Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
THIS HAS TO BE IT
LOLA
The hotel door snicks shut, and Patrick pokes his head in the bathroom, smiling at me in the mirror.
“Hey. The resort’s gym is closed right now. Apparently someone got sick in there…” Patrick makes a face. “I think I’ll go to that gym I saw in town yesterday. Wanna go?”
“Sure.”
I finish putting my makeup on and grab my workout clothes, slipping back into the bathroom to change into them.
Things are still tense between Patrick and me.
I fell asleep before he got back last night, and we skipped Elm & Echo.
I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep through the night, but I was exhausted before we came on this trip, and I think with all the added stress—I crashed hard.
I’m sure Patrick didn’t foresee no sex happening during our romantic getaway, but to his credit, he hasn’t pushed the issue. He seems to know he blew it and is working extra hard to get back on my good side.
Windy Harbor is such a charming little town.
The inviting shops, the flower baskets hanging from each lamppost, the gorgeous water shimmering nearby with the light sound of waves hitting the shore—all of it screams wholesome, peaceful, and cozy.
It’s such a pretty day, I don’t really want to spend it inside a gym, but I go to appease Patrick.
When he’s done working out, maybe we can go to Cox Trading Post—I’ve heard amazing things about that place from the concierge at Windhaven.
The fluorescent lights of Windy Fit buzz overhead, casting sharp shadows across the floor.
The gym smells like sweat, rubber mats, and that faint metallic tang of iron plates clanging together.
It’s mid-morning on a weekend, so the place is hopping.
I’m not sure who the locals are, but I feel like Patrick and I stand out as tourists.
The energy feels charged the second we walk in.
Patrick’s hand rests possessively on my lower back as we check in at the front desk, which slightly annoys me, but I don’t shrug it off.
I spot Tully before he sees us. He’s over by the squat rack, mid-rep, barbell loaded heavy across his shoulders.
His dark hair is damp at the temples, sticking to his forehead.
The black tank clings to his back, outlining every ridge of muscle as he descends slow and controlled, then drives up with power.
His quads flex, thick and carved from years of skating and stopping on a dime.
Even from across the room, I can see the focus in his eyes—sharp, intense, the same look he used to give me when we were alone and the rest of the world didn’t exist.
His arms are covered with tattoos. They’re beautiful, but I feel a twinge of grief that I’m not the one who gave them to him. Memories of the way he trustingly stared up at me as I gave him his first and, eventually, second and third tattoos. And the way we desecrated my chair after each session.
My stomach twists. God, I miss him. I miss the way he used to look at me like I was the only thing worth seeing. But he’s not mine anymore. He hasn’t been since I chose safety over fire. Patrick might not be the smarter option, but he doesn’t come with threats and blackmail. Two large pluses.
He’s also less likely to break my heart. But if I’m honest with myself, that’s because I’ve never let myself feel for anyone what I felt for Tully. I’m not sure I ever can.
Tully racks the bar with a clang and straightens, wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt.
That’s when he notices us. His gaze slides over Patrick first, cool and assessing, before landing on me.
For a split second, something raw flickers across his face.
Longing? The same grief that I feel? I’m not sure because it vanishes so fast, replaced by that easy, cocky grin he wears like armor.
“Lola,” he says, voice low and warm, like gravel wrapped in suede. And then it turns steely. “Patrick.”
Patrick’s hand tightens on my waist. “Tully. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I’m sure it’s not that big of a surprise,” Tully replies, lifting an eyebrow. “Are you stalking me, Martin?”
His eyes meet mine when he says that last line, and my mouth drops. No, he did not just use our line with Patrick. But oh yes, the way his eyes are dancing says he did indeed, and just to get under my skin.
“As if I need to,” Patrick says, a little too loud, like he’s staking territory. “Just blowing off steam, Whitman.”
Tully’s eyes flick to me again, lingering. “Looks like you could use it.”
The air crackles. I feel it in my chest, that old pull toward Tully, magnetic and dangerous. Patrick must feel it too, because he steps closer, his chest puffing.
“Just getting ready for the season to kick your ass on the ice again,” Patrick says.
Tully’s eyes narrow, and I don’t blame him—Patrick is being a jerk.
“Want to make it interesting?” Patrick asks, nodding toward the pull-up bars. “Best of five sets. Loser donates a thousand to the winner’s favorite charity.”
Tully laughs, short and sharp. “You sure? I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your girl. If you haven’t already done that yourself…”
I glare at both of them, not liking where this is going. “Come on, guys. This isn’t a good idea.”
Patrick’s jaw ticks as he stares at Tully. “Bring it,” he says between clenched teeth.
Neither of them looks at me as they move toward the bars. I follow them to the far end of the gym, heart hammering.
Two pros from rival teams in the same gym—all eyes are on them.
They start with pull-ups. Patrick goes first. He gets to twenty-nine on the first set before dropping, his chest rising and falling.
Tully steps up next. He jumps lightly, catches the bar, and starts. His lifts are smooth and effortless. He pulls his chin over the bar again and again. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t grunt—just keeps going until he hits forty-one, then drops down lightly, barely winded.
The phones are out now, no one bothering to hide them.
Patrick’s face darkens. “Show-off.”
Tully smirks. “Just warming up.”
“Let’s see how you do over there.” Patrick points at the free-weight zone.
“Sure, I can handle dead lifts,” Tully says.
“You go first this time,” Patrick says.
“You sure?” Tully asks.
Patrick doesn’t bother responding. It’s clear that Tully is goading him. Tully loads the bar heavy and does nine reps in perfect form. When he drops the bar, the clang echoes, and there’s a smattering of applause.
