Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE FISTS AND THE FURIOUS
LOLA
“Ahh, you made it!” Briar says, opening her arms wide.
I hug her and then Juniper before sitting at the high-top table.
I needed to get out of the apartment so I wouldn’t eat ice cream and sob alone while watching Tully play, but the game is on every TV in the bar.
I might still have ice cream after I eat something more substantial, but at least I won’t be eating alone, and I hate crying in front of people, so I think I’m safe there.
“We’ve ordered a pizza, fries, and wings,” Juni says. “Do you want to add anything else?”
“No, sounds like you got the good stuff.” I glance at the menu, trying to decide if I’m going to get a drink or not, and decide yes. It’s definitely a drink kind of night.
My breath catches when I see number 19 on the screen.
After I tattooed his number on his shoulder blade, I used to kiss that spot before every game, like I could press luck into his skin.
It’s always felt meaningful to me that he kept his number, but I think it’s just his favorite and probably has nothing to do with me.
I haven’t seen him since Nantucket.
I’ve almost texted him a thousand times. Who knows if he even has the same number? I blocked it years ago and have never been more tempted than now to unblock.
I decide on a mescal margarita with a smoked-salt rim.
A thin slice of jalapeno floats on top. It burns my throat and leaves my lips tingling.
I down it quickly and ask for another when our server comes with the food.
I’m hungry, but also stress eating, because Tully’s having a rough night on the ice.
The commentators won’t shut up.
“…and that’s the fourth giveaway in twelve minutes for Tully. The star center came into the season riding high off last year’s playoffs, despite the Fierce’s loss, but so far he looks a step behind. Not the start anyone expected from Whitman.”
On screen, he’s skating hard, but he keeps fumbling the passes and then gets intercepted. The other team scores.
I guess since New York’s not playing tonight, we have a bunch of Fierce fans, because the bar groans as one.
A guy behind me mutters, “Fucking brutal.”
Juni, perched on the stool to my left with her gin and tonic, lets out a low whistle.
“Wow. Did he leave his moves in last season or what? That was tragic.”
My head whips toward her so fast the mescal sloshes in the glass.
“Don’t.”
She laughs, thinking I can’t be serious. “Don’t what? Call it like I see it? The guy’s playing like he’s got concrete skates tonight.”
“He’s not—” I catch myself. Swallow. “It’s early season. Give him a break.”
Briar, quiet on my right, tilts her head at me. “I thought you weren’t really into hockey, despite dating a hockey player.”
I stare at the screen. Tully’s on the puck again, but then it skips off his stick and flies into the boards.
The bar erupts—curses, groans, someone bangs a fist on a table. “Jesus Christ!”
“I’m not…into hockey.” I can say that, but in reality, at this point, I know the game backwards and forwards and can recite stats with the best of them. “I dated Tully throughout college,” I say.
The words land soft, but they stop everything at our table. Juni’s beer freezes halfway to her mouth, and they both turn to stare at me.
I train my eyes on the screen. Tully’s on the bench now, helmet off, dark hair plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump even from here. He’s staring at the ice like it personally betrayed him.
“I walked away from him,” I continue, voice low enough that only they can hear over the bar noise. “It’s been five years. I’ve never stopped…” I clear my throat. “Then I ran into him in Nantucket.”
“What happened?” Briar whispers.
“It was like no time had passed,” I say softly. “But I can’t be with him.”
“Why not?” Juni leans in. “It’s obvious the feelings are still there.
And look at the man!” She points at the screen.
“Even when he’s having a bad night, he looks like a model on stilts.
Or skates. Or whatever. He looks really, really hot.
Even on ice. Especially on ice. But you know what I mean.
” She shakes her head. “God. I can’t believe you’ve slept with Tully Whitman and Patrick Martin.
I have so many inappropriate questions.”
“Me too,” Briar says, eyes wide. “So, so many.” She reaches out and takes my hand. “Is this why you’ve been sad ever since Nantucket?”
I nod. “Yes. But I don’t need to talk about it. It doesn’t do any good.”
“Shit, Lola,” Juni says after a beat, voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m sorry.”
Another mescal margarita slides in front of me. I wrap my fingers around the cold glass and take a slow sip. The edges of the bar blur a little.
Later, during the Uber ride home, I take out my phone and unblock Tully’s number.
I’ve been better. The confession to Briar and Juni lifted some of the weight, but it didn’t fix the ache. They text me check-ins now, especially during games. You watching? I lie, say no, then glue myself to the screen anyway. Tonight’s no different.
I think they know I’m lying tonight because they threatened to stop by my apartment if I didn’t go out with them. I made up an excuse about running errands, so I could watch Tully play against Patrick and the Suns tonight.
The teams are lining up at center ice for the national anthem, helmets off, sticks down. My heart flutters when I see Tully. His face is calm, or it looks calm from here.
Then the camera does a close-up on Patrick, and his jaw is clenched. He manages to look cocky and angry while turning a smile on right at the camera.
The anthem ends, and the lights come up. Players start skating their warm-up circles. Tully glides toward the bench for one last sip of water before getting in place. I see the back of Patrick’s jersey, and it looks like he’s doing the same on the opposite side.
The game starts, and just as the ref drops the puck, Patrick says something, and Tully’s expression hardens. And the next moment is a flurry of movement.
Gloves hit the ice, and their sticks clatter down next. There’s no hesitation between either of them. The crowd realizes what’s happening, and a roar builds.
They square up fast. Patrick lunges, his hand snapping out in a jab that catches Tully on the chin. Tully’s head snaps, but he fires back with a punch that nails Patrick’s cheek.
I stand up, gasping, my hand moving to cover my mouth.
Tully ducks Patrick’s follow-up punch and grabs Patrick’s jersey with both hands, yanking him in close, and makes contact again with Patrick’s chin. Blood is flying. It’s hard to tell who it’s coming from.
Players from both teams surround them, fists flying everywhere. The crowd loses its mind. The referees get involved, pulling players apart. Tully’s panting, blood dripping from his nose, and Patrick’s laughing through a split lip, wiping the blood with his sleeve.
The refs give both a five-minute penalty.
It happened before the puck dropped, so the penalties carry over.
The crowd’s still roaring—half cheering the sheer brutality, half chanting Patrick’s name like he’s a hero.
He knew it was safer to do that on his home turf; anywhere else, the fans wouldn’t be on his side as much.
Tully skates to the box. His helmet is crooked, and there’s blood smeared across his cheek. He doesn’t look at the camera. Just sits there, breathing hard, and staring straight ahead.
My phone goes crazy.
Isla
Hey. How are you?
I sigh and would laugh if I weren’t such a wreck. She’s trying to check up on me without bringing up the game, just in case I’m not watching it.
Not great. Watching this shit show.
Isla
Ugh. I hoped you weren’t seeing that.
I can’t look away.
My text thread with Briar and Juni is next.
Briar
I hope you really are running errands.
Juni
I have a sneaking suspicion she’s not.
I saw it.
Juni
They went at it as soon as the game started!
Briar
It was hard to tell who won the fight. My money’s on Tully. He looks stronger! He’s built like a very, very hot tank. A tank who just seems more down-to-earth. Is that true—is he? Is it okay to ask that?
A lot of people are, compared to Patrick. But yes, Tully is one of the most down-to-earth people I’ve ever met.
I watch the replay loop in slow motion.
Daniel didn’t want me to be a distraction, which is just one of many reasons I stayed away. But watching Tully fight Patrick like that—when he’s usually so calm and levelheaded—I think maybe I’m a distraction anyway.