassment.

"I'm not stalking you," I mutter when the bartender returns with the food. I immediately dive in, surprised at how good the food is. I ask for a little hot sauce to add to the burger.

Chambers raises his eyebrows at me.

"For such a little thing, you sure can eat," he comments.

"Oh my god," I say with a gasp, putting a hand over my mouth as I try to swallow a bite. "You did not just say that."

"What?" he asks, jerking his head back, his brow raising again in surprise. "It's just that you're—"

"No, I know what you mean," I laugh, grabbing a napkin to wipe the hot sauce from my mouth. "It's just that, one, did you get that line from a Western? And two, here's a little tip for the future: don't comment on what a woman chooses to eat when she's around you. If she's not eating, it's because she's afraid to do it in front of you, and if she's eating, it's because she's a human being and needs calories to survive, just like you. Either way, I'm sure she doesn't want to be perceived."

"So you feel comfortable eating around me?"

I frown. "That's what you got from everything I said?"

"Well, do you?"

"Of course I do," I mutter, turning my burger and dipping it in some ketchup before taking another bite. "I barely know you. And besides, you're a hockey player. If you can't handle seeing a woman eat a burger, I think you might be ready for retirement."

There's a moment of silence, and when I look up from my food, I realize his eyes have darkened considerably. It's suddenly hard to swallow, and I have to reach out and take a sip of the nasty beer he ordered for me to make my food go down.

"Are you a bandwagoner?" he asks once I'm sure I won't need the Heimlich. His voice has dropped an octave, and it does funny things to my stomach. I try to focus on my food so I can ignore how he's making me feel.

"A…what?"

He laughs, and I feel the rumble of it through my bar stool. I squeeze my thighs together.

"A bandwagoner—someone who changes teams based on who's winning."

"If I were a bandwagoner, wouldn't I wear a Vipers jersey?"

When I turn to him again, his eyes fall straight to my lips, and when I swallow, his eyes also track that motion.

"I'd like to see that," he says huskily, and my hands itch for my notebook to write this entire thing down because it's pure gold.

When he puts his hand to my face, I realize my cheeks are actually on fire. I also realize that, for the first time in my life, I might be about to have a one-night stand.