“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.
5
Nicole
General. Every nurse’s dream, because of the sheer lack of surprises. I could practically feel the sigh of relief vibrating through my body as Rosemary and I hit the unit, scrubs snapped into place, badges swinging like tiny metal fans of authority.
“You should’ve seen it,” I whispered, leaning into the counter to pull a chart. “St. Louis was—don’t even get me started. My brain’s still coming down from it all.”
“Oh no. Do tell,” she said with her usual level of zero enthusiasm. “Did you pass out in the stands? Attack a Blues fan?”
“I could have, and I might have,” I admitted, shoving my pen behind my ear while flipping through the chart. “But the highlight? Hands down? Landon Cross. I’m still—still recovering. I mean, he’s twenty-one, and he already does things that make your stomach go…” I gestured vaguely like words couldn’t contain it.
“Mm-hm. And now that you’re neighbors…” She leaned in, whispering like a scandal waiting to happen. “You should go for it. Ask him out.”
