Chapter 15 - Nicole
Nicole
“So this is where it all happened, huh?” Landon craned his neck to take it in. “Looks smaller than I expected.”
“Everything does,” I said, reaching for the door handle. “Memory has horrible scale.”
I stepped out onto the curb, heels meeting cracked concrete, and straightened the hem of my dress. Red had felt right when I bought it. Loud without being desperate. Confident in a way my seventeen year old self had never mastered. Now it felt a little like I was trying too hard.
Landon climbed out behind me, suit jacket already unbuttoned, tie loosened just enough to look intentional. He’d actually listened when I told him this wasn’t strictly black tie but he had to look nice. His hair was combed back, neat at the sides, no rebellious swoop threatening to undo the effort.
I smiled up at him. “Thanks for taming the hair.”
“For you? It was worth the trauma.”
I snorted, then caught myself watching him adjust his cuffs. Clean lines. Broad shoulders. The kind of man people noticed without trying. A thought slipped in uninvited, unwelcome and persistent.
This might’ve been a better plan all along, coming here with Landon instead of James.
I shoved it aside and started toward the entrance, the thump of music bleeding through the gym doors. Halfway there, my feet slowed. Then stopped.
Landon noticed immediately. “Hey. What’s up?”
“I just need a minute.”
I stared at the doors, the high balloon arch against the familiar yellow paint I’d once thought was cheerful. Not so cheerful anymore considering what my last years here were like.
He stepped closer, but not to hurry me along. His presence was steady and patient beside me.
“High school wasn’t great,” I said, the understatement almost laughable. “Walking back in there feels… bigger than it should.”
“It’s just that memory scale thing, remember? No big deal.” Then he added, “I won’t leave your side. Bathroom breaks excluded. I have boundaries.”
Something in my chest eased. “Deal.”
I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and started walking again. Landon matched my pace easily, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him without touching.
“Before we go in,” I said, holding up a finger. “Ground rules.”
His mouth curved. “Knew there’d be fine print.”
“Touching’s allowed,” I said. “But not my chest and not my butt.”
“Tragic. I had grand plans for that swooping neckline of yours. Anything else?”
“Cheek kisses only. No mouth.”
He made a thoughtful sound, tapping his chin lightly. “Cruel but fair. What else?”
I bit the inside of my cheek, the music suddenly louder even though we hadn’t moved. It made no sense that I would feel so stupid about this. “You can hold my hand.”
“That one I like,” he said, a half-smile creeping onto his lips.
“These are rules, Landon,” I emphasized. “Not suggestions.”
He dipped his head, voice pitched low so only I could hear. “Let’s see where the night takes us.”
I shot him a look that was meant to be annoyed and landed somewhere else entirely. There was no hiding with him, no pretending I wasn’t enjoying this as much as him. He smiled, unrepentant, and reached for the door.
The gym exploded with sound and light the second we stepped inside.
Streamers in school colors crisscrossed the ceiling, and whatever balloons couldn’t fit into the arch were strewn, well, everywhere.
Someone had gone all in on nostalgia, right down to the playlist of songs that had once felt groundbreaking and now sounded slightly ridiculous.
I was still taking it all in when I became aware of the hush coming over the general buzz of conversation. Then out of nowhere, it surged back louder.
“Oh, my God, Nicole Gordon?”
“Is that you?”
“No way!”
“And is that—?”
Heads turned, phones came out. A ripple of excitement and disbelief ran through the room as several pairs of eyes snagged on us in the doorway.
“Nicole… Cross?” I recognized Dax, the old captain from the soccer team, instantly. He’d never said two words to me in four years at Travis Ridge. Now he was downright beaming.
Heat rose up the back of my neck. “No, it’s still Gordon.”
Landon didn’t miss a beat. His arm slid possessively around my waist and he pulled me in against his side. “For now, anyway.”
The reaction was immediate in the small crowd that had gathered in front of us. Gasps and delighted laughter. Someone actually squealed.
“I didn’t think we’d have a celebrity at the party tonight,” Dax said, shaking Landon’s hand. “Great to have you. I’ve been a Surge fan forever.”
That was a lie, and when I looked up at Landon, I could tell he knew it too. He was gracious about it though, and simply said, “Hardly a celebrity, but thanks.”
