Everywhere we went, the same thing happened.
“So what are the Surge looking like this year?”
“Is Shawn okay? That hit was brutal.”
“You think you’re going all the way this year?”
Landon handled it with patience I hadn’t expected. He talked about playoff math in plain terms, corrected a few misconceptions without condescension, and shut down speculation about Shawn with firm reassurance that recovery came first. He never made it about himself. Not once. He redirected praise toward the team, the trainers, and the coaching staff.
Once, when he knew the cluster of bitches were within earshot, he even directed the praise to me. Called me his rock and motivation to keep giving his best.
It was just an act, but my heart didn’t get the memo. She fluttered out of my chest all the same.
I leaned against the punch table at one point, sipping from a third cup, watching Landon gesture with a plastic spoon as he explained why this season felt different. Someone laughed at something he said, and he smiled, wide and unguarded, the version of him that never made it onto broadcasts.
It felt special to be the one who got a glimpse of that guy, and I tucked the moment somewhere safe.
We migrated toward the center of the gym where the DJ had leaned fully into the theme, a throwback playlist rattling the speakers. The floor vibrated faintly under my heels as we started dancing. A group of guys I vaguely remembered from biology class moved closer to Landon, nodding like they were in a locker room instead of a high school gym dressed up with twinkle lights.
“So what’s it like,” one of them asked, jerking his chin toward me, “bringing your girlfriend back home like this?”
“Trophy girlfriend,” another added, smirking. “Nice upgrade, Gordon.”
The words landed sideways. Not heavy enough to knock me over, but enough to tilt the night.
I opened my mouth, ready to brush it off, to redirect, to do the thing I’d learned to do years ago. But Landon beat me to it.
“Careful,” he said, tone easy but unyielding. “You’re talking about someone who runs trauma shifts during hurricane season.”
A pause rippled through the group.
“She’s an ER nurse at Mission Valley,” he continued, eyes never leaving the guy who’d called me a trophy. “Graduated top ofher class, works twelve, sometimes fourteen hour nights without complaint, and still shows up the next day like it was nothing.”
My jaw was practically on the floor with everyone else’s.
“She’s saved more lives than I’ve scored goals,” he added, glancing at me then, his mouth tipping into a grin. “Which is saying something.”
Someone laughed, the tension breaking unevenly. Another guy nodded, muttering an impressed wow under his breath.
“Oh,” the first one said, suddenly sheepish. “I didn’t realize.”
“That tracks,” Landon replied. “What is it you do again? Auto mechanic at your dad’s shop?”
We didn’t wait for a reply. He took my hand, fingers warm and sure, and guided me away toward the refreshment table again. My pulse took a second to catch up with the movement.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said once we were on our own again.
“I wanted to,” he said. “Big difference.”
We crossed paths with a couple I barely remembered, then with a former teacher who squinted at me before recognition dawned. Landon shook hands, posed for a photo, answered one more question about the playoffs. The music shifted to something slower, and the lights dimmed another notch.
I didn’t mind it. This wasn’t a place I’d survived anymore, but just a room from the past I was passing through. And that was thanks to Landon.
As we circled back toward the balloon arch, I caught sight of the same group of women from earlier. They watched us approach, their expressions recalibrated while their curiosity edged out judgment. One of them offered a tight smile, and I returned it, feeling lighter than I had when I walked in.
“You okay?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
