Chapter 33
FISHER
For the next week, nothing in my world exists outside of Lila and hockey.
Before I know it, we’re deep into round two of the playoffs and tied with Vancouver three-three.
The night before game seven—which will be on home ice—we’re thankfully off for the evening and able to attend opening night of Lila’s… er, Santi’s…art show.
Lila wants to continue keeping her identity hidden and has requested that everyone play it cool like she’s just another art collector browsing around.
I park my car around the corner from the gallery, then walk toward the front door alone.
Lila was at the firehouse working most of the day, and Penn and Noah were off doing who knows what with their girlfriends.
The golden sun is setting on the horizon, and the sea breeze moves through my hair as I stride toward the glass-front gallery.
Lila and my friends—our friends—are gathered in front of the gallery waiting for me.
I’m running a bit late, but for good reason.
Lila spots me, and her face splits into a wide grin.
Her hair is in an artfully messy braid, and she’s wearing one of my favorite dresses, the long white one that flows around her when she moves.
And she’s always moving, always in motion.
It’s one of the many things I love about her, how she’s like a waterfall; breathtaking in its beauty, but constantly flowing and changing shape.
She’s a force I couldn’t deny, a downpour I couldn’t stop from cascading into my heart and soul. Just looking at her, my heart races inside my chest. I love her. I didn’t mean to fall in love; I wasn’t trying to…but with Lila it was impossible not to.
Lila moves toward me and wraps her arms around my neck once I’m right in front of her. I encircle her waist with my hands and kiss her thoroughly, earning a few whistles from the guys.
I pull back, laughing. “Are you ready for your big night?”
Lila smirks. “Is it my big night, or your big night?”
“Well, you did make me look pretty damn good,” I admit.
She threads her hands into my hair. “It’s nearly impossible to make you look bad, Hercules.” Her voice is raspy and low and makes me consider forgetting the art show and taking her home asap.
“Come on, you two,” Penn yells. “I’m antsy to see Fisher’s nudes.”
“It’s not like we haven’t seen him naked before,” Noah grumbles. “He barely wears clothes around the loft.”
Lila’s head falls back in laughter, and I soak up the sound like it’s my last meal on earth. She drops her hands from my hair and holds my hand. “For the last time, they’re not nudes,” she calls back to Penn.
The six of us make our way into the gallery, and the curator shoots Lila a wink, knowing who she is but respecting her privacy.
“You think we’ll find animal testicle art again?” Penn asks Hazel in a hushed whisper behind me.
“I really hope not,” Hazel whispers back.
I shake my head, smiling. Lila, still holding my hand, leads me through the gallery. We weave in and out of various displays and collections, until we finally reach hers.
My eyebrows shoot up when I spot her paintings, all of which portray an artistically stylized version of me in different positions, conveying different emotions.
In the first one, I’m laughing and my hand is in my hair.
The plate beneath says it’s titled, Hercules the Charmer.
In the second, I’m lying in bed, eyes closed and arms sprawled.
The nameplate says Hercules the Dreamer.
There’s one of me on the ice—Hercules the Warrior—and another of me looking deep in thought, with a glint in my eye. Hercules the Philosopher.
The fifth one really catches my eye though, because I haven’t seen it before.
I thought she’d already shown me all of the pieces for this show, that she was meant to display four pieces…
but this one’s a surprise. Lila painted me somber, unsmiling, completely serious.
I almost don’t recognize myself without hiding behind a smile or a joke.
I step closer, studying the piece of art like a puzzle until it hits me that what I see on the canvas is a version of me that only she sees and understands.
The version where my guard is down, where I’m overwhelmed by my family, my expression of disappointment in never meeting their expectations. The title of this one is My Hercules.
As I stare at my own face on the canvas, I understand that Lila gets me, appreciates me…
all of me. Not just the hockey player, or the charming flirt, or the grandson of Louis Fisher the Third.
But the real, true me. In this painting, I’m not the confident, carefree Fisher I always pretend to be for the rest of the world…
I’m her Hercules. The man whose heart belongs to her.
My focus goes fuzzy as tears fill my eyes.
Lila squeezes my hand, looking up at me in concern. “Should I not have included that one? I’m sorry if you don’t like it.”
