Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
MEET ME IN THE MIDDLE
LOLA
The lights of the arena pulse overhead, and the noise builds the closer we get to game time.
I’ve been excited for the home games, looking forward to spending more time with Tully and his family.
I’m sandwiched in the family suite between Goldie and Juju, and Dahlia’s on the other side of Juju.
They have had me laughing since we got here.
Everett’s a few seats down, chatting with Tully’s brothers and Milo about line changes, and Grayson and Chloe are playing near Grandma Nancy and Grandma Donna.
The whole crew is here tonight, a protective cocoon of flannel, team scarves, and the faint smell of hot chocolate.
Wade and Kip are here too, keeping an eye out for Daniel.
According to Joe, Daniel has been lingering around my apartment and my shop.
He hasn’t texted again. I think he’s thrown off with me being gone.
At least I hope he is. I hope he’s shaken up.
I’m sick of his threats hanging over my head like smelly smoke.
I’m wearing Tully’s jersey. It’s oversized on me, the sleeves rolled twice so my hands don’t disappear. It still smells faintly like his cologne mixed with whatever laundry detergent the team uses.
Down on the ice, warm-ups are in full swing.
Tully is one of the first to glide out in that easy, sexy way of his.
He begins with tight figure eights that showcase his impeccable balance.
His hips sway rhythmically, rotating open and closed in a turn that’s almost hypnotic—legs spreading wide, then snapping back together with controlled power.
Then he drops low into a crouch, knees bending deeply as he performs side-to-side shuffles that make his quads bulge and release in rhythmic pulses.
His body lowers even further, making my lustful thoughts run rampant when he hovers just above the ice, his hips grinding in small circles.
You can see the strain and release in his muscles, the way his breath quickens, fogging slightly against the cold air.
“Oh God. I can’t look when he does that,” Goldie complains, covering her eyes and peeking at me. “Tell me when it’s over.”
“I’ll have to tell you—Lola can’t look away,” Juju says.
They all laugh, and so do I, but then his knees splay wide, his ass on commanding display, and he glides his knees up and out as I drool. Music pulses in the background, upbeat and driving, and I feel like I’ve just experienced a half hour of foreplay. If that’s a warm-up, consider me warmed.
Heat pools low in my belly, insistent. I cross my legs, trying to look casual. My pulse is loud in my ears.
“One time these two older women ruined the game for me,” Goldie says.
“‘God, look at him stretch like that,’ one of them said. ‘That ought to be illegal.’ And the other one was like, ‘Right? How is he real? I need a cold shower just from the drills. I wish he’d drill me!’” She shudders and groans, and she’s probably rolling her eyes, but I can’t look away from Tully to find out.
I don’t want to miss anything.
“I do not need to hear horny old women talking about my twin like that,” Goldie adds.
Tonight’s going to be a long three periods.
The Fierce are on fire tonight, and I’m in complete agreement with those women Goldie was talking about.
I’m a mess. My skin feels too tight, my pulse hammering low and insistent between my legs, all because of Tully.
I remember this feeling from watching him in college, how I couldn’t wait to get my hands on him after a game, but now it’s magnified.
The periods blur. Hits, saves, goals. The Fierce pull ahead, and every time Tully touches the puck, my stomach flips.
He’s everywhere—forechecking, blocking shots, setting up plays with that intensity that draws every eye to him.
When the final buzzer sounds, the scoreboard lights up: We win, 4–2. The arena erupts.
Tully skates toward the boards instead of heading straight for the tunnel.
There’s this little boy, maybe four or five, his face pressed against the glass, his eyes huge and shining.
He’s wearing a too-big Fierce jersey with Tully’s number on the back, and his hands smack the plexiglass in excitement.
Tully slows, and with his devastating grin, he drops to one knee so he’s at eye level with the boy.
He taps his stick gently against the glass right where the kid’s nose is smooshed, then presses his palm flat against it like a high-five through the barrier.
The boy goes wild, bouncing and laughing so hard.
Tully says something, and the kid nods frantically, and then Tully stands and thumps his chest once before skating off with a little salute.
