Chapter 6
Landon
The streetlights were doing that half-hearted glow over the sidewalk when I got back from practice, bag slung over one shoulder, muscles humming from the oppressive drills. My phone pinged the second I walked into my apartment building.
Mason: Thought you’re meeting us here?
I sighed and shoved my phone back into my pocket.
No offense, but I’d much rather leave him on ‘read’ than subject myself to an intervention from the team.
They thought I didn’t notice them whispering in the locker room.
Or that I was totally oblivious to—as Grayson liked to call it—friction within the team dynamic.
Bunch of bullshit.
I was halfway through digging my keys from my pocket, when I stopped to stare at the newest addition to the hallway.
“Gas leak?”
Nicole sat cross-legged on the ground, back resting against her closed apartment door. She was still in scrubs, and had her hoodie pulled up.
“Honestly? I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “It would be in keeping with the theme of the day, which, in case you’re wondering, is What Can Go Wrong, Will Go Wrong.”
“And that’s your roundabout, long-winded way of saying…”
“I locked myself out of my apartment,” she replied, flopping her arms in exasperation. As if I were an idiot for not immediately realizing that, and then more of a scumbag for making her explain herself.
I slotted my key, ready to hit the shower and bed, and forget all about girls with hats and teammates who wouldn’t let me catch a break. “So, call someone to let you in. Google is free.”
“Locksmiths aren’t.” Her words made me stop. Again.
Dammit.
“They’re double not-free on Sundays,” she added, staring up at where I was stuck halfway in, halfway out of my own apartment.
“I’ll pay for it.”
“No you won’t,” she scoffed, turned her gaze back to the blank wall. “My friend’s coming over. She has a spare.”
“Good. So you’ve got it worked out.”
But Nicole slumped into herself with a groan, banging her head—lightly but continuously—against the door.
“She’s on a date, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take her to figure out this one’s a waste of her time.”
There was no reason for me to feel any kind of way about this. I didn’t know her all that well. We weren’t friends.
But the longer I looked at her, the more guilty I felt. Part of it was about knowing I could get her back inside in under two minutes. No smiths of any kind required.
Guilt won out, and I tossed my bag inside. “Give me a second.”
“What? No. Landon. Don’t call a locksmith. I’m just being a baby. I can wait. My friend will be here any—”
I reappeared in the hallway, and her eyes snapped to the small black pouch I had clutched in one hand.
“What are you doing?”
“A little room, please.” I gestured for her to move out of the way, and she obeyed without protest. “I may be San Antonio’s newest star, but I’ll always be a straight-up Bostonian at heart.”
Kneeling in front of her door, I pulled out a tension wrench and a slim pick. The gasp was small, but unmistakable. It gave me a fraction of satisfaction.
“You… know how to pick locks?”
“Let’s just say, growing up, you never knew when you’d need to get into a room you shouldn’t be in.” I shot her a wink.
Her hand went to her mouth, and she started chewing on the cuff of her hoodie. “That sounds ominous.”
“Nothing like that,” I said, laughing softly. “Just kids doing kid stuff because they were bored. That’s where the ice saved me.”
She leaned forward a little, fascinated, and I didn’t exactly discourage it.
The faint flowery smell of her shampoo was still evident even after the long day.
My fingers worked with muscle memory; tiny clicks under the knob were the soundtrack of a few too many childhood dares and alleyway escapades.
“How was practice?”
I knew she was close, but my fingers still slipped on the pick at the sound of her voice. Conversational, thoughtful, as if this were normal fare for a Sunday night.
After some not so subtle fumbling, I managed to find my place again, and said, with a non-committal tone, “Same as always.”
“Enough with the details. You’re doing my head in.”
A light chuckle escaped me despite the slow-burning coals flickering in my gut. I didn’t spend too much time thinking about how she’d managed that.
“Coach was on my ass, Mason kept pulling me back in line even though I wasn’t out of it, and the rest of the team, well, they just generally have it in for me. The price I pay for being the favorite, and don’t you dare post any of this to your social media.”
