“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 theBlackhawks. 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 elsefeel itthe 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.
