Chapter 33 – Leslie
It was game night.
To be more specific, it was the first hockey game of the season, and I was freaking the hell out. Not because I was worried about how Mason was going to play—even though he was second string, he’d impressed his coach so much over the past couple of weeks. He certainly wouldn’t be riding the bench this game.
I sat in the stands, playing with the engagement ring on my finger. It was big but not too big, a cushion cut fire diamond, surrounded by smaller white diamonds. I loved the ring. It was perfect. So I wasn’t worried about that, either.
No, the reason why I was worried were the two people walking up the stairs toward me—Mason’s father and my mother.
They were here to see Mason play…and, although they didn’t know it, for us to tell them we were together.
“Leslie, honey, it’s so sweet to see you in your stepbrother’s jersey!” my mom said when they reached me. I stood and accepted her hug, trying not to flinch from her words.
Paul caught my eyes over her shoulder. He didn’t look like he thought it was sweet. His face was grim.
They sat down next to me, my mother happily chatting away as we watched the players warm up. My eyes tracked Mason as he glided around the rink, stretching his back. As if he could feel me looking, he glanced up into the stands, and grinned.
Hi, butterfly, he mouthed—before he noticed our parents.
He nodded at his father. Once.
His father nodded back. Once.
I resisted hiding my burning face in my hands.
Mason smirked as he went to sit on the bench for the first period. He wasn’t starting—yet. But I was so proud of him, and knew it wouldn’t be long before he moved up to first string. Before he was leading his team.
“So, Leslie, you two seem to be getting along,” Paul remarked.
In the past, I would have hunched, prevaricated, flat out lied. But I’d promised Mason even though we’d tell them together, I wouldn’t be ashamed of us. And I wasn’t anymore. How could I be, when he loved me so completely, so obsessively, so possessively? And I loved him that way right back?
“We are,” I said.
The horn blew, and the game started. I zoned out, barely noticing the team was up by three points, my eyes on Mason’s back the entire time.
Until the second period. Tabb was up by six, and Mason rose to his feet, jumping over the board and skating out onto the rink. Suddenly, my eyes were glued to him, to the game. Things moved fast; Mason had the puck, and while I didn’t know enough about the game to describe what he was doing, it was like he, his stick, and the puck were one, powerful being. He moved so fast, it was like he was flying.
And then the puck was flying to—right into the net past the opposing team’s goalie.
The horn sounded again, and the new score flashed on the scoreboard: 12 Tabb, 3 Cornell.
I jumped to my feet, cheering for Mason.
“Yeah, baby!” I yelled, temporarily forgetting who was with me.
“Baby?” Paul asked.
“Honey, what’s that on your hand?” my mom asked, staring in shock at my engagement ring.
Oh, shit.
“An engagement ring, Mom,” I said helpfully.
“I know that, honey,” she said slowly. “My question is, who the hell gave it to you?”
I started to answer, but Mason had just stolen the puck from the other team and was skating toward the net. He passed it to Emory, who passed it to Matt, who then passed it back to Mason—who shot it right into the net. Again.
Jumping up and down wildly, I forgot our parents for a second.
He was incredible. It was like he was dancing.
“Leslie. Answer me.” My mom’s hand was on mine, tight. “Honey, please.”
“Sweetheart, we know the answer,” Paul said, his voice as grim as his face.
Shock froze my mother’s beautiful face.
“Honey, you?—”
But Mason had the puck again, and we watched in silent awe as he scored a hat trick, just as horn sounded to signal the end of the second period.
Mason’s team was whooping and hollering. Mason, however, skated over to our side of the stadium. He pointed at me, then pointed at his father, then pointed at me again.
I held up my ring finger.
He nodded, waiting on the rink.
“Calloway!” his coach called.
“We’re together,” I told our parents, my voice trembling. I was proud. Scared of their reactions, but proud. “We love each other. I’m not asking for your permission—you know Mason won’t care—but I am asking for your acceptance.”
“Oh, honey,” my mom began.
Paul stood. “I don’t know what my son did to you, Leslie, but I promise, I’ll make it right.”
And then he was making his way down the stands as I watched.
“Calloway!” Mason’s coach called again.
Squaring his shoulders, Mason tipped his chin at me. I knew what it meant.
Are you okay?
I nodded.
That was good enough for him. Mason turned, following his team back into the locker room—where, I assumed, his father was going to find him.