She smiled, her brown eyes gleaming in the cheap orange light of the hallway. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I returned to the lock, feeling the slight resistance in the tumblers, sliding the pick up and down. “Speaking of secrets, are you ever gonna tell me what your fanfiction’s about?”
When I glanced over, her face had turned scarlet. Nicole drew back, shaking her head abruptly.
“No.”
“No?”
“Just… no. That’s off limits. Two things you never ask a woman: her age, and what her fanfiction’s about.”
“Come on,” I said, lock forgotten. “Am I in it? I am, aren’t I? You can tell me. I swear I won’t judge.”
“You’re already judging,” she shot back, arms folded across her chest. “Your whole face is one… huge… face of judgment.”
“Fine. Be that way.” I made a show of being utterly devastated. “Make me spill my guts, but you won’t return the courtesy.”
“It’s private, and I won’t let you bully me into submission.”
Her glare could have cut steel. I kept working the pick. Click. Pause. Click.
“But thanks, anyway,” she added with a smaller voice.
“You’re welcome.”
Then—click.
The knob turned under my hand. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done.”
I stood up, holding the door open like a gentleman.
Nicole’s eyes shone with relief as she moved past me. “You’re incredible. A hero on and off the ice. I owe you.”
“Big time.”
And when I started making my way back to my own apartment, she stuck her head out and said, “A drink? It’s just cheap beer, but I like to repay my debts as quickly as possible.”
I stood there thinking about it, which she probably took to mean something else, because she quickly added, “Platonic debt repayment. Nothing else.”
“In that case…”
We settled into her little kitchen nook, and I watched her move with easy confidence as she plucked two cans from the refrigerator.
“Here’s to saving about ten billion dollars on a random Sunday,” she said, holding up her beer.
I clinked mine against it. “And to childhood skills that never go out of style.”
It was stupid to think that something so simple could improve my night, but here I was, standing in my neighbor’s kitchen and feeling like all the tension that had followed me home had slipped a few feet further from me.
“I hate to be a dick about it, but a beer hardly makes up for a ten billion dollar saving.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me regret inviting you in here, rookie. What do I owe you?”
“A tour,” I said simply, waving my arm at the shrine she called a living room.
Her eyes lit up, and color rose into her cheeks all over again. She didn’t waste a second, and led the way from the kitchen into her living room, hopping lightly over a stray throw pillow like she was in her own little arena. I followed, beer in hand, trying not to trip over anything.
“Careful,” she warned without looking back. “This is sacred territory.”
“I mean, it looks more like a museum that exploded in here.”
She shot me a look over her shoulder, playful and exasperated. “It’s not an explosion. It’s carefully curated chaos.”
I laughed, taking a slow sip from my beer as I scanned the room.
Jerseys in box frames, signed pucks, mini hockey sticks, bobbleheads lined like they were on a victory parade, posters on the walls, and—of all things—a stuffed arctic fox in the corner.
Frostbite, the team mascot. One beer wasn’t nearly enough time to take in everything, but Nicole didn’t stop talking, barely took a breath as she explained it all to me.
“You really love this team.” It was all I could think to say.
“Come on, I’ll show you more. It’s a lot, I know. But you need context. Some of these pucks? Game-worn. Signed, mostly. Some aren’t, but the memories are fresh as ever.”
I moved toward the shelves, more taken with the animated sparkle in her eyes than the stuff that was making her this way.
She had that rare kind of energy—like hockey had breathed life straight into her veins—and she was fully owning it.
I could feel it, because that was me, too, when I stepped onto the ice. Only, I didn’t have bobbleheads.
“Okay, that one,” she said, pointing to a bobblehead holding a miniature stick. “Four years ago. Game seven against the Blackhawks. You have to know it. Look at the jersey—careful, don’t touch it.”
I leaned in, examining it, but had no idea what she was talking about. The only game that existed in my head was mine. That’s how I kept it clean. Shut out the noise and focused on my play. Always.
“We were robbed that night,” she muttered, moving swiftly along.
We moved around the living room, her pointing out little trinkets I would’ve missed otherwise: a signed miniature goal stick from a charity auction, a puck from the first shutout of some season too many years ago, framed photos of games, and even some signed cards from alumni players I didn’t recognize.