We were swarmed within seconds. Old classmates, former acquaintances, people who’d barely known my name back then now eager to say hi and catch up and tell me things.
Compliments stacked up, and questions were fired at Landon and me in rapid succession.
How long had we been dating? How did we meet?
Were there wedding bells in the near future?
What did Coach McAvoy have to say about it?
“What the hell does your coach have to do with who you’re— Oh, never mind.” We’d managed to peel ourselves away as we crossed the floor to the drinks table.
“I guess you should’ve focused more on concrete questions they might ask instead of spending all your time thinking about me kissing you.”
I glared at him, my mouth opening and closing for lack of a better response.
“What? I know I’m right,” he said, and gave a light chuckle. “Me kissing you, my hands all over you…”
I landed a playful jab to his arm. “Shut up. That’s not true.”
“Then why are you blushing?”
Once again, I found myself totally mute in the face of his antics, and promptly changed the topic.
“Oh, good, punch.”
Landon laughed, but dutifully held the cups while I scooped the fizzy, yellow—hopefully spiked—liquid into them.
Over the crowd, I spotted them: my main rivals who’d made my formative years a living hell.
They stood near the bleachers, clustered together, older but unmistakable. Same vapid expressions, same way of looking me over like I was a thing instead of a person. Their eyes moved between Landon and me, their garishly stained lips pulling tight.
Satisfaction bloomed inside me. A spark that flared bright even though it burned out just as fast.
Yes, this was way better than bringing James. At least with Landon, I didn’t need to explain anything. Everyone knew who he was just by looking.
Eventually, everyone remembered the party, pulled toward the bar, the DJ, the novelty photo booth someone had inexplicably rented.
“Don’t let them do that,” he said quietly, taking a sip of his drink. His eyes stayed on my face the whole time, though.
“Let who do what?”
He jerked his head in the direction of the cluster at the bleachers. “Don’t let them decide how you feel tonight. Or ever again. They’re nobodies. Don’t hand them that much power.”
The punch was sweet and too cold, and I nodded through the uncomfortable brain freeze. Who would’ve thought I’d be getting sage advice from the likes of Landon Cross?
But he wasn’t wrong, and once I acknowledged it, the night loosened its grip on me.
Landon drifted with an easy confidence that pulled people in without effort, and I let myself fall half a step behind him, close enough to stay included but far enough to watch.
We moved past the bleachers where someone had taped old team banners to the rails, past a photo table littered with disposable cameras and a cardboard cutout of the school mascot that had seen better decades.
Everywhere we went, the same thing happened.
“So what are the Surge looking like this year?”
“Is Shawn okay? That hit was brutal.”
“You think you’re going all the way this year?”
Landon handled it with patience I hadn’t expected.
He talked about playoff math in plain terms, corrected a few misconceptions without condescension, and shut down speculation about Shawn with firm reassurance that recovery came first. He never made it about himself.
Not once. He redirected praise toward the team, the trainers, and the coaching staff.
Once, when he knew the cluster of bitches were within earshot, he even directed the praise to me. Called me his rock and motivation to keep giving his best.
It was just an act, but my heart didn’t get the memo. She fluttered out of my chest all the same.
I leaned against the punch table at one point, sipping from a third cup, watching Landon gesture with a plastic spoon as he explained why this season felt different. Someone laughed at something he said, and he smiled, wide and unguarded, the version of him that never made it onto broadcasts.
It felt special to be the one who got a glimpse of that guy, and I tucked the moment somewhere safe.
We migrated toward the center of the gym where the DJ had leaned fully into the theme, a throwback playlist rattling the speakers.
The floor vibrated faintly under my heels as we started dancing.
A group of guys I vaguely remembered from biology class moved closer to Landon, nodding like they were in a locker room instead of a high school gym dressed up with twinkle lights.
“So what’s it like,” one of them asked, jerking his chin toward me, “bringing your girlfriend back home like this?”
“Trophy girlfriend,” another added, smirking. “Nice upgrade, Gordon.”
The words landed sideways. Not heavy enough to knock me over, but enough to tilt the night.
I opened my mouth, ready to brush it off, to redirect, to do the thing I’d learned to do years ago. But Landon beat me to it.
“Careful,” he said, tone easy but unyielding. “You’re talking about someone who runs trauma shifts during hurricane season.”
A pause rippled through the group.