Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Sounds like something Lulu would say
Logan
The Rink Rat smells like stale beer, fried food, and the faintest whiff of despair. Which, judging by the cracked vinyl booths and Gary’s permanent scowl, is exactly how he likes it.
“Call.” Jake tosses a chip into the pile, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re bluffing, Hutchy.”
Reid doesn’t look up from his cards. Just lifts a brow, slow as sin. “You’d know, Brooks. Takes one to spot one.”
Chase barks a laugh, throwing his arm across the back of his chair. “Christ, Jake, don’t you get tired of losing to him? Man’s got a face like a tombstone. You’ll never read him.”
Gary, wiping down the bar with the same rag he’s had since the nineties, grunts. “Kid’s still prettier than you, Walton. Might explain why his poker face works better.”
“Hey, this face sells jerseys,” Chase fires back, flipping him the bird.
“Yeah,” Reid deadpans. “To grandmas.”
Even Gary wheezes at that one, the sound cutting through the low hum of the bar.
I lean back in my chair, swirling the last inch of my beer, trying not to check my phone for the tenth time.
Lulu’s probably still wrangling kids into costumes or fighting with PTA vipers, but all I want is to be across the street, in her bed, hearing her tell me about her day.
Instead, I’m here with the boys, celebrating my birthday with poker chips and cheap lager.
Eli cuts me a look over his cards. “So, Millsy. Birthday boy. Why aren’t you out with the single guys? Thought we’d lose you to a bottle service booth somewhere downtown tonight.”
Chase grins. “Yeah, you haven’t gone out with us once, Pookie. Not in Denver, not on the road. You hiding a girlfriend we don’t know about?”
My pulse stutters. I shrug, nonchalant. “Not my thing.”
Jake whistles low. “Not your thing? What twenty-four-year-old hockey player says no to free shots and desperate puck bunnies?”
I shuffle my chips and keep my tone flat. “This one.”
Suspicion prickles the air, but Reid lays down his cards, stealing the pot and the attention. Thank fuck.
The conversation drifts—Gary complaining about inflation, Jake yapping about his plans for his and Charlie’s honeymoon—but then Eli circles back, shaking his head.
“You’re seriously telling me you’d rather sit here with us old married or nearly-married guys than celebrate downtown?”
“Pretty much.”
Chase snorts. “You’re a freak.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, distracted, picturing Lulu’s sleepy smile through last night’s video call, the tired slump in her shoulders. “That tracks for a Gemini.”
Silence.
I glance up, and four sets of eyes are staring at me like I just spoke in tongues.
“What?”
Jake blinks. “Did you just… call him a Gemini?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Relax. I was joking.”
Reid stares. “You weren’t joking.”
Gary cackles from behind the bar. “What the hell are you boys into now? Crystals? Christ, next you’ll be telling me Mercury’s in Gatorade.”
Jake points his beer at me. “That’s something Lulu would say, yanno. She’s always talking about star signs at brunch.”
Something sharp and fleeting flashes across Eli’s face, but I keep my tone neutral as I toss in a bet. “What can I say? I’m a sponge for bullshit.”
The table erupts again, but my chest is tight because it’s a damn lie. I’d listen to her talk about planets, stars, and every damn moon phase, soaking up every word just so I can talk to her about her favorite things.
But for now, I push the thought of Lulu out of my head before I show my hand.
***
By the time I escape, it’s closer to midnight than I intended. My body aches from practice, my head aches from pretending, and all I want is to shower the Rink Rat stink off me and cross the street to her.
I shove my key in the lock, push open the front door—
And stop dead.
The air shifts, lighter somehow, full of movement. Helium balloons fill the entryway, crowding the ceiling, hundreds of them bobbing softly, their silver ribbons brushing against my arms and shoulders as I stand there, dumbstruck.
It takes me a second to realize they aren’t just balloons. Every ribbon has something attached to the end. Little squares, fluttering as the draft from the door catches them.
Photos.
My heart stumbles. I reach for one, fingers clumsy, and pinch the peg free.
Dusty, tongue lolling, sprawled belly-up on the couch. Lulu’s scrawl loops beneath it: Because you’re the best dog dad alive.
I huff out something like a laugh, though it burns on the way up.
Another—me, caught mid-laugh on her porch, head tipped back. Because you make me laugh when you don’t even try.
Another—her, blurry and grinning, holding up a matcha and toasting the camera. Because you always remember my order.
My throat tightens.
