40. Devon

Devon

I can't stop thinking about Lola, and it shows. The guys are pissed at me, Grey is pissed at me, and I'm pissed at myself.

This is why you can't get involved with a woman like this. When she texts you to tell you she's going to urgent care, you can't think about anything except whether or not she's okay. I'd seriously considered digging out my phone during half-time to see if she had texted an update. The only thing that stopped me was the certainty that Grey would have had my fucking neck if I did something like that in front of the team.

"Hey," Grey says when I hop over the wall and off the ice. Breathing heavily, I collapse down onto the bench and accept a bottle of water. We're getting our asses handed to us out there, down three nothing, and the game is almost over.

And the worst part is that I don't really care that much. I can't stop thinking about the moment I can take these pads and skates off and go to Lola's apartment, touch every inch of her, and make sure she's okay.

In the locker room after the game, nobody looks at me. As soon as Grey gives us the green light to leave, I swing my bag over my shoulder and walk out into the cool summer night, calling Lola.

She sends the call to voice mail, and I get a text from her a second later.

Feeling really bad. Just staying in bed.

I'll come over. You want soup? I reply .

No, don't, she texts . Contagious. I'll be okay. Thnx.

Are you sure?

Don't want you to see me throwing up. Lol

I stare down at the phone, feeling deep in my gut that something is wrong. She's not using emojis the way she usually does, but it could just be because she's sick. I stand there, holding my phone in my hand while trying to figure out what to do.

Part of me feels like I should get some soup and go over there, get my eyes on her, and know for sure she's okay. But another part of me says it would be an invasion of her privacy. No matter how close we've been feeling lately, and no matter how it feels when she smiles at me, I don't know how she really feels.

I don't know if she's in love with me. I could just be a fun distraction—a way to research her next book. The thought makes my stomach sink, but a moment later, the guys walk out the door, and Sammy hooks his arm around my neck, jostling me a bit.

"Oye, what the fuck, Chambers?" he demands, looking up at me. "You got a case of the yips or something?"

"Or something," I mutter as Grey walks over. The guys crowd around me, and apparently, my sour mood is enough to keep them from giving me a hard time. I could be an asshole. I could point out the fact that we wouldn't even be here right now if it weren't for me. That I've practically carried this entire season.

But my asshole bone seems to have left my body. I imagine Lola took it at some point during the season, but I don't remember when. Now, all I feel is tired and worried.

"Come on," Grey says, clocking the look on my face. He looks simultaneously like he already knows what's going on and also like he plans to grill the shit out of me. "We're going out to nurse our wounds."

I follow along behind them, my head muddled. When we get to the bar, Grey strictly enforces the one-drink rule, even though we're not playing again for two days. That, at least, makes me feel a little better. Hopefully, Lola will feel well enough to come to the next game.

I'm turning my phone over in my hand, wondering if she's said anything to Ellie, when Grey plops down in the seat next to me.

"Alright," he says, taking a swig of his beer.

"What happened to one drink?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. This is at least his second beer.

"Coach gets two," he says, shrugging, and it gets the first laugh out of me this entire night. "Okay, what the hell is going on with you?"

"I don't know, man," I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "I feel insane. Lola is sick, but she doesn't want me to come and take care of her. I keep thinking something might happen to her, and if I'm not there, she could get worse."

"Well," Grey says, chewing on his lip. "As your coach, I'm telling you to stay the hell away from her. As your friend, I'm asking, why don't you just talk to her about it?"

"It's complicated," I mutter, swirling my glass and watching the water and lemon jostle around.

"How complicated can it be?" Grey asks, laughing. "Are you forgetting how Ellie and I got together?"

I roll my eyes at him. I could make a bet with the guys about how long it takes Grey to bring up Ellie. I'm just surprised he hasn't name-dropped Clementine yet.

"And that brought me the greatest thing in my life—"

"Clementine, right," I say, letting out a breath.

"What?" he asks, eyeing me. "You don't want to be a dad?"

"I don't know," I say, even as I think of Lola and what a wonderful mother she would make. "Maybe someday. Seems a little soon."

Grey laughs. "You are not getting any younger, man," he says, taking another swig of his drink. "Listen, for all our sakes, talk to your woman. However complicated you think it is, just telling her how you feel; being honest, and getting everything out on the table can work wonders. We do too much dancing around, avoiding our feelings and sugar-coating shit. You love her?"

"Yeah," I say without hesitating, my heart squeezing. How I managed to fall in love with her in just six months is beyond me, but Lola is the queen of love, so maybe she just worked her magic.

"Then tell her that," Grey says. "And it doesn't matter how many times you've said it. They always want to hear it again."

"Thanks, Dad," I mutter, and he catches me on the back of the head. I snort at him, and he turns, shouting into the bar.

"Sammy, I saw that! You put that fucking beer down unless you want to be the reason we lose the Stanley Cup!"