Chapter 26 I’ll be your nobody, then
Chapter twenty-six
I’ll be your nobody, then
Logan
Dusty’s nose is buried in the candy table again.
“Drop it,” I mutter, prying a wrapper out of his mouth. He blinks up at me, sprinkles on his muzzle, zero shame in his eyes.
Behind us, Miso is still parading around with Zoe’s whistle clamped between her teeth. Every breath out of her tiny body comes with a shrill blast that makes my ears ring, but I’m just happy that demon is focused on a whistle instead of my face.
The kids are all flying high on Betty’s Baby Boopers, darting across the lawn with juice-stained grins and zero impulse control.
It’s mayhem.
Which tracks, because this whole night has been one long parade of chaos.
And yet, my attention keeps snagging on Lulu’s front door.
She’s kept her Halloween costume a secret from everyone, which has me equal parts nervous and excited.
And half-praying that Betty was wrong about the dominatrix guess—because if she isn’t, I won’t be able to stop myself. And Eli is standing ten feet from me.
Betty’s next to me on the porch, neon drink in hand, chuckling as she watches Reid, who’s been roped into goalie duty for Theo on the lawn.
The kid’s holding a foam puck Jake must’ve brought and keeps hurling it a whole three feet before letting out his signature “WOOOOAR!” and charging full speed at him.
Hutchy crouches low, moustache twitching, and rumbles. “All right, Simba. Let’s see it.”
Theo barrels into him, shrieking with laughter. Reid catches him easily, hauls him up under the arms, then tickles his ribs until the kid kicks and squeals so loud, half the block turns.
“Better luck next time, baby Brooks,” Reid deadpans as he sets Theo gently back on his feet and gives him a light pat on the head.
Theo beams up at him, puck already in hand to do it all over again.
Hutchy looks like he was born to wrangle toddlers. Not that I’d ever point it out—he’d probably murder me with his goalie stick.
“If I were thirty years younger,” Betty mutters, soft enough the kids can’t hear while watching Hutchy, “I’d flash that man my tits right here on the lawn.”
I choke on my beer. “Jesus Christ, Betty.”
She just grins around her martini glass. “What? You’re thinking it, too. Don’t lie, Sugarplum.”
I scrub a hand down my face, praying she never ever mentions her tits in earshot of me ever again.
The noise dips when she steps out onto the porch. At first I think I’m imagining it, the way the chatter softens, but then I see her.
Lulu. In my jersey.
It swallows her, name and number stretched bold across her back, pads and shorts bulking it out, shin guards strapped like she’s game ready. Stick in her hand. Black stripes smeared under her eyes that are very much not a hockey thing. I’ll have to remember to tell her.
She looks ridiculous. She looks breathtaking.
She looks like mine.
The air sticks in my throat, my grip on the beer bottle tightening.
I told her once, weeks ago now, that if there was anything I wanted, it was to see her in my jersey. But we agreed we couldn’t. There’d be too many questions if she showed up at a game with Miller 82 on her back. There was no loophole to wearing my jersey when Eli’s right there.
But she’s found one.
And it’s here, at the street's Halloween party, with the whole damn crew watching.
My chest squeezes so tight it hurts. No one’s ever done something like this for me. Not my parents, or a past girlfriend. No one. And now here she is, looking like mine in the one way I thought I’d never get.
“Wait.” Eli’s voice cuts sharp, suspicion flaring. “Why the hell would you pick Miller out of everyone?”
Lulu doesn’t flinch. She tips her chin, smirk curling, quick and practiced. “Because he lives across the street. Figured it’d be funny—rivalry, you know? Parnell versus Miller. It’s neighborhood lore now.”
A ripple of laughter breaks the tension, and Chase cups his hands. “Fight to the death! Winner keeps the mailbox!”
Eli doesn’t laugh. He keeps his eyes on her, chewing his cupcake like he’s waiting for the slip.
Tamara’s gaze lingers, sharp and assessing, while Zoe’s lips twitch into a smirk, eyes bouncing between Lulu and me as if she’s piecing together a puzzle.
Reid doesn’t react, just keeps sipping his beer, but the bastard knows I’m sweating. And Betty’s grinning like the devil herself, as if she's watching the best soap opera of her life.
Tamara steps in, tilting her head. “You could’ve picked anyone. Why not Jake? Or Hutch?”
Lulu shrugs, flipping her stick like it’s no big deal. “Because Jake’s already got Noah repping twenty-seven. And Hutch would’ve refused to play along. He hates costume stuff.”
“Not wrong,” Reid mutters under his breath, before taking another sip of his beer.
A few chuckles ripple through the group, but Tamara’s gaze lingers.
Then Zoe folds her arms smirk curling slowly. “Funny, Lu—but you do know what wearing Miller’s name means, right?”