Patrick looks exhausted around the seventh rep, but he keeps going, stopping at ten. Someone whistles low, and then there’s applause for him too.
By the time they move to sled pushes, their skin is glistening with sweat.
Patrick digs in, legs churning, but the sled slows halfway, and he has to reset twice.
He gets his momentum, though, and looks triumphant when he finishes.
Tully goes after, same weight, same distance.
He makes it look effortless. It’s impossible not to gawk at his body—it was flawless when we were together, but he’s become so much more defined.
He’s ripped. He finishes faster and straightens, wiping his brow like it’s nothing.
Patrick curses under his breath.
The women next to me are whispering excitedly.
One of them fans herself and says, “Oh my God, I can’t believe this. This is going to be my fantasy for life.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. They do look incredible, testosterone overload fighting for dominance. I know I should be rooting for Patrick, my boyfriend…but…Tully.
I feel exposed, like the whole gym can see the war inside me. Tully’s eyes find mine every few seconds, dark and knowing.
They finish with planks. Patrick starts shaking around the four-and-a-half-minute mark.
Tully goes five minutes and twenty seconds, breathing steadily, abs tight under his now-soaked tank.
When he finally drops, he catches my eye again.
No words. Just that look that says he remembers every night we spent tangled up, every promise I broke.
Or maybe it’s just the way I’m looking at him, hoping he hasn’t forgotten us.
Patrick can hardly look at him when it’s over.
Tully nods, but his gaze stays on me. “Great idea, man. I choose No Kid Hungry, and I’ll match your donation. Have a good one.” He nods at me. “Lola.”
He walks off toward the locker room, back straight, every line of him screaming confidence.
Patrick turns to me with a grim expression. I can’t muster any encouraging words because I really dislike who Patrick becomes when he’s competitive. I force a smile, but my chest aches.
Less than an hour later, I open my phone and see photos of them mid-lift, side-by-side comparisons already circulating.
Patrick Martin may have won the championship, but Tully Whitman absolutely smoked Patrick at the gym. Who’s winning the offseason?
One photo zooms in on Tully’s form next to Patrick’s strained effort. The comments are brutal, mostly favoring Tully.
I close the app, but the images burn behind my eyes of the man I can’t have, the one who still makes my pulse race like no one else ever could.
The dim lighting at Elm & Echo is warm and inviting. The restaurant sits right on the edge of Windy Harbor’s marina, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the dark water, where boats bob gently under strings of fairy lights.
Patrick’s been brooding ever since we left the gym earlier today. He orders the steak and a bottle of cabernet, again without asking what I want. His jaw is tight, fork scraping the plate harder than necessary.
“Still can’t believe that guy,” he mutters, not for the first time. “He’s such an asshole.”
I swirl my wine, watching the legs trail down the glass. “You asked for a competition. He gave you one.”
He shoots me a look. “He was flexing. Hard. For you.” His eyes flick over me. “And you just stood there.”
I don’t answer. What does he want me to say? That I can’t unsee the way Tully’s shirt clung to him, the way his eyes found mine every time he finished a set? That just being near him still makes my pulse stutter?
The server brings our seared scallops appetizer, and I catch movement near the bar.
Tully is in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded and inked. He’s alone, nursing something amber, but his gaze lifts and locks on mine the second I look over.
My breath catches.
Patrick notices. His hand slides to my thigh under the table, possessive, thumb stroking in slow circles.
“You look incredible tonight,” he says, louder than necessary, bringing my hand up to his mouth to kiss my knuckles.
My skin prickles under Tully’s stare.
Dinner drags, and when I see Tully get up and walk away from the bar, my heart sinks.
I don’t want him to leave. I excuse myself to visit the bathroom.
The hallway is narrow, lined with black-and-white photos of old Windy Harbor fishing boats.
I round the corner, and there he is, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting for me.
“Hi, Lola,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges.
“Hey.” I stop a few feet away, arms crossed to hide how my hands shake.
His eyes rake over me—slow and deliberate. My blue dress. The tattoos. “Still so beautiful.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Thank you. You too. You are. Still…beautiful,” I finish awkwardly.
I sigh and put my hands on my face. I used to have no trouble maintaining my cool. Tully changed all of that, and it seems as if he’s still very effective with that gift.
“I have a question,” he says.
My heart drops. What does he want to know? Why did I leave? What happened back then?
He steps closer. Not touching, but close enough that I can smell his cologne—woodsy and familiar. I breathe him in.
“Does he know you still look at me like this?” he asks.
My breath hitches. “Like what?”
“Like you haven’t forgotten anything.” His voice drops. “Like you miss me.”
I should step back and laugh it off…hurry my ass back to the table. Instead I hold his gaze. “I think he may suspect.”
He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “So you don’t deny it.”
I shake my head.
“Fuck, Lola. I don’t think I’ll ever understand—”
He’s right about that. He’s right about everything. I’ve never stopped thinking about him, never stopped missing what we had together. And there’s no way he’d ever understand why I left him and never looked back.
The air between us crackles, thick with everything we can’t say.
It’s cruel, knowing he’s still affected by me, maybe even wrecked over me, and feeling it light something inside me that’s been dim for too long.
I step closer, just enough that our breaths mingle. “I’m really glad I got to see you again.”
“But you’re saying goodbye again, aren’t you?” he counters.
Neither of us moves for a long second.
His eyes say Stay.
“I’m so sorry, Tully.” Then I turn, heels clicking softly on the wood floor. His stare heats my back the whole way.
It’s the second time I’ve apologized to him this weekend, but it needs to be the last, because I have to move on. Once and for all, for my heart’s sake, I must make peace with Tully being my past.