27. Lola

Lola

When Devon comes out of the hotel the next afternoon, he's wearing a plain gray button-down and jeans. I'm wearing a pink sweetheart dress with little red hearts on it, red pumps, dangling heart earrings, and a pink headband, so our vibes aren't exactly aligned.

Even though the Vipers lost, I had a great time at the game. Ellie and I chatted the whole time. I hardly even noticed the time passing until the final buzzer went off, and Ellie said glumly, "Well, it's never good when they lose."

"Are there teams that never lose?" I'd asked, raising an eyebrow at her. I was under the impression that winning and losing were equally common, but I'd never thought about it much.

"Well, some teams can build up pretty long winning streaks," Ellie had said, "but yeah, they all lose occasionally. But the thing about losing is that it will affect your man for the rest of the week."

My heart had fluttered at the use of "my man" to refer to Devon, but I pushed the feeling down, focusing on the rest of what she said.

"Affect him? Like what? They have to do more interviews or something?"

One of the other wives had wandered back over and was sipping on yet another gin and tonic. I glanced at Ellie, who made a face at me, which made me laugh.

"Oh, girl," the drunk wife said, "you are so clueless that it kills me!"

But still, nobody had told me what they meant when they said the loss would affect "my man" for the rest of the week, but now, after walking next to Devon for fifteen minutes, I think I'm starting to understand.

I try to start a conversation about the game, and he says he doesn't want to talk about hockey. I try to start a conversation about a book I'm reading, and he says he doesn't read romance. I try to bring up fun things to do in L.A., and he says he hates L.A. more than anything in the world.

"I guess I know what they mean now," I mutter, and for the first time all afternoon, Devon gives me his full attention.

"What who means?" he asks, his eyes narrowing in. I kick a pebble down the sidewalk to avoid meeting his eyes.

"The other…the women up in the box," I say, blushing for some reason at the fact that I was about to include myself in their group. Hockey girls, apparently.

"What did they say about me?" he asks, his face scrunching up. "You were talking to Ellie? I swear, that girl should only have positive things to say about me."

"Well, they were all saying you hockey players are big babies."

"They were saying hockey players are big babies," Devon repeats, as though he can't believe that can be true.

"I mean," I say, watching with delight as I kick the pebble again so it lands a few paces in front of me. "They didn't go that far, but I understood what they were saying. You guys apparently let the outcome of one little game affect your mood until the next one you play. I didn't believe it until I saw you here today, but I guess it's true."

"What?" he asks, turning to me and raising an eyebrow. "You're telling me things don't affect your mood? What if you released a book and it only received negative reviews?"

I swallow hard and wonder if he can read on my face that he's struck a nerve, getting a little too close to the truth for my liking.

"That's hardly the same," I counter. "I don't publish a book once a week, for heaven's sake. If I did, I'd be the most prolific writer on the planet, and I definitely wouldn't let the outcome of every book affect my mood. But writing isn't like that. It's a creative endeavor. You pour your heart and soul into the page. You detail your innermost fears. And then you sit there with bated breath, waiting for people to tear them apart."

"Wow," Devon says after a moment, and then continues, "You really don't think I pour my heart and soul into hockey?"

I send the pebble skittering another few feet up the sidewalk.

"I guess it depends on how you define heart and soul," I muse. "I'm not saying it's easy to play a sport—god knows I can't do it—but it's not a creative endeavor. You're not taking a piece of yourself, stripping it down, making it vulnerable, and showing it to the world. You're participating in a competition. It's just not the same."

"The season is strange," Devon says, "because when you're going through it, playing one game at a time, a single loss can feel right in your face. Even when the team is playing well, and it feels like you're going to the playoffs, a single loss can put a bump in the road."

"It's like not seeing the forest for the trees?" I ask, starting to grasp what he's meaning. In some sense, I can understand it. Even though I have several successful series and published books under my belt, it was the one failure I focused on. That hurt the most, and it derailed my ability to write for an entire year.

"Sure," he says, raising an eyebrow when I stop and lean down to pick up the pebble. It's smooth and a pretty blue color. I put it in my pocket for safekeeping. "Was this the date? Pebble kicking? Because I have to say—I love it. Ten points for being brief."

"No," I say, laughing and looking over his shoulder at the storefront behind him. "That is the date. I stopped walking because we're here."

I watch with glee as Devon turns slowly, his face wrinkling at the sign before him: The Ripped Bodice. There are plenty of suggestive signs around the front of the shop, and Devon cuts his eyes to me.

"Did you bring me to a sex shop?" he asks, his voice incredulous and, if I'm being honest, a little breathy. It sends a flutter through my chest as I briefly imagine what it would be like to go to a store like that with him. I remember how capable he was when he touched me before, and I shudder to think about what he would do with a little extra assistance.

"No," I answer, laughing and pushing past him so he doesn't see the blush on my face. "Even better. I brought you to a bookstore."