“Landon,” I called, stepping closer. He turned, eyes lighting up even behind the fake fluff.
“What’s up?”
I waited until we were well outside earshot, close to the stairwell, before finally speaking.
“I wanted to say thanks for coming here today. For making their Christmas special.”
He shrugged, and primped his hair like a model would before a runway gig. “It’s nothing. Really.”
I took a breath, cheeks heating. “Actually, that’s not all.”
“It isn’t?”
Rosemary caught my eye, everything about her expression pushing me to just spit it out already.
And so I did.
“I wanted to ask you out. On a date.” I exhaled some of the nerves that made my hands shake all of a sudden.
He raised an eyebrow, one hand tugging the fake beard away from his collar. “Okay, but the goodnight kiss is gonna be kinda awkward with all this happening.”
I shook my head, tugging the hem of my scrub top again. “No, I didn’t mean right now. I mean… sometime soon. Whenever.”
Landon’s grin softened just a little. He stepped closer, lowering his voice enough that only I could hear over the kids’ chatter and the faint strains of carols. “You’re sweet, Nicole. Really. But I’m gonna have to decline.”
My stomach dropped, and I could feel the warmth in my cheeks spreading. “Oh. Right. Okay.”
He gave me one last half-smile, ruffling the Santa coat over his shoulders. “Merry Christmas, Hat Girl.”
And then his boots were squeaking over the tile as he went to meet up with Mason again, ready to call it a day.
I stayed rooted to the spot, feeling like a total fool. Rosemary asked the wordless question, but I ignored her. What had I been thinking? Someone like Landon Cross would never be interested in someone like me.
8
Landon
The Cotton Bowl locker room vibrated like it was wired directly into the crowd outside. No new year’s eve party for us, because the year was kicking off with the much-anticipated Winter Classic.
Concrete walls, temporary stalls, heaters fighting the January air that kept sneaking in every time the locker room door cracked open. Music thumped low and aggressive, bass crawling through the benches. Guys moved with that pre-game snap, tape tearing, skates clacking against rubber mats, equipment bags coughing up pads and gloves like offerings.
This was supposed to be my favorite part. The calm before impact. The moment when everything narrowed down to breath, muscle memory, and inevitability.
Instead, my mind kept drifting somewhere it had no business being.
I shoved my arms through my shoulder pads harder than necessary and caught my reflection in the mirror bolted to the concrete pillar. Focused face. Same look I always wore before puck drop. Anyone watching would think I was exactly where I needed to be.
I wasn’t.
Mason sat two stalls down, methodically taping his stick, head bent, locked in. If I wanted to talk without it turning into locker room theater, he was the one.
I grabbed my jersey and walked over, keeping my voice low. “Hey.”
“What’s up?” He looked a little annoyed. As if I’d interrupted a special moment.
“She asked me out.”
Mason paused mid-wrap, tape stretched tight between his hands. He didn’t look surprised, which annoyed me more than it should have.
