Page 52 of Pucking Rebound
I am ravenous, and not just for food.
“Lola?”
No answer.
Removing my suit jacket, I throw it over the sofa and search for her down the hallway that leads to my bedroom. “Lola.” Still no reply.
I notice the light on inside my studio. Not somewhere I let anyone into. Not even my sisters and I share every part of my life with them.
Pushing open the door, I step inside and smile at the same time my heart settles in my chest when I find Lola curled up sleeping on the regency-style chaise lounge I never sit on but have as more of an ornamental piece.
She’s a beam of light, her blonde hair an obvious contrast to the raven-velvet fabric. Zero makeup on, she’s so beautiful ithurts my heart to look at her, because she’s not, and never will be, mine.
Fun. Is that all I am to her? A distraction?
When to me, she’s so much more.
Kneeling next to the sofa, I secure a lock of her hair behind her ear.
Her eyes, which are full of sleep, flutter open.
“Hey, baby.”
A full-on smile shapes her lips. “Hi.” Welcoming me, she cups my face. “I’m sorry you lost the game tonight.”
“We’re not even halfway through the season. We’ll come back fighting.”
“Like you always do, you’re Stanley Cup winners four years in a row after all.
“Champions, baby.”
“You are.” Mouth open wide, she yawns. “Dinner is ready.” Her words are drawn out and lazy.
“You actually made dinner for me?” I genuinely can’t believe she cooked for me. Sienna would always order takeout.
Comparing Lola to Sienna is wrong. I need to stop it because they are nothing alike.
“I made you a turkey and lentil casserole. Heaps of protein for after a game.”
Fuck, why does her caring about what foods I eat make me like her more?
“Thank you. Are you tired?” Worry shrouds my words.
“Yeah.” Still lying down, she lets out another little yawn and rubs her nose. “I've had a shitty day.”
“Started off well,” I joke, referring to her coming all over my tongue after breakfast this morning and the fun we had in my truck, but I’m concerned about what happened after I left her at Wade’s.
“Might be a good way to end the day just the same as it started. It might help make it better.” She cheekily grins, her eyes shutter closed then open again as if adjusting to the light.
“That can be arranged, Ms. Ramsay.” I can’t help but ask, “What happened today?” I keep my voice low and soft to help make her feel at ease.
Unable to look at me, she inhales a deep breath as if preparing herself.
“I think meeting Graham at the same time my father had his first heart attack a year ago was no coincidence,” she replies, rubbing her eyes.
“It wasn’t?”
“No. He knew my father was unwell because he worked as a chef at one of the restaurants my father owns. He was charming, funny, and remembered everything I told him, and he always asked about my dad too. It seemed like he cared.”
