26. Devon

Devon

I blink slowly as the plane flies over Los Angeles. To anyone else, this might seem like the opening scene in a movie, the ultra-exciting moment of arriving in the United States' second-largest city, but I hate it.

I hate L.A. and everything in this stupid city. All the people seem fake, and I never have more problems with the paparazzi and fans who overstep their bounds than here. People taking pictures of me to post on social media, women screaming and leaping over the barricades outside the arenas—it's like the city blurs the line between fan and celebrity, making everyone think they have a claim to my time, to photos of me, to touching me as I walk by.

Not that I'm a celebrity. But being a professional athlete comes with its fair share of fame. It's something I wish I could leave behind, and L.A. just reminds me that I can't.

Another round of retching comes from the back of the plane, and I close my eyes, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. Sammy has been throwing up since the plane took off. He claims it's just motion sickness, but the guy is clearly under the weather. I'm just praying it's food poisoning and not the flu because the last thing I need right now is to get sick.

I gather up my things as the plane starts to descend. Lola was supposed to be on this plane with me, but apparently woke up too late to make the flight and had to take a later one. That means I won't see her until I'm at the game tonight.

Which is fine. It's fine. It's not like I was looking forward to seeing her. It's not like having her with me would make Los Angeles a little more bearable.

It's not like I can't stop thinking about yesterday and the way it felt to have my arms around her, to be so close that I could smell her shampoo, her soap, and the perfume she must have applied before coming to spend time with me. As the plane hits the runway, I force myself not to think about how cute she had looked, both before and after the mud.

We'd gotten the fish and chips together and then sat in my SUV in the parking lot, talking long after our food was gone. After Lola discovered I'd purposefully picked ice fishing just to torture her, she'd gotten this dark look on her face, like she might be thinking up something awful for me.

But I can't think of a single date with her that I wouldn't enjoy.

Besides, the woman hardly knows me, and I'm not as easy to read as her. Just from looking at her, you can tell she doesn't like to sit in one place for too long. That's how I knew ice fishing would be torture for her. Lola is an open book, but I like to hold my cards close to my chest.

After the plane lands and the team disembarks, we climb into a series of SUVs and make our way to the arena, where we're met with—of course—flashing cameras and jeering remarks from people who just want to throw our names into a headline.

"Chambers! Chambers! What do you have to say about the rumors that you and Lola Burke are dating?"

I turn, catching sight of a single journalist calling after me. The rest of the team freezes, and I can sense their apprehension and how they're waiting to see what insults I might hurl at this guy. More than anything, I want to tell him off, to say that what happens between me and Lola is none of his business and not the world's business either.

What happens between Lola and me belongs to only us.

Except, it doesn't because the entire point of this whole arrangement is to get the attention of the press. I think of my arrangement and how I have to play nice to get the youth camp I want. I take another deep breath, mimicking the one I took on the plane, and attempt to regulate myself before I say something I regret.

The team didn't brief us on how to manage a question like this, so I just leaned into it being something of a secret. That should keep me safe. Denial might make them think it's even more likely to be true, anyway.

"Lola and I are…good friends," I say, giving the guy a warm smile. It's like I can feel the shock and surprise rolling off of everyone around me. I was cordial to a reporter? And I gave him a piece of the truth?

After saying that, I turn on my heel, beelining it into the arena and praying other reporters don't see that as an invitation to holler after me. I know I'm supposed to interact with the press, but it doesn't mean I want to stand outside and field questions from strangers about my romantic life.

My fake romantic life.

Inside, the arena is just as big and flashy as the rest of them, and our team shuffles into the locker room, where all of us split off into our own pre-game rituals. I'm the kind of guy who likes to review the game film before going into a new game. I think it helps to remind me what to focus on, refreshing my memory about the last mistakes and getting my head into the right mind frame for competition.

When we take the ice, it only takes me a second to find the person I'm looking for—Lola, sitting right where she should be, in the nicest seats in the arena. Ellie is next to her, and it looks like they're laughing together. For some reason, it makes my chest feel warm to know they are friends. I like the idea of Lola having someone to talk to while she's watching the games, and it's especially good that it's a seasoned hockey wife, someone who can explain the game to this woman who has been to several professional games but still doesn't understand most of the basic rules.

I let out a grunt when I skate into the back of the guy in front of me while we're running drills.

"Chambers, dude," the guy says, "get your head in the game, man."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, shaking my head a bit and trying to focus, but before I know it, I'm glancing back up at Lola again. She's wearing a new outfit to the game today—light wash jeans and a color block sweater. It looks good on her—the way everything does—but a part of me longs for her to wear a Vipers jersey.

Maybe the PR team got on her back about always wearing the opposite team's jerseys, or maybe they put something in the contract to keep her from doing that. Whatever the reason is, she's the only person up in the box who's not wearing a lick of Kings or Vipers stuff, and it just makes her that much easier to pick out from the ice.

We start the game without Sammy, who is on the bench, still throwing his guts up and arguing with Grey that he's ready to come out with us. Something about this game is off-kilter from the start. Our passes miss, we never even get close to the goal, and Eddie misses two easy blocks, giving the Kings a swift lead on us.

The game passes by in a blur, and Grey pulls me aside at half-time.

"Dude!" he says roughly, his eyes blazing and jumping back and forth between mine. "What is going on with you right now? You're playing like old Devon!"

I quirk a brow. "Old Devon?"

"Yeah, what happened to the fire under your ass? Your girl is here tonight. Aren't you trying to impress her?"

"I'm not you, Grey," I say, grinning. "I don't always have a woman on my mind."

He punches me in the shoulder, and I grab it, pretending it hurts.

"You're playing like you're second fiddle to me," Grey says. "My only regret from my career is that my talent must have been stifling yours, but this is your chance to let loose."

"Got it," I mutter, but when I'm back on the ice, it's like I can't break out of this slow pace I've been set in. I'm fielding passes and setting up shots for my teammates, but they can't drive them home, and by the time the game ends, we've been skunked.

It takes everything in me to keep my cool during the press conference, and I barely scrape by after a few questions. I'm heading to the locker room when I get a text from Lola, which starts and is punctuated with heart, dancing, and sparkle emojis.

Hope you're excited and looking forward to our date, Chambers. Wear something nice.