I nearly choked on my tea. “You did what?”
“Before you panic,” he said, holding up a hand, “ It’s strictly platonic. Just a place to crash after we hit the collector. Can’t exactly drive all the way back at this hour. We pick up the helmet, check in for the night, then leave first thing in the morning. Easy.”
I exhaled, not really sure if I were relieved or disappointed. “Okay… that works.”
He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “I figured, after today, you shouldn’t have to worry about driving until your legs fall off.”
“I appreciate it,” I said, taking another bite, though my mind already started racing through what “platonic overnight” might mean in terms of beds, blankets… and whether I was going to have to negotiate personal space with Landon Cross.
We ate in a comfortable rhythm after that, quiet moments punctuated with laughter over stories from the road—how I’d had to handle the flat tire, Landon’s attempts to choose the radio station, my emergency bathroom detour. Eight hours, countless stops, constant teasing. It was exhausting and exhilarating at once.
Finally, we finished, paid the check, and loaded back into the car. The drive stretched on for what felt like both forever and in an instant, the highway ribboning out in front of us, the sun sinking lower behind distant trees. My excitement for the helmet surged with every mile. I was practically vibrating.
When we finally pulled up to the collector’s place, a modest brick building set back from the road, I jumped from the car before Landon had fully parked. I managed to contain myself until he’d come up beside me, and that’s when I knocked.
“Can you believe this?”
He fixed me with a self-satisfied smile. “Well, I kind of arranged the whole thing, so yeah. I believe it.”
I swallowed my excitement and took a breath, trying to slow it, because after all the searching, all the trouble we’d gone through, I couldn’t believe it was finally here. My eyes stayed glued to the front door, anticipating the moment the man inside would appear.
The door swung open, and a man in a flannel shirt and worn jeans stepped into the threshold.
Landon shifted beside me, giving a quick nod. “We’re here about the signed Alex Granger helmet. You spoke to a colleague of mine yesterday and said you’d hold it? For Nicole Gordon.”
The man’s expression faltered, and my stomach dropped before he spoke.
“I… I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit. I sold it earlier today, actually. Some guy came around offering double.”
The words hit me like ice water to the face.
“Wait… sold?” I echoed, disbelief straining my voice. “But… You said—”
“I know,” the man interrupted gently. “I’m really sorry.”
I turned to Landon, devastated. “I guess you were right. We should’ve flown here.”
His hand found mine instinctively, squeezing it. “Do you have any idea who bought it? Maybe I could get in touch. I’ll pay whatever it takes. I don’t care.”
The collector shook his head. “Nope. All I have is the cash, nothing else. Sorry again. You’re just… too late.”
I sank back against the wall, feeling like the world had tilted beneath me. I’d imagined this moment a thousand times—the helmet in my hands, the culmination of years hunting it down—and now it was gone.
18
Landon
The standings glared down at us from the corner of the locker room like it had a personal vendetta.
Fifth in the Central. One point behind Colorado. One game left.
Win, and we lived. Lose, and the season died right there on the ice, pads still warm, sticks still taped. No second chances. No math gymnastics. No “if this team loses tomorrow.”
Tonight was it.
I sat on the bench tying my skates for the third time even though they were already tight before, my leg bouncing like it wanted to take off without me. Around me, the room hummed with that low, dangerous energy that only shows up when every guy knows exactly what’s on the line.
Tucker slammed his helmet down onto the bench beside me. “They think we’re done,” he said, voice calm but eyes lit. “Media wrote us off as hopeless wonders.”