I blink back my unshed tears, clearing my throat. “I don’t just like it, Lila. I love it. I love all of them.” I meet her gaze when I say the words, and I wonder if she knows what I truly mean…I love you.
Lila breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay, you had me worried there for a sec.” She peeks up at me and smiles. “That one’s my favorite.”
“Damn, Lila…you made Fishy look badass.” Penn tugs at my shirt, trying to lift it. “Do you really have a ten pack?”
I shove his hands away. “Shut up, you know I do.”
Noah looks away from us, shaking his head.
Ally and Hazel laugh. “But seriously, girl, these are incredible!” Ally tells Lila, pulling her into a hug.
Hazel hugs her the moment Ally pulls back. “You’re so talented,” she whispers.
“You should paint Noah next. I want something like this to hang in my bedroom,” Ally says with a grin, pumping her eyebrows.
“Absolutely not.” Noah turns bright red. “No offense, Lila.”
“None taken.” Lila smiles.
“Yeah, I want a portrait of Hazel, too,” Penn says, his tone serious. “But fully nude.” He winks.
Hazel rolls her eyes. “How about I commission a giant portrait of Fluffy for you instead?”
Penn shudders at the reminder of her tarantula. “Please don’t.”
My face hurts from smiling as my friends banter back and forth like Lila has been part of our group forever.
I can’t believe that less than a year ago, none of these people were in my life.
This group of friends-turned-family has never made me feel like a disappointment, never judged me for the person I am, even when I’m impulsive and annoying and disorganized.
There’s something special in knowing you’ve found where you belong, where you’re accepted.
A group of members from Lila’s art collective round the corner, here to support her. All the people gathered around her collection are the only ones who know her true identity—aside from my father and brother—and Lila has the biggest smile on her face.
A contented calm washes over me, a sense of everything being right in the world.
All of our people surrounding us, celebrating my wife…
and then there’s the surprise I have in store for Lila when we leave here.
It’s something I’ve been working on since that terrible dinner with my father, brother, and Lila.
That dinner gave me much needed clarity, and helped me realize that from now on, I refuse to let my family influence my life—in any capacity.
Zane hugs Lila and says something that makes her smile, but I’m unbothered by it. Nothing could ruin my good mood tonight.
When Zane pulls back his gaze moves to the paintings, and his eyes widen. He looks over at me, then turns to Lila. “I think I preferred your landscapes.”
She snorts a laugh, and to my surprise, Zane laughs, too. He moves toward me and holds his hand out…a peace offering? I’m not sure, but either way, it’s progress, so I grab his hand and give it a friendly shake.
“Is it weird that someone’s going to purchase these paintings of your husband, Lilabug?” Masha asks, keeping her voice low.
Lila shrugs. “He’s a work of art, and art should be enjoyed and appreciated.”
Masha’s eyes drop down my body like she’s wondering if I look like the paintings under my clothes. She giggles to herself.
I smile, but her comment gives me pause as I look at all the strangers in the gallery who’ve also been admiring Lila’s art tonight.
I hadn’t really considered someone would purchase these and take them home to stare at them.
It doesn’t bother me, but it does make me wonder whose home they’ll end up in.
Just another person to admire the hard work I’ve put in at the gym.
Lila moves to stand beside me, and I wrap an arm around her, watching people mingling and complimenting my wife’s talent. I kiss the top of her head. “Being your muse makes me feel like quite the trophy husband.”
She laughs, her expression is full of joy, then her smile abruptly falls. Her gaze lands on something behind me, her eyes widening in a way that makes a pit form in my stomach.
Before I can turn to look, my father’s familiar disappointed tone rises over the small crowd gathered around us. “Proud of being a glorified trophy husband, are you, Archibald?”
I whirl around to find myself face to face with my father, who’s been radio silent again since we had dinner with him and Louis a couple of weeks ago, after Lila foiled his plan to disprove our marriage.
He’s dressed in one of his fine suits with his ashy hair perfectly combed, his face freshly shaven, and his shiny Italian leather shoes clicking against the tile.
He shakes his head, his distaste for me obvious, before turning to the paintings.
“You won’t stop until you humiliate our entire family and yourself, will you?
” He asks, his voice quiet, but sharper than a knife.