Chapter 4
Landon
The coffee cart was already doing brisk business when I stepped out of the hotel with Mason, breath fogging in front of my face as the Missouri cold slapped me awake better than caffeine ever could.
Early December in St. Louis felt mean about it. The air cut straight through my sweats, found every bad decision I’d made about not wearing a heavier jacket, and punished me for it. No sun. Just gray piled on gray, the street damp from a night rain that hadn’t bothered to fully clear out.
“Tell me again why we didn’t get room service,” I said, falling into step beside Mason.
“Because you always go overboard and make us late,” he replied, already fishing his wallet out of his pocket. “And because this way, the cold can wake you up.”
“I don’t need waking up. I’m ready to go.”
“That’s what worries me.”
The cart was wedged on the corner across from the hotel, steam rolling off the metal urns, the guy inside bundled like he planned to survive the apocalypse.
Blues banners hung from the lampposts down the block, blue and gold everywhere, logos stamped on awnings, windows, even the damn trash cans.
Different city, different attitude. Less flash, but way more grind.
I ordered black. Mason added something sweet. I pretended not to judge him for it.
That was when I saw her.
She stood a few feet away, wrapped in a thick coat that swallowed her frame, red knit beanie pulled low.
Our away colors. A red and white Surge scarf looped around her neck and practically swallowed her face.
But I still recognized her. She had a warm pretzel in one hand, talking animatedly to the guy who’d sold it to her.
“Hat Girl?” I stepped closer. “Are you stalking me now?”
She turned, eyes lighting up the second she spotted me, but her expression quickly changed to something heavier. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that. After everything I’ve done for this team.”
Mason looked between us. “Do I need context, or is this one of those things I’m better off not knowing?”
“Both,” I said. “But mostly the second.”
Nicole huffed, adjusted her scarf, and pointed her pretzel at me. “I’ve only ever missed two Surge games in my life. Once, when my dog, Pawdrey Hepburn, died. And when my appendix burst, and they wouldn’t let me check myself out for two hours.”
Mason choked on his coffee.
I stared at her. “You’re serious.”
“Season tickets,” she said, chest out. “And as president of Surge Nation fan club, I get special discounts on travel packages for away games.”
“President of what?” I laughed, and Mason jabbed me in the ribs.
“It’s not so funny when I’m cashing in on group hotel rates, priority seating blocks, and early access to merch.”
I took my coffee from the cart and studied her curiously. I’d obviously had my fair share of run-ins with fans, but none of them intrigued me as much as this one. “So I’ve been playing for a president this whole time and didn’t know it. Better up my game.”
“That’ll be hard, seeing your stats are already through the roof,” she chided, then took a bite of her pretzel.
Mason rolled his eyes so hard that it impacted the airwaves around us. “The bus is here.”
Sure enough, the team bus idled across the street, plumes of smoke curling up from the tailpipe.
“I promise I won’t overlook you in the stands anymore,” I said, allowing him to drag me back to the rest of the team.
The bus doors hissed shut behind me, sealing off the cold air, and Mason didn’t waste a second.
“Well,” he said, dropping into the seat beside mine, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid. “That was… festive.”
I slid my headphones halfway on, then stopped. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he said, grin baked in. “But you were totally flirting with her.”
“I was having a totally normal conversation.”
“With a fan? Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “You don’t even look at them when you pass by, signing whatever shit they shove into your hands.”
“She’s not just a fan, okay. She’s my neighbor.”
That slipped out too clean, too fast. Mason’s eyebrow crept up like it had a mind of its own. “Neighbor? You didn’t mention that part.”
“I’m mentioning it now,” I said, and settled deeper into my seat. “And not that it’s any of your business, but my focus is on the game. Always has been. I don’t have time for anything else.”
The lie barely made it past my teeth before it soured. I felt it immediately, lodged somewhere behind my ribs, annoying and undeniable.
“Anything else, like a hot neighbor?”
I glared at him, and he raised his hands in surrender, satisfied that he’d said enough. His words played over in my head as the bus rolled off, but I just turned my music up to drown it out.
When we hit the arena, whatever noise was left in my head had fizzled to nothing. Skates. Ice. Lines. This was the part of my world that made sense. The part that always did.
Warmups snapped into place quickly. My legs felt good, stick felt right, and the puck was a beauty.
St. Louis came out hard, their fans loud and territorial, but there was a looseness to us tonight that hadn’t been there against the Jets.
Something in the team clicked, and I felt it from the first shift.
Grayson won the draw clean, back to me, who moved it fast to Shawn cutting up the right side.
Mason crossed behind him, dragging coverage, and he fed it through the slot without even looking.
I was already there. My first touch was instinctual, low and hard, which had the goalie kicking it out with his pad.
Grayson crashed the crease and buried the rebound before the defense could blink.
The Surge bench erupted, and whatever little red and white was scattered through the stands did the same.
