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ASTRID: I know it’s you.
CAL: You know it’s me what?
ASTRID: The Diet Coke.
CAL: Never drink the stuff. I’m a root beer guy.
ASTRID: So you didn’t leave a can of Diet Coke on my desk?
CAL: Why would I do that?
ASTRID: No clue.
CAL: It’s probably your dad.
ASTRID: Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. I love the man, but when it’s hockey season, he has no idea what is going on in the rest of the world.
CAL: My sister is like that when she’s working on classic muscle cars.
ASTRID: Sounds like a story.
CAL: I only tell it to the people who don’t run into the women’s restroom to avoid me.
ASTRID: You saw that?
CAL: Yep.
ASTRID: Good night, Cal.
CAL: Night, Astrid.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cal stared at the text from his sister Cami and tried to make it make sense. That much money for a signed puck? Yeah, he got that. A good car detailing that made everything shine? Understood. But a six-pack of scratch-and-sniff pens? Nope. She must have misunderstood the ask.
Checking around to make sure he was alone in the stairwell just off the coaches’ offices, he tapped the number to his sister’s bookstore.
“Plot Twist,” Cami answered, sounding like she’d already had at least two shots of espresso. “How can I help you?”
“That is a ridiculous price,” he said.
“Well good morning to you, too, Cal. I’m fine. It’s a lovely day here in Prairie Lake, thank you for asking,” she said, her Minnesota nice dripping in sarcasm. “And, yes, you are incredibly lucky that I have the connections to fulfill your very out-of-character request for these rare pens.”
Who else was he going to ask? After Coach had mentioned during lunch that Astrid was obsessed with these very specific scratch-and-sniff pens, he’d made it his mission to get her a new pack. He’d thought it would be easy. He’d been so fucking wrong.
He’d found nothing online. The people at the office supply shops in Harbor City had either given him a blank look, a good-luck-finding-the-pot-of-gold-at-the-end-of-the-rainbow smirk, or had laughed in his face when he’d asked if they had any pens that smelled like bubblegum.
“Are they made of gold or something?” he grumbled.
“Even better,” Cami said. “They are the last ones ever produced and nearly impossible to find. Collectors go batshit over them. Then you have the nostalgia folks who remember them from when they first came out. Everyone loves that feeling of finding something from their past that made them happy. It’s not about the pens. It’s about how they made them feel.”
And that right there was why he was doing this. Astrid was going to love it, and he wasn’t about to examine why he was doing this instead of just dropping off the six-pack of Diet Coke on her desk like a normal person would.
“Can you overnight it?” he asked.
“Of course.” She waited half a beat. “Are you gonna tell me why you want these—or should I say who you want them for?”
“No.” He started down the stairs toward ice level where Tig was no doubt already thinking up ways to be an asshole during their daily drills. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this between us.”
