Chapter 7 Snowbound
Blizzard Weekend
The first snowstorm of the season arrived with almost no warning.
When Mason pulled back the bedroom curtains early Saturday morning, he couldn't even see the river beyond the condo.
Thick white snow fell in relentless waves, swallowing buildings, roads, and parked cars beneath an endless blanket of ice.
Wind rattled against the windows, making the entire city seem quieter than usual.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes before reaching for his phone.
Three notifications waited on the screen.
The first came from the city's emergency weather service warning residents to avoid unnecessary travel.
The second was from the Thunderhawks group chat.
Coach Morrison: Morning, gentlemen. Practice is officially canceled. Stay home. Recovery workouts only if you can do them safely.
The third message arrived only moments later.
Tyler: Does this mean I can officially spend the whole day in pajamas?
Responses immediately flooded the chat.
Liam: You've been doing that all week.
Tyler: They're athletic pajamas.
Coach Morrison: I'm muting this conversation.
Mason laughed quietly as he tossed the phone onto his bed.
A day off.
A real one.
No meetings.
No practices.
No travel.
Professional hockey rarely slowed down long enough for players to simply exist.
Today, the weather had forced everyone to stop.
He stepped into the hallway, following the familiar smell of freshly brewed coffee toward the kitchen.
Noah already stood at the counter wearing a thick gray sweater and sweatpants instead of his usual workout clothes.
He glanced up as Mason entered.
"Looks bad outside."
"I can't even see the parking lot."
"I checked the forecast."
Noah slid a mug across the island.
"They're saying another twenty inches before tomorrow."
Mason accepted the coffee gratefully.
"So we're officially trapped."
"Looks that way."
He wandered toward the window.
The streets below were almost empty.
A single snowplow crawled slowly through the intersection before disappearing behind a curtain of blowing snow.
"This is kind of nice."
Noah smiled.
"I thought you'd complain."
"I probably will later."
"But not yet?"
Mason shook his head.
"No alarm."
"No rushing."
"No bus."
"No Tyler."
"I almost miss Tyler."
"I definitely don't."
Breakfast lasted longer than usual.
Without a schedule waiting for them, they lingered over eggs, toast, and coffee while watching the storm grow stronger.
Eventually Mason stretched.
"So..."
"So?"
"What do normal people do during blizzards?"
Noah thought for a moment.
"My family used to cook."
"All day?"
"Pretty much."
"My family watched football."
"I can see that."
"We also argued over who shoveled the driveway."
"You won?"
"I conveniently disappeared."
Noah laughed.
"I'm shocked."
"I've always been resourceful."
They cleaned the kitchen together before Noah opened the pantry.
"We've got enough groceries."
"For what?"
"Something complicated."
Mason narrowed his eyes.
"I don't like that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're planning to make me chop vegetables for three hours."
"I wasn't planning three."
"I knew there was a number."
Noah pulled out a cookbook from one of the cabinets.
"We're making homemade lasagna."
Mason stared.
"People actually make that from scratch?"
"They do."
"I thought it came frozen."
"I'm choosing to ignore that."
The project quickly became more entertaining than either expected.
Mason's job involved chopping onions, mushrooms, garlic, and spinach.
He immediately started tearing up.
"This is cruel."
"They're onions."
"They're attacking me."
"They're vegetables."
"I've been injured."
Noah slid a cutting board closer.
"Keep your fingers tucked."
"I know how knives work."
"You almost cut the countertop."
"The countertop was in my way."
Noah shook his head, smiling to himself.
Cooking with Mason required patience.
He measured ingredients by instinct instead of recipes.
He somehow covered half the counter in flour despite barely touching it.
He insisted tasting sauce every five minutes counted as quality control.
"You've sampled it six times."
"I'm making sure it's consistent."
"It was consistent after the second taste."
"You can't prove that."
"I absolutely can."
Mason pointed the wooden spoon toward him.
"I reject your scientific findings."
Noah couldn't remember the last time making lunch had been this much fun.
Hours slipped by unnoticed.
Music played quietly through the living room speakers while snow continued falling beyond the windows.
By early afternoon, the lasagna finally disappeared into the oven.
Mason leaned dramatically against the kitchen island.
"I'm exhausted."
"You chopped vegetables."
"For almost forty-five minutes."
"You survived."
"Barely."
While lunch baked, they wandered into the living room.
"So..." Mason said.
"What now?"
Noah looked toward the entertainment cabinet.
"We've got board games."
Mason blinked.
"We do?"
