38. Devon
Devon
If my feelings toward L.A. are cut and dry—absolute, complete loathing and hate—then my feelings toward New York City are a little more muddled. I like the history of the place, enjoy the food, and generally find the fact that it has seasons agreeable. But I’m still not a fan of how expansive it is and how the city goes on and on and on forever.
I like Burlington because it’s contained. Like a musical in which several actors play multiple roles. We have exactly as much as we need of everything and not one more than that. When I pass three pizzerias in a row, I think New York City could use a little of that Vermont moderation.
I’m walking around the area surrounding Madison Square Garden, wearing a ball cap and a hoodie, blending in and taking deep breaths.
We are now in the championship. Of course, I’ve been here before, but that was when Grey was manning the ship and taking the brunt of the responsibility. Now, whether or not we go home with the Stanley Cup is riding on me. On my performance.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I see a text from Lola.
Gift for you. Where are you?
I text her back: On my way.
Ten minutes later, I’m flashing my pass to the guys at the back entrance and slipping in through the gate, luckily managing to skip the hoards of fans waiting to catch a glimpse of the players. I find Lola in the main lobby, wearing the pass I gave her around her neck.
And, of fucking course, she’s wearing a Rangers jersey and a tiny little red skirt.
“Lola,” I groan when I get close enough to her. My hands itch to rest on her hips, to pull her close to me, but in that jersey, it’s like I’m a vampire, and she’s wearing a cross. Besides, Melissa and Percy are skulking around here somewhere, and I don’t need them catching us being close and cuddly when there’s clearly nobody here to put on a show for.
“Devon,” she purrs, her voice sickly sweet. “I got you something. A little incentive to win tonight.”
“Oh?” I say, my heart picking up, half expecting her to drop her little skirt to the ground. But instead, she grins at me and reaches into her purse, drawing out a card. I raise my eyebrow at her as I slide a finger under the envelope’s flap and extract the card, which has a picture of a puppy and reads Good Luck!
“Look inside,” she says, practically bouncing with excitement. When I open the card, I see a little hand-drawn ticket that reads: Admit for one (1) fishing trip with Lola.
“Wow,” I murmur, trying to hide the way my heart is hammering in my chest.
“It’s only valid if you win,” she whispers. “If you think this is good, just wait until you see what I have planned for the next reward.”
My breath comes fast, and I take a step toward her, thinking a quickie against the wall might not be so bad. Of course, this is the exact moment the entire team decides to come barreling around the corner in their warm-up gear.
“Aw, hell,” Grey groans, rolling his eyes when he sees Lola and I standing there.
“When are you going to tell your girl to wear the right jersey?” Sammy cries, and Steve reaches up, clocking him in the back of the head.
“A woman has the right to wear what she wants,” Steve declares, his voice deep and matter-of-fact.
“Damn straight!” Lola says, putting her fist out for Steve to bump it.
“Oh, hell no,” he utters, shaking his head and backing up like she’s just offered him a hit of the bubonic plague. “I’m not coming near you in that get-up.”
“And Devon shouldn’t either,” Grey says, stepping closer and between the two of us like he can keep the bad energy from me just by blocking Lola from my sight. “Are you trying to jeopardize this championship?”
“I’m pretty sure my little get-ups are what you have to thank for this season,” Lola sing-songs, stepping around him and surprising me by pecking me on the cheek. When she pulls back, all the guys chorus hoots, hollers, and gagging noises, but it doesn’t matter. Lola Burke is smiling at me, and it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
I can practically hear her thinking all for the cameras when she turns on her heel and walks away, flipping the guys off over her shoulder.
“You’d better hope you didn’t just curse us with bad luck for the game,” Grey mutters. I ignore him, and the second my skates hit the ice, I know this game will be a good one. Every single one of my practice shots hits right where I want it, and our passes are all clean and untouchable.
The Vipers score within the first two minutes of the game, sending the arena into uproarious applause. I can’t stop myself from glancing up at Lola, where I see her dancing and cheering with Ellie and the other women.
I can see her there next season and the one after that, all the way until I retire.
***
“That slap shot to Sammy?” Lola says, her arm tight around mine. We’re walking the streets of New York City, and the city is alive with the feeling of early summer—restaurants with their patios open, kids laughing, ice cream dripping. “Genius! Amazing! And when you scored that last point right before the buzzer? I mean, it was just adding insult to injury, but it was spectacular!”
“Are you just quoting the announcers?” I tease, raising an eyebrow at her.
“No,” she denies with a laugh, rolling her eyes. When I pull on her arm to turn left toward the hotel, she tugs me right, clearing her throat and looking at me intently.
“This way,” she says, and I know better than to question her. Ten minutes later, she’s buzzing us into an older building in the East Village and grinning back at me as we ride an ancient elevator to the top.
“Oh,” I say when I realize this isn’t the prelude to another one of our dates. This is her apartment.
The second I walk in the front door, it’s so obvious it’s her apartment—from the deep emerald walls to the pink bedspread to the endless books piled haphazardly everywhere.
“My humble abode,” she says, and I realize with a start that she’s nervous. I smile at her, putting my hands on her shoulders.
“Someone could have shown this apartment to me with no context,” I tell her, “and I would have known it belonged to you.”
The smile on her face is ethereal, and I have to swallow down the lump forming in my throat. When she slips away to the bathroom, I wander around, checking out the various books scattered throughout the room.
Several of them are by an author called Maisie May, which rings a bell, but I can’t figure out why. When I get to her desk, I see a small stack of library books, at the top of which is Hockey for Dummies, and it hits me like a truck: I am in love with Lola Burke.
A moment later, the bathroom door opens, and she steps into the room wearing a little pink lingerie set.
“I thought this would do nicely for our next activity,” she breathes.
I’m in front of her in a second, carrying her to her pink bed, spreading her legs, and wondering what the hell I’m going to do with all the planet-sized feelings inside me.