I brush past a cluster of balloons and pluck another. It’s from brunch last weekend, me wedged between Zoe and Chase, pretending not to glare while Zoe waved a mimosa in my face. Because you secretly love brunch, even if you complain the whole time.
I choke out a laugh and reach for another. Meadow, perched on my shoulders at a barbecue, both of us sticky with popsicles. Because you’re the best jungle gym.
My vision blurs as I take another. Me in full gear, helmet tipped back, sweat pouring off me after a game. Because you work harder than anyone.
Another—me, blurry mid-high five with Jake on the bench. Because you’re a better friend than you think you are.
Another—me holding Miso at Tamara’s insistence, the little demon actually calm for once. Because animals trust you, even the ones that pretend to hate you.
My hand shakes. I can’t even count how many there are. Dozens, maybe hundreds. Each one a reason, each one proof that someone has been paying attention, seeing me in ways I never thought anyone would.
Not goals. Not stats. Not Miller family expectations. Just me.
I lean back against the door, balloons brushing my hair, and close my eyes for a beat. My chest aches like it’s splitting in two, because this is—fuck. This is more than I’ve ever let myself want.
“Hi…”
Her voice is soft and tentative, and it cuts straight through the ache in my chest.
I look up, and she’s standing in the dining room doorway, half-lit by the warm glow from inside, wrapped in a satin robe.
Her hands are knotted in the sash like she’s not sure how this will land.
Shining blue eyes blink at me, wide and a little nervous, like she just handed me her heart and is waiting to see if I’ll drop it.
Something in me splinters, and I know I’m looking at my forever.
I cross the room in three strides and drag her into my arms, crushing her against me. Balloons brush past my shoulders, the photos knocking against each other like applause, but all I feel is her—soft and warm, and solid. Mine. My whole world.
“Jesus, Lu,” I rasp, burying my face in her hair. The words come broken. “Nobody’s ever… fuck, this is—” My throat closes. I can’t finish.
Her arms cinch around my neck, fierce for someone so small. She presses her face into the side of mine, her whisper hot against my skin. “Happy birthday.”
I squeeze her tighter, fearing that if I let go for even a second, the moment might vanish. My chest is heaving, eyes burning, but for the first time in years, it isn’t from anger or frustration, it’s from being seen. From being chosen.
This isn’t a prank, it isn’t pity. It’s her.
And I know, right here in this ridiculous sea of balloons, that I’ll never let her go even if the whole damn world tries to make me.
She eases back first, just enough to brush her thumb under my eye. “There’s more,” she says softly, and takes my hand, leading me toward the kitchen.
I follow, dazed, the balloons rustling overhead like they’re alive.
On the counter sits a cake, lopsided but iced in a shade of pink that could blind a man. The exact same shade as that damn flamingo in my pool. Across the top, messy letters declare: Lesson Twelve: Celebrate anyway.
A laugh tears out of me, broken around the edges. “You made me a cake?”
Her grin wobbles, proud and shy all at once. “Usually I order them, but yeah, I made this one. Betty supervised the oven so I didn’t burn the house down.”
I shake my head, still laughing, still choking on it. The sight of it—the ridiculous icing, the stupidly sweet message—hits me harder than any candlelit dinner ever could. It’s not about perfect. It’s about her wanting me to feel celebrated.
She nudges a box into my hands next, and I rip the paper to find a pair of running shoes.
I arch a brow. “Really?”
“For sunrise runs,” she says, chin tilting like she’s daring me to argue. “No excuses now.”
The laugh that breaks out of me this time is lighter, easier. “You’re relentless.”
“Efficient.”
“Bossy.”
“You secretly love it.”
Before I can answer, she presses a smaller box into my hands. It’s a deck of cards, plain and unassuming. My brows pull tight as I slide it open, expecting… I don’t even know what.
Then I freeze.
Every single card has something written across the front in her looping scrawl. I shuffle through them, and my chest caves.
You drew the primary assist in overtime against Chicago when everyone said you weren’t ready for the big minutes.
You killed off that five-on-three in St. Louis like your life depended on it.
You kept your cool when Dallas targeted you in your rookie year and made them regret it with two goals in the same game.
You lifted the Cup in your first season and never once made it about yourself.
You skate like the ice belongs to you, and I love watching you claim it.
My throat burns. I turn over card after card, each one a reminder not of who my dad thinks I should be, but of what I’ve already done. What I am.
I stop, staring at the stack in my hands. The cards are trembling between my fingers. “Lu… how did you—”
She shrugs, casual and almost sheepish. “I like hockey.” Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile. “And you’re easy to root for.”