“Movers,” I said, toeing my sneakers on. “I’m getting a new neighbor.”
She followed me to the door, where I paused before opening it and pressed my fingers to the frame on the wall. Tyler Benson’s collector’s card sat behind glass, and I rubbed the corner twice, a habit older than this apartment and just as stubborn.
“You’re certifiable.”
“Certified loyal,” I corrected, locking up.
The hallway bustled with men carrying boxes in and out of the apartment next door, cardboard scraping walls, tape peeling under their hands. Rosemary eyed the open door as we stepped around them.
“Hopefully this one doesn’t boil a fish head every Friday, like some exotic delicacy.”
I hesitated, keys still in my hand, the image landing with unexpected fondness. “Ah, Fish-head Bobby. I miss that guy.”
Her laugh chased us down the stairs as we picked up speed, the building fading behind us, the night ahead already angled toward the rink.
*
The Surge came out, and I jumped to my feet, leaning over the side as they filed to the bench. I shoved my cap at Landon Cross, greatest rookie since Mason took the ice. But it was me up against a bunch of pre-pubescent kids clamoring for his attention.
He didn’t lift his head, just went through the pictures, jerseys, and caps with his marker, scribbling his autograph as he went. My stomach twisted into something ridiculous when he handed back my cap.
“Happy now?” Rosemary asked as I sat back down.
My fingers had almost burned through the fabric of my cap as I shook it in her face. “I have a piece of him. My rookie. My glorious, infuriating rookie.”
The first period started, and the Surge immediately hit a wall. Jets weren’t rolling over. Not even a little. I yelled at the ref when a clean hit went uncalled, and Rosemary winced.
“Did you see that?” I whirled round, and she shrugged. “That was daylight robbery.”
I turned back to the ice in time to see Landon pick up the puck. He pivoted on a dime, then skated right into a defender. Shot missed. The puck bounced harmlessly into the corner.
“Uh… good shot?” Rosemary asked.
“Yes. He was perfect. He just… got slighted by physics.” I whipped my scarf against my shoulder. “But just wait. He’ll pull it back. Always does.”
Three minutes later, Landon broke free again with both Grayson and Mason flanking. I practically lunged over my row. “Go! Shoot! Do the thing!” Another whiff. I slumped back, teeth clenched, and crumpled the foam finger in my hands. “He’s trying. He’s literally carving the ice like it’s butter. He’s magnificent, Rose. He will save us. Just wait.”
Rosemary patted my arm like she was afraid I’d combust. “I’m sure he will.”
We fell into our usual rhythm. I narrated every line change, every failed chance, every questionable call, and my best friend in the whole world pretended she gave a damn.
“Defense! Oh, for crying out loud, that was a clean puck! Call that, ref!”
“Yeah, call it!” She was on her feet too, cheeks rosy from the cold.
By the second period, the Surge looked off. They were playing from behind, not ahead, and I felt the weight in my own chest. We just couldn’t shake this… whatever it was.
“Oh no,” I muttered, head in my hands. Tucker had slipped, and the Jets attacker caught Hunter off guard. Another goal against The Surge.
“They’ll come back,” Rosemary said. “There’s time.”
I nodded, frantic desperation clawing in my chest. “We have to. We can’t take two losses in a row. Landon, my beautiful rookie, will salvage this. I know he will.”
Then the Jets scored again. My voice hit a pitch only slightly below panic. “No! Absolutely not! I do not accept that. He—he was literally five inches from the net! FIVE!”
Third period went by in a blur. All I got was Rosemary’s gentle comfort beside me, and a seemingly endless series of one mistake on the ice after the other. My team was unrecognizable from the force that’d bulldozed their name onto the Stanley Cup.
By the end, we were praying for the final horn to put us out of our misery.