She was a whirlwind of hockey history, and I was amused by how fiercely she guarded each item, talking with reverence as if she’d known every player personally.
As if she’d crafted every move and goal herself.
“And that one,” she said, stopping in front of a shelf, “is Frostbite’s official plushie. Limited edition. Only three hundred in existence. This one… this one’s mine.” She hugged it briefly, then set it down like it was a living thing.
“How much did all of this cost?” My words came out before I even realized I’d said them. It was just, a few minutes ago she was lamenting about the cost of a locksmith.
A fleeting shadow passed behind her eyes, but she didn’t answer, just waved me toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll show you the holy grail.”
I set my beer down on the coffee table, and sank onto the couch beside her. She pulled out a glossy brochure preciously preserved in a plastic sleeve, and paged through to the desired page.
“I’ve been chasing this for years,” she said, lowering her voice like she was letting me in on a secret.
“Signed goalie helmet from Alex Granger. The Surge legend. Longest shutout streak in franchise history. Eight games, Landon. Eight. Nobody’s ever done that since.
And the helmet… I’ve tried every auction, every estate sale, every friend-of-a-friend who might know someone who knows someone.
No dice. I even stalked Granger himself for a while, but then he got mad and told me he hadn’t seen the thing in a decade. ”
The way she talked about hockey like it was a living, breathing entity, the passion in her voice, the flick of her hand toward the shelf as she gestured for emphasis…
Her singular obsession hit me hard because I’d never seen someone else feel it the way I did. And she was giving me a front-row seat.
“Stick around after practice later this week,” I said, slowly getting up. “Might be able to help you out with that.”
Her eyes widened. “Shut up right now. That’s not funny. Do you really know where it is?”
I shrugged, pretending it was casual, though my stomach did a little twist at her special mix of wonder and disbelief. “I might. And getting it depends on what kind of trouble you’re willing to get into.”
A manic laugh fluttered out of her as she walked me to the door. “I’ll do just about anything if it means I’ll get my hands on that Granger helmet.”
I let my gaze wander over her, catching the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, how her smile lingered, how she leaned forward slightly when she talked about the team. That small, lit-up girl who loved hockey with everything she had—she was magnetic.
Then she shifted, subtly, like she was trying to shrink just a little, eyes darting away from mine. My curiosity spiked.
“What?” I asked, my voice casual, teasing even. “You look like you want to say something.”
She hesitated, finger scratching at the peeling paint of her doorframe. Finally, she murmured, “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
That shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have made my chest tighten the way it did, but of course it did. She was impossibly, annoyingly fascinating. I could feel the pull of it, the tension, and I knew she wanted to say something, but she wasn’t going to.
“We’re sharing secrets, remember?” I teased with a smirk. “Come on, tell me.”
She bit the inside of her lip, and I watched her wrestle with the words as if she were physically trying to hold them back.
“I… I was just gonna ask— I wanted to know if…”
And that was all I needed. I didn’t need the rest. I knew exactly what she was thinking, what she was too stubborn—or maybe too shy—to finish.
My mind skated ahead, fast and reckless, imagining the easiest, smoothest way to take the question from her and put her out of her misery.
Ask her out myself. Keep it casual. Make it fun.
She was hot, Mason was right, and honestly, I didn’t hate being around her.
Every time we’d been together, I’d had a good time.
She was fun, sharp, and completely unfiltered when it came to her team.
I opened my mouth to bridge the gap for her, to cut through the hesitation for both our sakes, but before I could get the words out, she beat me to it.
“Seriously, never mind. It’s getting late.”
Just like that, she ended it. No ambiguity. No lingering tension for me to tease apart.
She opened the door wider, and I hesitated, my mind racing faster than my legs. I wanted to push, wanted to take a chance and see if she’d let me. But the firm set of her shoulders and that subtle edge of resolve in her movement told me all I needed to know. Not tonight. Not this time.
The door clicked behind her as she waved me out, polite but definitive.
And then I cursed under my breath, because I’d been a chicken. All that buildup, all that momentum, and I’d let it slip through my fingers.