Chapter 3
Cass
Nepotism can be one hell of a shield, especially if no one knows about it. But when that email from Frost Bank’s admin landed in my inbox, I stared at it for a long while before clicking. The build-up wasn’t worth the body: Coach wants to see you.
Coach, because nobody knew who he really was to me. No subject line, no other details. Just that. Like I hadn’t already been running worst-case scenarios through my brain since the fake fire drill fiasco.
I scrubbed the grease off my hands and threw my apron aside. It didn’t matter that I technically worked for Facilities and not the Surge. I still looked like a walking liability. Jeans, hoodie, and just enough mascara to look alive, not like I was trying.
The ice had been resurfaced and set. The hallway past the training room echoed with skate guards clacking against tile and low locker-room banter. I walked fast, head down, past the trainers’ office, until I spotted my dad’s familiar stride rounding the corner near the equipment cage.
Clipboard. Whistle. Coaching face on.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked, casually falling in step beside him.
He didn’t look over, but said, “You put in the work order for the replacement visors?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Gatorade restock?”
“Handled.”
“Stick tape?”
I pulled a roll from the pouch of my hoodie and held it out. “Need a demonstration?”
That got his mouth to twitch. Barely. “Keep the sarcasm holstered. You’re still on probation after that fire alarm stunt.”
I snorted. “It was hardly a stunt.”
“I know what you’re dealing with down there,” he said, pulling me to one side. “Ventilation’s shitty. But if the false alarms continue—”
“It was fine, dad. The bay was cleared in thirty seconds. It was good practice.”
He wasn't impressed. “For what, arson?”
I shrugged, letting the silence answer for me. We passed the skate oven and a kid from equipment staff gave me a subtle wave. I nodded back but didn’t smile. Can’t be too friendly when no one’s supposed to know you’re the coach’s kid.
“You should know I had to fill out an incident report for this one,” he added.
The frustration was clear in his voice. I didn’t know whether it was aimed at me or the system. Chances were good it was both.
I sighed. “Seriously? They need to chill out. It wasn’t that bad.”
He fixed me with that look he got when he was especially tired and done with everything. “You know how this works, Cass. You work here, you get treated like everyone else. You mess up, you take accountability.”
Except he didn’t treat me like everyone else.
Not really. I was the one with the key to the Zamboni and backup code to the utility box.
I was the one he called when the dehumidifier glitched during a freak Texas snowstorm last winter and nobody else picked up their phones.
And for a part-time staffer, I had to take on way more pressure all because of my last name.
We reached the vending machine, and he fished coins from his pocket. “You eat today?”
“I had a protein bar earlier.”
He bought two drinks anyway. Grape Fizz for me, lemon tea for him. It was muscle memory at this point.
“I keep telling you to stop with those things,” he said, passing my drink to me. “You need real food in your system. Meat on your bones.”
“My bones are just fine, thanks.” I twisted the cap off my drink and took a sip. It was way too sweet but also the best ever. Go figure.
“Speaking of food—”
And there it was. The pivot. He had a knack for doing that. Get me to drop my guard, then pounce.
“—you missed dinner again. That’s two Sundays in a row.”
“I told you… I had assignments. School’s been brutal.”
“You said that last week,” he grumbled.
“Because it was true last week too. That’s kinda how it works.” I took another sip just so I didn’t have to look at him.
“Cass…”
“I’m not messing around with some two-bit online course, Dad. We’re neck deep in diesel systems, hydraulics, diagnostics. You know, grown-up stuff.”
He laughed a little, shaking his head slowly. “I’m proud of you. You don’t need me to keep saying it. And I know you’re a grown-up, before you get on that old horse again.”
I nodded without looking up.
“You’ve got more grit than half my team,” he went on. “You’re amazing at what you do, whether it’s here or in school.”
I rolled my eyes. “You make me sound like the world’s most underpaid superhero.”
He gave me a look. “It also means I expect more from you than the rest of ‘em. And dinner with me is non-negotiable.”
Right. The whole ‘you get extra freedom, so I get to pile extra pressure’ trade-off. I was used to it. Hell, most of the time, I thrived on it. But lately, the weight of responsibility had started to press down on me.
There was no telling him that, though.
We tossed our empty bottles and kept walking. Voices drifted from the tunnel, sharp and laughing. I heard a slap of a stick on a locker door, and then a voice joking about something that I couldn’t make out. What I made out loud and clear in the mix of it, was Mason’s name.
My pulse tripped over itself.
Dad didn’t seem to notice. “So did you ever win the fight against that damn bracket?”
“Bracket?” I blinked a few times fast, afraid I’d be caught out. “Oh, the Zamboni. Yeah. For now.”
He eyed me curiously, and the nervous laugh I followed it up with didn’t help.
“You know me,” I said, trying to rein it in. “If it’s broke, I’ll fix it.”
“That’s my girl,” he said proudly, patting my shoulder. It was a rare show of affection here at the arena, and I accepted it wholeheartedly.
His phone rang as we started down the tunnel.
“Vultures are circling again,” he sighed, then swiped to answer, his game voice poised and ready. It was always weird seeing him like this—in Head Coach mode. “Where did you say you were calling from?”
He looked at me and mouthed ‘Hot Seat’. I suddenly understood the rough edge in his tone as he fielded questions from the reporter. That particular publication was one of the more frustrating gossip rags in town.
“Off the record, huh?” He twirled a finger at his temple to show me just what he thought of that suggestion. “Well, off the record, I still have no comment about Grayson Steele’s love life. I’m his coach, not his agony aunt.”
Even though the call had nothing to do with me, my stomach tightened.
Fluorescent lights buzzed above us, the chill of the rink seeping up through the soles of my boots.
