And on home ice, too.
A Jets fan a few seats down leaned over, voice pitched just loud enough to land. “Shouldn’t be rooting for the rookie, sweetheart. He’s cute, but useless.”
Something in me snapped clean in half.
I vaulted over the seat in front of me, knee knocking plastic, fingers gripping the back of the next row as I hauled myself forward.
“Say that again.” My fingers curled around the collar of his ugly-ass Jets jersey. “Say it again; I dare you.”
The guy slid back in his seat, arms flailing.
Yeah, just what I thought.
“Nicole!” Rosemary’s arms locked around my waist, and she hoisted me back with surprising strength. “Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”
“Shit-for-brains doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I shouted over my shoulder, still clawing for purchase. “Let me go. I’m taking his teeth.”
Rosemary dug in her heels, hauling me back over the seats I’d just conquered. “Let’s leave that for the next game. You owe me a beer.”
Security glanced our way, and I smoothed my jersey, shooting the Jets fan a look that promised unfinished business.
“Enjoy the win,” I told him. “It won’t last.”
Rosemary didn’t loosen her grip until we were halfway up the aisle.
Thankfully, she had the foresight to gauge I wouldn’t be great company over any number of beers. We parted ways with a polite promise from her to help me debrief in the morning.
“Sleep it off, and we’ll talk about the game when you no longer want to draw blood from unsuspecting strangers.”
That fucking ref and his dumbass calls were milling around my head when I got to my door, sticking in the keys with force. Bad calls, missed passes, Landon falling short on that last shot. It was going to take a lot more than a lucky jersey and rubbing up legendary T-Bone’s card for The Surge to find their way out of this.
Movement at the apartment next door caught my eye, and I looked over.
No. No way.
My brain stalled, and every kernel of popcorn I’d ingested fought for a way out of my body. The only path, my throat.
I swallowed it back down. And blinked. There was a lot of blinking. Nothing much else. Because— Landon Cross. Breakout rookie star, Landon fucking Cross, was my new neighbor?
He must’ve felt my gaze burning into the side of his face as he unlocked his door, because he looked over, his eyes moving from the Surge cap on my head, to my jersey, then my face. There were words in my head. Several, in fact. They just couldn’t find a way into and out of my mouth. I just stood there. Jaw on the floor.
“Nice hat,” he said, and went inside.
2
Landon
The gate arm lifted as I rolled into the arena lot, and the security waved me through with a tip of his hat. I pulled into the row closest to the players’ entrance and killed the engine, while Shawn’s SUV slid into the space beside me, Mason right after him. Three doors opened, three gym bags came out, and just like that we were moving in the same direction.
“You catch the Kings game last night?” Shawn fell in on my left, swinging his bag higher up his shoulder.
“Why would I watch someone else play hockey?”
He snorted laughter. “To see what we’re up against, for starters.”
“The opposition should adapt to my game, not the other way around,” I said, and added a knowing wink for good measure.
Mason wore the same black sweats he always did on practice days, Surge logo worn thin at the knee. “You might want to at least pretend you know our standings.”
