21. Lola

Lola

"Oh, my god, hi! It's so exciting to meet you!"

A woman with a streak of color in her hair runs over to me, immediately wrapping me in a hug. I have no idea who she is or how she knows me, but it's been so long since I got a good hug from someone that I melt right into her, letting her hold me for a moment.

"Oh, my bad!" she says apologetically, pulling back and laughing at herself. "I'm Ellie. Grey's wife."

"Oh," I say, craning my neck to look down at the ice, where the players are warming up. "Which one is Grey?"

"The coach," she says, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looks at me. When I see the coach standing down below on the sideline, I see why. He's significantly older than her. I raise my eyebrows at her and shake my head.

"If you're looking for judgment from me," I say to her, "you won't get it. I'm a romance writer—I love a good age gap romance, as long as everyone is consenting, and you have power in the relationship."

"Oh," she says, laughing, "I have power. When I jump, Grey says I can't, babe, my knees hurt, but I'll do whatever else you want."

"Ellie," one of the other women says, cackling, "please tell me you make fun of him like that at home."

"Of course I do," she laughs before grabbing my elbow and leading me to the first row of seats.

"Hi," the other woman says. She has a short, silver bob and tattoos running up and down her arms. "I'm Janice. You're Lola Burke, right?"

"Oh," I say, pulling my head back. "Yeah, you recognize me?"

"I'm an editor at Folie House Publishing," she tells me with a chuckle. "So yeah, I recognize you."

"Wow, it's so nice to meet you," I say, falling into an easy conversation with her about the industry.

We're currently in the SportsDeck at TD Garden, which, as Melissa said, is a much-needed improvement over the other seats I had. For one, this place seems to be temperature-controlled, eliminating the need for pounds of blankets and scarves. It also has an open bar and a plethora of snacks on the other side that I started eyeing the second I walked in.

I arrived in Boston late last night and made sure to get to the fan store early this morning to get a Bruins jersey to wear to the game. I read through the contract three times last night, and there was nothing that prohibited me from wearing the other team's stuff. In fact, there were no clauses about outfits at all.

All morning, before the game, I explored the city, jotting down notes about what I might do with characters in this setting. I noted how this stadium differs from the others I've been to and even took a historical walking tour to learn about local gems and landmarks.

On the ice below, I see Devon warming up with his teammates, and my eyes track his capable movements, such as how he raises his arm to wipe away sweat from his brow.

"So," Ellie says, leaning forward to catch my eye and drawing my gaze away from Devon. I'm embarrassed to be caught looking until I remember we're supposed to be dating.

According to Penelope, it's imperative that everyone thinks we're together, including the people closest to us. That means all of Devon's teammates have to believe it, and I'm not even allowed to tell Levi the truth.

I warned Penelope that the moment Levi saw Devon and me together, he would clock that this was an arrangement because I can't keep a single secret around Levi. I wear the truth on my face.

"Just as long as you deny it," Penelope had said, as though that would be the easiest thing in the world. "And don't admit the truth under any circumstances. The public will eat up a relationship, even when they know deep down that it's fake, but the second it's confirmed to be a set-up, you're toast. You do not want to end up like Heidi Crause and Leo Biller."

I shuddered at the thought of my fans thinking of me the way the world thinks about those two. I decided it might just be a better idea to avoid Levi until this entire thing blows over. Then I won't have to lie, and Levi won't have to wonder why I would go along with such a ridiculous plan.

Which reminds me—I take out my phone and snap a selfie, turning around so the rink is behind me. Then, I upload it to my story with the hashtag hockeybae and almost immediately get two hundred likes on that story alone.

My fans have been absolutely ravenous over the hockey romance, and though the interaction with Devon yesterday was downright infuriating, it was also a great inspiration. I took the emotions and anger from our bickering and fed them into more than ten thousand words that flowed right out, leaving me more energized at the end of the session.

Since my series flop, writing feels like pulling teeth—getting each word out is like extracting it from my body, putting little pieces of myself on the page until nothing is left.

But now, it feels like I'm an overflowing tap. I can't get the words out fast enough, and I can't get them onto the page fast enough to keep up with my brain telling the story.

Part of me wants to thank Devon for the inspiration. But another part of me wants to throttle him for embarrassing me and not wanting me back the way I want him.

I talked to Maisie about what happened, in no certain terms and with no specific names, so as not to violate the contract, and she confirmed it—you don't leave a girl in bed if you had a good time with her.

"You totally lied to me!" Maisie had said, her voice coming through the line so high-pitched that I had to pull it away from my ear.

"What are you talking about?" I'd laughed, feeling good about chatting with her again. Following my book's flop, I'd isolated myself for the entire year to cope with the feelings, but it would have been better to lean on my friends.

"You told me you weren't dating Devon Chambers, you sneaky girl! You totally have to introduce me to some of his teammates."

"Yeah, right," I'd started to say before I remembered that, according to the contract, Maisie had to think this was real, too. "I'll definitely do that when you finally come to visit," I said, thinking fast to cover my tracks, "but those guys are a bunch of buffoons."

"You're telling me you got the only good guy on the team?"

I thought about the things I'd seen from the guys on the ice, but my brain only wanted to focus on Devon. Since the moment when he skated over to me and apologized for breaking the glass, he has been all I've wanted to focus on. But I didn't want to seem too whipped to Maisie, who has a thing about when women become consumed by their boyfriends.

"Well," I said, thinking hard, "there is this other guy who's kind of cute, but he's not playing this season."

"Why not?" Maisie asked, and I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was filing her nails.

"He got hurt. Something like he broke his leg, I think?"

"Oh, so it could totally be like nurse roleplay or something," Maisie said teasingly.

"Can you even have sex with a broken leg?" I pondered.

"There's only one way to find out," Maisie had said, drawing the first laugh out of me since the horrible meeting with Devon earlier.

"Lola?"

I blink, looking over at Ellie and realizing I completely spaced out while she was talking.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, bringing a hand to my chest. "What did you say?"

"I just asked what it's like to date Devon," she says, her tone light. "I know he's Grey's best friend, but the guy keeps everything so close to his chest. Is he secretly a real sweetheart?"

I think about the way he told me to touch myself, how he cleaned me up when we were done, and the way he pulled my hair away from my face and tucked me into his body, snuggling me close.

"No," I laugh, realizing I can have some fun with this. "He's a total asshole—and also, in case you were wondering," I hold my fingers up, showing just a few inches between them.

"No!" Ellie gasps, laughing and putting her hand to her mouth. A couple of the other women in the box gather around, and we start trading stories about our hockey partners.

Every time I laugh with tears in my eyes or answer a question about Devon that his girlfriend should know, I have to remind myself that all of this—including the relationships I'm creating with these women—is fake.