“No—no. No, no, no,” calls Eli, pointing a finger at Zoe. “This doesn’t count. This isn’t a WAG wearing a jersey, Carlson!”
For a heartbeat, Lulu falters. Just the tiniest catch, her eyes shooting to mine like she can’t help it.
And I’m fucked.
The world narrows to the way she’s standing there in my name, my number, chest rising quick under fabric I’ve worn a hundred times. She’s trying to laugh and hold her composure, but that wobble, that look—it’s enough to gut me.
I want to cross the yard and tell every single one of them she’s all mine, but I force myself to huff out a laugh and tip my beer like it’s all a gag. “Guess I’ll allow it. Could be worse.”
My voice comes out unfazed, but my pulse is hammering, because this couldn’t be any better.
Her. In my name, in front of everyone.
All I want is to drag her inside and never let her take it off.
Instead, I watch her while trying to make it look like I’m not. She doesn’t come to me right away, of course. That'd be too obvious.
She plays the part, doing a slow circuit of the yard. Theo toddles over, foam puck in hand, and she crouches to play a round with him. He shrieks with laughter when she lets him “score” against her shin pad, and my knuckles go white around my bottle watching her.
Then she drifts toward Dusty, crouching to fix his mane while he tries to lick her entire face off. She giggles, scratches behind his ears, then presses her cheek into his fur.
And then she’s at the candy bowl, bent low as she helps a couple of late trick-or-treaters pick their favorites, her hair sliding over her shoulder, showing off my name on her back.
Every single second she’s not walking toward me is another nail in my coffin.
Reid’s next to me, leaning on the rail, both of us pretending to watch the street while my pulse slams in my throat, though I can occasionally feel his eyes on me.
“She’s taking her sweet time,” Betty mutters into her martini.
“She’s hiding in plain sight,” Reid corrects, moustache twitching around the rim of his beer.
“Fuck, I can’t handle this,” I grind out, trying desperately to look at anything but her.
As if the torture couldn’t get worse, Tamara suddenly sidles up, holding out her empty glass. “Top-up, Betty? Those Boopers go down so easy.”
Betty chuckles and pours the neon liquid into her glass. Tamara doesn’t move, just leans one hip against the rail, eyes cutting to me. “Did you know, Miller, that Lulu’s got this glass jar in her kitchen? Full of Post-it notes. Little wishes she wants to check off. Cute, huh?”
My blood freezes.
I manage a shrug, swigging beer like it’s nothing. “She’s got a thing for lists. Everyone knows that.”
Tamara hums, slow and unconvinced. “Well, better get back over to my husband. You know, Lulu’s brother.”
“Mm, and what a big, protective brother he is,” Betty chimes cheerily, ladling another drink. “Still, it’s nice when big brothers give a girl a little room to breathe, isn’t it?”
Tamara and I trade a look, an unsaid understanding. She smiles sweetly, then turns and drifts back to Eli.
I’m still sweating when Betty suddenly calls across the lawn. “Lulu! Cocktail time!”
Lulu looks over, and for the first time all night, she doesn’t look like she’s forcing it. Bright and easy relief flashes across her face before she smooths it away. She trots over, takes the drink Betty hands her, her free hand brushing Betty’s arm in gratitude.
“God, thank you,” she sighs, low enough only Betty and I can hear.
Betty pats her hand, eyes gleaming, then jerks her broom toward me. “Logan, why don’t you walk Lulu down Birch, introduce her to the neighbors proper? That’s the done thing around here during Halloween. Keeps the block friendly.”
I almost choke. “Betty—”
“Go,” she says, all innocence.
Reid hides his smirk in his beer, but I’m already on my feet.
We fall into step like we’re just being good neighbors, Betty’s excuse hanging between us.
“So,” Lulu says brightly, spinning her stick, “do we wave at every house or only the ones with skeletons in the yard?”
“Doesn’t matter.” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be. “I’m not waving.”
She grins sideways, all playful. “What if Mrs. Green from number twenty notices? She’ll think you’re unfriendly.”
“She’d be right.”
Her husky laugh rings out, and I feel it all the way down my spine. She bumps my shoulder casually, as if she’s unaware of what she’s done tonight. “You could at least pretend to be neighborly.”
“I am.” I glance at her, my head tilting back to see my name stretched across her back. “I’m gonna be very fucking neighborly to you in about five minutes.”
We pass another yard strung with fake cobwebs, kids darting across driveways with plastic buckets, and the whole time, I can’t stop cataloging the way she looks in my name. Sunshine and chaos and somehow, still mine.
“Well,” she adds, biting her lip as we ascend the hill to the top of Birch. “I hope that means you’re having fun.”
“Seeing you in my name?” I mutter. “Most fun I’ve had all season.”