20. Devon

Devon

As soon as Melissa and Percy start to thank Lola and Penelope for coming, I book it out of there, hoping I can make it to my apartment and lock myself inside for the foreseeable future. It's bad enough that I did something as stupid as leaving Lola in my bed alone this morning, but then, to have her paraded in front of me when she looked absolutely edible, only to sign a contract specifying that I'm not allowed to touch her?

Complete torture.

Which she seemed to know because she glared at me for the rest of the meeting, apparently delighting in my suffering.

I'm standing outside the elevator, desperately pressing the button to take me down to the lobby, when I smell that floral perfume around me, and my body goes rigid like prey that's suddenly smelled the predator.

Soon, the elevator doors open, and when I step in, Lola Burke follows me.

We stand there in silence for a moment with nothing but the music in the elevator to buffer the awkward tension brewing between us. Part of me wants to step toward her, take her in my arms, and press her up against the wall like I did just last night.

But the other part of me can't stop thinking about that youth camp and hates the idea of doing anything that might jeopardize it, including breaching this stupid contract.

"So," I say, clearing my throat after a second. "You're an author?"

"Congratulations," she responds, rolling her eyes. "You have basic comprehension skills. Anyway, I didn't follow you to chat. I think we should plan out some of our dates. We have an obligation of two per week, and—"

"What is there to plan? We grab dinner twice a week, sit by the window so people can see us, and call it a day."

When I glance over at her, her mouth is hanging open. I want to reach over and shut it, but I'm genuinely afraid she might cause me bodily harm if I do.

"That explains a lot," she mutters, stalking out of the elevator when the doors slide open. Despite myself, I chase after her, my eyes tracing down from her ass in that dress to her feet and how the high heels clack on the tiled floor of the hotel lobby.

I would like to throw those legs over my shoulders, get my mouth on her—

"Hey!" I exclaim, catching up to her and grabbing her sleeve. "What the hell does that mean?"

"What?"

"That explains a lot—that's what you said."

"Did I?"

I growl at her in frustration, and the tiniest smirk appears at the corner of her lip. I suck in a breath, shocked at the way I instantly want to make her smile more and get her to laugh for me.

"It just explains why you're single," she says, nonchalantly throwing her hair over her shoulder, pulling her sleeve from my hand, and continuing out of the hotel lobby and into the fresh Vermont air. I can immediately tell that she's cold in her summer dress, as she's probably too used to Las Vegas weather.

"I'll explain why I'm single," I grumble, keeping pace beside her. "It's because I don't have time for a girlfriend."

"You don't have time for a girlfriend," she deadpans.

"Yes! I'm traveling all the time, and I'm also either at practice, sleeping, or going through game film. I don't have time to do all the romantic shit girls expect from me, so I just avoid it altogether."

"Hmm, let's see," she says, stopping and turning on her heel so suddenly that I almost run into her. Our chests brush, and through the thin material of her dress, I can feel she's not wearing a bra. I swallow thickly, forcing myself to keep my eyes on her face and straining not to let them wander down.

I'm so curious to see if her nipples are peaked, but I don't want her to accuse me of being a creep. And I definitely don't want something like that to breach the terms of the contract—I should really read the contract to see what I just signed up for.

"What were you doing between the hours of eleven and one last night?" she asks, grinning when my face gets hot at her words. Unbidden, the memories of her come flooding back, and I see a matching blush rise on her cheeks.

Is she thinking about last night? About me? I would give anything to hear her describe what we did the night before. Since she's an author, a part of me wonders what kind of stuff she writes.

"That's different," I say, my voice rough. It's different, firstly, because I haven't had a hookup in over a year. With Brett's little injury stunt and trying to prepare to carry the team on my back, I actually just haven't had time to be with anyone.

It's also different because I'm not sure there's a universe that exists in which I wasn't with Lola between eleven and one last night. It felt like a cosmic event, like something unavoidable that would happen to me at some point in my life.

With her, it feels like everything is split into a series of before and after. Before and after I sent that puck hurtling into the glass, shattering it, and seeing her for the first time. Before and after last night. Before and after this stupid fucking contract that prohibits me from touching her again.

Not that she would have let me touch her again after I left her alone in bed this morning. It dawns on me that my leaving her is probably the reason she's pissed at me and that I should probably apologize for it.

"About this morning—" I start, but she cuts me off by holding her hand up.

"Don't worry about it," she says. "I know you don't have time for a girlfriend. I wasn't expecting anything more."

Her words say one thing, but her tone says another. I rock back on my heels and take a breath, wishing I could tell her that our hookup wasn't like any other I've ever experienced in my life.

"You may not care about doing things right," she says, rifling in her bag, "but I do. So I guess if I have to plan all the dates, then so be it."

"No way," I protest, shaking my head. "I'm amazing at planning dates. And I'm not just going to do what you pick every week."

"Yes, god forbid it's something other than rewatching your best moments on tape."

"Ha," I say, my competitive side rising. "You know what, Lola, why don't we have a little competition? We take turns planning the dates and see who comes up with the best one."

"Oh," she laughs, tucking her little notebook back into her purse. "You are so on, Chambers."

"Good," I say, and then a moment later, add, "It's Devon."

"Not anymore, it's not," she says with a wink before climbing into her Uber and disappearing down the road.