33. Lola

Lola

When I walk back into my hotel room, my heart is racing, and Devon's face is on my TV. I grab the remote from the bedside table and click it off before falling onto the bed in a heap.

I can't stop thinking about the kiss—the way his chest had pushed against mine, the pure desperation of being pressed against the side of the car like that, how his hand had slipped up my shirt, and the surprise to find me without a bra.

It was too much, but not enough.

My brain harasses me with the fact that Devon is just down the hallway, accessible to me if I get up and walk over to his room, but I won't put him in that position. Based on how he reacted to me in the parking lot, he's more than ready to take me up on an offer like that, but I won't be the reason why he doesn't get to have his youth camp.

Besides, there's also the matter of my own career, which is taking off once again. People are starting to notice me and remember how good my books are, with the exception of the most recent series. They're starting to believe in me again, drooling over the excerpts I post to Instagram.

Maisie texted me earlier when I was on the hot air balloon with Devon, but I wasn't in the right frame of mind to text her back.

If I'm being honest, I'm still not. Devon has been such a surprise to me—reading, being a nerd, and being so surprisingly gentle despite how he treats other players on the ice. It's intoxicating being around him. When I think of something funny, I can't wait to tell him about it. When I see something cute, I take a picture and send it to him.

All day long, I'm just thinking about the next time I'm going to see him.

I sit up in the bed and put a hand to my heart. I'm not stupid. I know what all that means. I get to my feet and start pacing back and forth, trying to find another possible explanation other than the obvious one: I am falling in love with him.

The thought makes me gasp. I've been writing love stories my entire life, but I've never felt this way about someone. And this is just the beginning. If I let these feelings develop and continue spending more time around him, it's only going to be more painful when I finally have to let him go.

If this were any other guy, I would be making up an excuse not to see him for a while, to let the attraction and warm, fuzzy feelings die down.

But I don't have a choice. I'm contractually obligated to attend tonight's game. With a sigh, I flop backward onto the bed again, wishing I could just stay in.

I jump when my phone starts to buzz, and for a second, I'm stuck between hoping it's Devon and praying it's not. Rolling over, I grope on the side table for it, and when I finally find it, I see a number I don't recognize. It could be my agent or anyone else from the literary world, so I answer using my professional voice.

"Lola Burke," I say, staring up at the hotel ceiling.

"Hey, girl!"

The bubbly voice comes through the speaker, and I sit up again, realizing it's Ellie.

"Hey," I say, trying to match her energy. "How did you get my number?"

"I have my ways," she says, chuckling. "Anyway, a bunch of us girls are going out before the game tonight, and I think it would be so much fun if you came along! And wear that Avalanche crop—that is so funny!"

"Oh, did the pictures circulate that fast?" I ask, thinking about the guy at the hot air balloon place and whether the pictures were actually for their social media or just for him to sell to the paparazzi.

"No," Ellie says with a laugh. "Devon sent a picture to Grey, and Grey showed it to me."

"Devon sent him a picture of me?" I ask, butterflies erupting in my chest. I have to force myself to take a deep breath as I ask her to send me the picture to look at it myself.

We're in the hot air balloon. This must have been taken after I started to feel a little better. In this picture, I'm even leaning out over the edge, the breeze blowing my hair just so, the light playing over my face, the mountains posing elegantly in the background.

It's another green flag for Devon—they say how someone photographs you is how they see you. And this shows how he sees me.

I think of what I told him earlier about beauty being essential in a romance scene. I wonder if he was thinking about that as he took this picture, framing me between the sun and the mountains.

"Wow," I breathe, finally remembering Ellie is still on the other line.

"Yeah," she laughs. "Grey only ever takes pictures of Clementine and me where I have like four double chins!"

"Does that equal eight chins total?" I ask, still staring at the picture on my phone. Ellie and I chat for a little longer before she finally convinces me to come out with her and the rest of the hockey girls. We hit up some of the bars near the arena, and I have a cocktail, but my head is still spinning. I can't stop thinking about my revelation about my feelings for Devon and also the way he took that picture.

He could just be good at photography. Or he could have been admiring me, which also came through the lens.

After hitting the bars, we all take a car to the game together. All the other wives and girlfriends love that I'm wearing an Avalanche shirt but swear their husbands would never let them hear the end of it if they were to do that.

It feels good to go to the game with all the other women because I'm part of the Vipers now. Except I'm not, I have to remind myself. Not really.

The game kicks off, and I quickly have to buy an Avalanche sweatshirt to pull on over my crop. We watch them go back and forth, and Devon has come back spectacularly from his average game the other night. We watch him hit trick shot after trick shot, making impossible passes and scoring three of the Vipers' goals himself.

At the end of the game, the Vipers and Avalanche are tied. The entire arena is silent, watching and waiting to see what happens next. It's like we're all collectively holding our breaths.

A Viper steals the puck, and Devon breaks away down the rink. He receives the pass. It's just him and the goalie now. He pulls back and hits the puck, and it looks like he's aiming for the right side of the net, but somehow, the puck flies, burying itself just above the goalie's right shoulder.

The buzzer goes off. The Vipers won.

"We're going to the playoffs!" Ellie screams, jumping to her feet. When the rest of the girls leave the box, funneling down to the rink, I follow along, and when I see Devon standing there, a hoodie pulled on quickly, his skates gone, replaced by a pair of sneakers, I don't know what comes over me. I run for him, jumping and launching into his arms.

He catches me and spins me around, his arms tight around my back, breathing in the crook of my neck. He smells like sweat and ice and cologne.

"Congratulations," I say, pulling back so our faces are just an inch apart. "You're the MVP."

He smiles at me, reaching over and tucking an errant lock of hair away from my face. I suck in a breath at the tender gesture.

"Did you just learn what MVP means?" he asks, softly enough that nobody else can hear. I laugh, making me realize I'm still wrapped around him. He sets me down on the ground when I wiggle, but he stays close.

It's a repeat of what happened in the parking lot this morning. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and then I step away from him.

I'm not going to let him throw away his plans for me.

"What do you think?" I ask, clearing my throat and rubbing my hands over the front of my sweatshirt.

"About what?" he asks, wrinkling his brow.

"About this," I say, laughing and gesturing between us, then to the people taking pictures behind us. "It was pretty good, right?"

"Oh," he says, letting out a breath as his eyes cut to the photographers. "Oh, right. Yeah." He runs a hand over the back of his neck. "I, uh—I have to get to the press conference."

"Okay," I murmur, trying not to let on how much my heart is breaking as he turns and walks away, looking a little less confident than before.