He pocketed his phone and muttered, “All they care about is who’s holding hands and making heart eyes.”
“I know, right. So stupid.” I wished I could be invisible, and escape the conversation altogether. Or that I finally discovered my ability to teleport.
“Grayson and Josie, Grayson and Josie,” he whined.
We were at the locker room now, but he made no move to go in.
“Meanwhile, nobody’s noticing his game. Or the fact that we made it to the second round of the playoffs last season.
No, let’s talk about them being spotted in Aspen last month wearing matching flannel. ”
I snorted, instantly recalling that post that went mildly viral. “It was adorable, you can’t argue that.”
His glare had a little more dad in it than coach.
“Mark my words, Cass. Romance is a death blow, especially in this game and especially when you’re as young as he is.
Doesn’t matter how talented… A guy gets tangled up emotionally, the next thing you know, his head’s out of the game. On the ice, that’s how careers die.”
“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” I didn’t know why guilt churned in my gut. I had nothing to feel guilty about.
“I’ve seen it,” he said with a flat tone. “They think they can balance it all, but most of the time? They can’t.”
I looked away, pretending to study a scuffed patch of tile near the locker room door. Mason’s face floated to the front of my mind, totally uninvited. His stupid soft eyes. That ridiculous smile when the engine turned over. The way he looked at me like—
I cleared my throat. “I’m not the one scoring goals and getting gossip column features. So you still love me, right?”
“Dinner on Sunday,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “I’ll answer you after that.”
If we were anywhere else, there would’ve been a cursory kiss to my forehead even at my ripe age of twenty-one. At Frost Bank, though, I got the nod he gave everyone else as he pushed into the locker room.
I stood there a second longer, listening to the rush of chatter filtering through the gap while the door swung closed behind him. Wondering what it meant that I knew the exact laugh I was listening out for. Wondering why some guy with a beat-up Neon had crawled under my skin like a bad tattoo.
I was playing with fire, but not the good kind.
The sun had dipped low enough to bleed orange across the stadium roof when I made it out to the lot.
The wind had teeth, nipping at the back of my neck as I zipped my hoodie up all the way.
Texas wasn’t supposed to be this damn cold, but a low pressure system had blown in and made me pull out my hoodies and Under Armor early this year.
I didn’t usually come out this way, but I was on a mission. The brown paper bag crinkled under my arm, weighing barely anything but the implications… They could’ve flattened a monster truck.
“Rookie!” I was pleased to see my timing had been spot-on.
Mason stopped a few feet from his car, and turned to face me. His face immediately broke into a wide smile. Half-surprised, but mostly happy to see me.
I wasn't about to dwell on that little detail.
“If you insist on calling me Rookie, I’m going to keep going with Zamboni girl,” he said once I’d reached him. “Seeing as you’ve refused to give me a real name to work with.”
I ignored his not-so-subtle play, and held out the bag. “For the Ford.”
He stared at it, then at me, like I’d just offered him a pile of un-laundered cash. “What?”
“Don’t be weird,” I said, shaking the bag. He took it, and peeked inside. “It’s a starter solenoid. You mentioned something about not being able to get it started, and this is the most common fix for a truck like yours. Give it a try.”
“Wow, this is… I can’t believe you did this.”
“It’s no big deal.” I shrugged, breathing deep and slow to get my heart to slow down to normal rhythm. “I was picking through my stuff at home, looking for a filter for one of the plows when this jumped out at me.”
I didn’t have stuff at home. I’d deliberately gone to a store and paid for the thing. But he didn’t have to know that.
“You did this for me?” He held the solenoid to his chest like a precious treasure.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” But I couldn’t look at him, and shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Why did this guy make me feel so damn nervous?
“No, seriously,” he said with the lightest touch to my arm so I’d look at him. “Not only did you remember what I said, but you tracked me down to give me the part.”
“So? It’s no big deal, like I said.”
Mason chuckled. “This is either a very specific kink or you secretly like me.”
“Or,” I said, stepping back with a smirk, “I just like old trucks.”
He looked at the bag again like it was a love letter. “This means I might actually get her running. Swap out this old lemon for something reliable."
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I scoffed. “You’ll have to install it without breaking anything.”
“I’ll be gentle. I promise.”
The low rasp of his voice made something flutter under my ribs. Dammit. I should’ve walked away. Should’ve turned and left him in the lot with nothing but that damn half-smile.
I didn’t.
On the ice, that’s how careers die.
My dad’s voice raked through all the warm and fuzzy I was feeling, like nails on a chalkboard. There was no escaping it. I’d watched Mason’s trajectory in his first season. He was set to be an even bigger star than Grayson if he played his cards right.
“You look like someone who gets a lot done,” he said. “Do you ever take breaks?”
“You look like someone whose car won’t start unless a woman fixes it for you.”
He laughed, bright and melodic. “That’s fair.”
Was it fair that the sound of his laugh made me want to invite him somewhere warm and private?
I glanced toward the rink doors. I was still in the safe zone. “I have to go.”
“Again?” His reaction was too quick for him to also hide his disappointment.
“Yeah, that’s kind of how it goes,” I laughed. “I show up for my shift and when it ends, I go home.”
He didn’t move. “Seriously. Thank you.”
“It’s a part.” I was already backing up. “You’re welcome. Don’t make a thing of it.”
“Where’s home?” He took a few steps to follow, then stopped.
I laughed harder, and gave him a dismissive wave. “Nice try, Mason.”
“It’s not fair that you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“See you around.”
And as I made my way to the back of the arena where I was parked, my steps were lighter, my heart out of control, and the stupid smile on my face refused to budge.