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 havesomany 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 backof 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.