My chest caves in, melting and aching at the same time. Our child would have been around that age.
I haven’t let myself think about having a child one day, not after the loss of our baby threatened to send me under. But now…maybe…maybe I can let hope in. Maybe we’ll get another chance.
The neon sign above the door flickers Rebel Mark in red and electric blue as Tully and I step inside. The shop smells the same—sterile green soap, faint incense, old leather, and the metallic tang of ink. My chest warms with nostalgia.
Ken’s behind the counter, the gray streaking his beard heavier than I remember. His face splits into a grin the second he sees me.
“Lola,” he booms, coming around to pull me into a bear hug that lifts me off my boots for a second. “Look at you, kid. World famous now, huh? Clients flying in from everywhere just to sit in your chair.”
I laugh, hugging him back. “Not quite world famous. Just…busy.”
“Bullshit. I’ve seen your portfolio. I’ve heard the buzz.
That watercolor sleeve you did for that musician last year?
People lost their minds over it.” He releases me and claps Tully on the shoulder.
“And you brought this guy. Tully Whitman. Good to see you again, man. Been following your career. Doing Minnesota proud.”
Tully nods, easy smile in place. “Thanks, Ken. I appreciate that. It’s good to see you too.”
“You’re in a little better shape than the last time I saw you.” Ken points at Tully. “I’m glad to see the two of you worked things out.”
I glance at Tully, and he lifts a shoulder. “I put Ken through an interrogation when you left.”
I squeeze Tully’s hand, and he smiles softly, like he’s forgiven me.
“Didn’t mind one bit. This girl’s worth fighting for.” Ken gestures toward the back. “Your old station’s there waiting for you. Anytime you’re in town, it’s yours. Ink some magic for old times’ sake.”
“Thanks, Ken,” I say, hugging him again. “It’s really great to see you.”
“I hope to see you more often. Sorry, I’ve gotta run so soon. Wife’s outta town, and I gotta let the dog out.”
“Thanks for staying late for us.”
He waves me off with a wink. “Not any trouble at all. Lock up when you’re done. I’m out. Don’t burn the place down.”
The door chimes behind him, and then it’s just us. We walk back to my old station, and Tully grins at me.
“You gonna ink me tonight?”
I tilt my head. “Whatever you want.”
“I’d love more of your art on my skin. Surprise me. Everything you’ve chosen before…” He trails off, voice roughening. “They mean something. You see me better than anyone.”
My throat goes tight. I pull out something from my bag that I’ve been wanting to get for myself. He doesn’t ask to look, so I get to work setting up fresh needles and black ink.
“Where would you like to see it?” he asks, grinning.
I tap his heart. “Maybe here?”
His curiosity piqued, he shrugs off his jacket and then tugs his shirt over his head before lying back on the chair. I position him and lean in close.
“Are you sure you don’t want to approve it first?”
He meets my eyes. “I trust you.”
“Okay. I hope you like it.”
I transfer the stencil: a small infinity loop, with detailed angel wings on half of each loop.
The feathers get shorter and more delicate closer to the center, and shading gives them dimension.
At the center of the loop are two small, black hearts.
One sits slightly left of the center, and the other sits slightly right.
A tiny black dot marks the center between the two hearts, which appear to meet in the middle.
The buzz of the machine fills the silence between us. He doesn’t flinch. He just watches my face. When I finish and wipe the tattoo clean, the lines are crisp, the wings almost lifelike in their gentle curve.
“Would you like to see it?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says emphatically.
I raise his chair fully and hold a mirror in front of him. His breath catches when he sees it, his eyes glistening.
“For our baby.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
I tape it down, and he pulls me into him. His forehead rests against mine, and we’re just quiet for a few quiet moments. We stay like that, grieving together in a way we weren’t able to before. A tear slips down my cheek.
After a few minutes, he asks quietly, “Do you ever…imagine trying again? Someday?”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “This is the first time I’ve let myself hope it could be possible.” My voice cracks. “Because you’re the only one I’d ever want that kind of future with.”
He exhales. “Whatever comes, as long as I have you, I’ll be happy,” he says.