Coach looked about ready to kiss us all on the lips.
The next few minutes turned into pressure stacked on pressure. We rolled lines smoothly, no scrambling or panic. Hunter tracked everything, glove clean, pads square. Our defense pinched at the right moments, bearing down when we called for it, and retreating when they should.
Nobody played the hero because they were all waiting for me to do it.
Midway through the first, I took the puck off the boards near center ice, chipped it past their left defenseman, and chased it down myself.
Mason timed his entry perfectly, trailing just enough to stay open.
I drew two guys, waited for the lane, then dropped it back to him.
He snapped it into the top corner before the goalie set his feet.
Two nothing.
On the bench, Mason knocked his shoulder into mine. “See? Team effort.”
I grinned, already hopping over the boards for the next shift.
Late in the second, St. Louis tried to answer back.
They pressed, threw bodies, tested Hunter from bad angles.
We absorbed it all. Grayson blocked a shot that stung just watching it.
Shawn won a battle along the boards that he had no business winning.
Tucker cleared the zone with a move that had their forecheck spinning.
We were celebrating that one, when I caught sight of her.
Third row back, just off center ice. Foam finger punching the air, and Surge jersey swallowing her frame.
She was yelling something I couldn’t hear, but didn’t need to.
The look on her face said it all. She was all-in, and made sure everyone knew it.
“People can see you staring, loverboy,” Mason said as he skated past, and I averted my eyes.
Heat sparked low in my gut, and I circled back into position, eyes still catching on her every time I passed that side of the ice.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
She waved the foam finger harder, nearly clocking the guy next to her. He grumbled about it, but she didn’t give a fuck.
I knew what that looked like. What it felt like.
So, fine.
If she wanted a show, I’d give her one.
Early in the third, game already leaning our way, I caught a clearing attempt near the blue line and knocked it down with my skate.
Instead of settling it, I flicked it back up, caught it on my blade, and kept moving.
Defenseman stepped up, reaching. I bounced the puck through his legs, spun around him before he recovered, collected it clean on the other side, and swept it past the goalie’s outstretched pad.
Net rippled. Red light flared.
I didn’t even look at the bench. My eyes went straight to the stands where Nicole was losing her mind. Both hands in the air, chanting my name with the rest of them.
I tapped my stick against the ice once and gave a salute in her direction, before turning back to the circle.
We closed it out after that. No mercy, no letup. The final horn sounded with the score stretched wide enough to make the statement we’d come here to make.
This was the Surge people remembered, and after tonight, there could be no doubt we were still in the running.
Social media was already going off when we got to the locker room. The music kicked on, loud and obnoxious, and Coach waited until we settled before he spoke.
“That’s how it’s done,” he said. “That’s what happens when you trust the work we’ve put in, and each other.”
His gaze moved around the room, lingering where it needed to. When it landed on me, it held.
“Cross,” he said. “You’re delivering game after game. I know the pressure that puts on you, especially this early in, but you need to keep this up so we can keep our name on that cup.”
That word again, hanging in the air like something fragile. I bristled against it, but didn’t say anything.
Coach kept going. “But this is the standard. Not just for you. For all of us. Eat it. Breathe it. Sleep it. Because the climb from here is going to be brutal.” He paused for effect, then ended with, “But I believe you can handle it.”
The guys murmured agreement with sticks tapping the floor.
I pulled my jersey over my head and sat there for a second, sweat cooling on my skin, heartbeat still strong. Rush riding high.
Pressure.
People loved that word. Loved using it like a warning.
But they should’ve known by now…
I was built for this shit.
*
The bus rolled up to the hotel, and the high from the win was still thrumming through me, body tight and restless at the same time. A scalding shower and clean sheets were just what I needed, and that thought, along with everything Coach had said, echoed in my head.
Nobody spoke as we moved like a herd of cattle through the lobby toward the elevators. No late-night bar crawl. No partying. We were finished. Done.
Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I glanced into the bar as we passed. Nicole, again. All by herself. Scrolling through her phone while she nursed a bright pink cocktail.
My feet moved before my brain caught up, and I made a line straight for the bar.
“The rest of Surge Nation didn’t feel like celebrating?” I asked, hovering just beside her.
Nicole looked up, startled for a second, then settled immediately. “You’re looking at it.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“All you need to qualify for fan club perks is to be registered,” she said, tilting her head. “They don’t stipulate how many members the club should have.”
Slowly, it hit me, and I laughed out loud. “So it’s just you? You’re the president of… you?”
Nicole laughed softly, clearly pleased with herself. “Yep. That’s the whole operation. Everything runs through me.”
“You must really love The Surge.”
“Sit down,” she said, patting the stool next to her. “I’ll tell you just how much.”
Coach’s voice sounded off in the back of my mind. Something about eating, sleeping, breathing hockey. But it was barely a blip on my radar as I slid onto the stool and waved a finger at the bartender.