"They came with the condo."
"I thought those were decoration."
"They're definitely games."
Ten minutes later, they sat cross-legged on the living room rug surrounded by an assortment of cards, dice, and game pieces.
Mason immediately proved himself to be an aggressively competitive opponent.
"You cheated."
"I absolutely didn't."
"You moved two spaces."
"I counted differently."
"That's called cheating."
"It's called interpretation."
Noah laughed.
"You'd argue with the rulebook."
"I'd win."
"You wouldn't."
"I admire your confidence."
Three games later, Noah had quietly defeated him every time.
Mason folded his arms.
"I demand a rematch."
"You've had three."
"I wasn't warmed up."
"You've been warm for two hours."
"I'm entering my prime."
"You've been saying that since breakfast."
Eventually they abandoned the games altogether and switched to cards.
Conversation drifted effortlessly between hands.
Favorite road-trip cities.
Worst hotels.
Embarrassing rookie mistakes.
At one point, Mason admitted he'd once accidentally worn two different skates onto the ice during junior hockey.
"You didn't."
"I absolutely did."
"What happened?"
"I couldn't figure out why one felt tighter."
Noah laughed so hard he nearly dropped his cards.
"Please tell me someone noticed."
"The equipment manager."
"What did he say?"
"He asked if I'd forgotten how feet worked."
"Reasonable question."
"I've never lived it down."
Outside, the storm intensified.
Wind howled around the building while snow piled high against parked cars.
The world beyond the windows slowly disappeared beneath white.
For once, neither of them needed to be anywhere.
As evening approached, they finally pulled the lasagna from the oven.
The entire condo filled with the comforting aroma of tomato sauce, herbs, garlic, and melted cheese.
Mason stared at the finished dish.
"We actually made that."
"We did."
"I mostly chopped things."
"You also complained."
"I contributed emotionally."
Dinner stretched lazily into the evening.
They ate far too much.
Laughed far too often.
Neither bothered checking the time.
Afterward, they curled up on opposite ends of the sectional with mugs of hot chocolate while an old hockey documentary played quietly on television.
Mason barely paid attention to the screen.
Instead, he found himself looking around the condo.
The bookshelf they had assembled together.
The coffee mugs drying beside the sink.
Their jackets hanging side by side near the front door.
Two pairs of skates resting neatly by the hallway closet.
Small details.
Ordinary details.
Yet together they created something unexpected.
The condo no longer looked like temporary housing.
It looked lived in.
It looked...
Home.
The realization caught him completely off guard.
For months after his breakup, every apartment had felt temporary.
Even before moving into this condo, he'd never fully unpacked emotionally.
Something had always felt unfinished.
Lonely.
Now, sitting comfortably beneath a blanket while Noah quietly debated whether marshmallows belonged in hot chocolate, the emptiness that had followed him for months seemed strangely absent.
He hadn't noticed exactly when it happened.
Perhaps during breakfast conversations.
Maybe while grocery shopping.
Or assembling furniture.
Or watching game film together late at night.
Somewhere along the way, the condo had quietly stopped feeling like borrowed space.
It had become the place he looked forward to returning to after every practice.
Every road trip.
Every exhausting day.
Home wasn't really about walls or furniture.
It was about how a place made you feel.
Mason wrapped both hands around his warm mug.
Outside, the blizzard continued covering the city in silence.
Inside, the condo felt warmer than ever.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Mason realized he wasn't counting the days until the apartment renovations ended.
He was simply enjoying being exactly where he was.
Candlelight
The storm showed no sign of ending.
By Saturday evening, the snow had buried parked cars beneath thick white drifts, and the wind howled around the building hard enough to make the windows tremble. Every few minutes, another blast rattled the glass before fading back into the steady roar outside.
Noah stood in front of the living room window with a mug of tea warming his hands.
The city had disappeared.
Streetlights glowed as blurry golden circles through the curtain of falling snow, and only the occasional flash of headlights hinted that anyone was still trying to drive through the weather.
Behind him, Mason stretched lazily across the sofa after finishing another slice of homemade lasagna.
"I don't think we're leaving this condo until spring."
Noah smiled.
"The forecast says tomorrow afternoon."
"They're optimistic."
"I noticed."
Mason muted the documentary playing on television and glanced toward the fireplace built into the living room wall.
"I've never actually used one of those."
"You've never had a fireplace?"
"My parents had one."
"My dad never trusted me near it."
"Were you a destructive child?"
"I accidentally burned one of Mom's gardening gloves."
"Accidentally?"