Chapter 7 - Cass
Cass
The moment I pushed open the door to Java Jukebox, the low thrum of bass guitar and burnt espresso wrapped around me like an old, favorite hoodie.
Shirley Manson was wailing about only being happy when it rains, and I instantly felt at home.
This feeling was heightened when I spotted the chalkboard over the bar counter that had “Smells Like Bean Spirit” scrawled in uneven handwriting.
It was grungy, half-lit, and unapologetically loud.
Perfect.
I slid into the booth near the back, corner seat, vinyl cracked along the edges, and private enough while still giving me a view of the door. The tabletop was cluttered with band stickers and glue residue, with the outline of a Sharpie tic-tac-toe game that was never finished.
I checked my phone like some wide-eyed teenager on her first not-date. Mason hadn’t texted after telling me he was on his way twenty minutes ago. Not that I was keeping tabs on hi—
The bell over the door jingled, and I looked up in time to see him walking in. The look on his face was priceless. It was a blend of confusion and fear, his eyes darting around as he picked up all the little details that were definitely nothing like he was used to.
I let him simmer in it for a bit, observing from my secret corner.
He wore his hockey jersey from last season, baseball cap slung low, and a pair of straight-cut blue jeans.
He had these boyish good looks that instantly twisted something in my chest. I was still studying the easy pace with which he walked, when he suddenly stopped and my eyes pulled up to meet his.
Icy blue and intense, catching my gaze like I owed him something.
“Nice choice,” he said, sliding into the booth across from me. “Are we here for caffeine or to live out some unnamed childhood trauma?”
I smirked and handed him a menu sticky with some foreign substance that I was happy to not decipher. “Both. Pick your poison.”
He scanned it like it was written in Greek. “I have to be honest with you… I usually just order coffee.”
“It’s all coffee,” I chuckled. “What kind do you want?”
Mason was dumbfounded. “You’re going to have to help me out here, Cass.”
My heart stuttered at the sound of my name coming from his lips.
I cleared my throat and when the waiter came, I ordered two dirty chais with an extra shot.
“I may not know coffee, but I know that chai is tea,” he said once we were alone again. “I thought this was supposed to be a coffee date.”
I fixed him with a pointed look. “This isn’t a date, and the tea’s dirty. Which means it has coffee in it…”
Realization dawned and Mason settled back with a soft laugh. “The hits keep on coming.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head, avoiding eye contact as he picked at the dog-eared corner of the menu. “The trash game where I made a fool of myself, now I’m making a fool of myself again.”
“Hey,” I said, snapping my fingers so he’d look at me. “This is a celebration, remember? There’ll be no licking of wounds at my table, Calder.”
“What if it’s a wound that gets me benched?”
His voice dropped just enough to catch the tender place under my ribs. I blinked, lips parted, unsure whether he was joking or not.
One look at his face told me he wasn’t.
The waiter came with our drinks and I threaded my fingers around the warm jar, letting the steam hit my face before I said anything. Mason gingerly sniffed his, and then took a small sip.
“You won’t get benched,” I said then. “It was a mistake. Could’ve happened to anyone.”
“Not Grayson,” he scoffed. “He doesn’t make stupid mistakes like that.”
Of course I respected the game, loved it even. But one of the big reasons I never gave my dad his greatest wish was shown in Mason as he sat across from me. In his face, and the droop of his shoulders.
“You’re not a rookie anymore,” I said. “That’s the first thing you need to get your head around. Stop acting like you just got here.”
His eyes flicked up to mine, searching.
“And the second thing… You’re not Grayson Steele, and you don’t have to be.
Sure, he’s a great player, but so are you.
” He was about to protest, but I cut him off by holding up a hand.
When his mouth snapped shut, I went on, “NHL teams don’t hand out jerseys to just anyone.
You didn’t get drafted for the hell of it. ”
He blinked once. Then again. Like he hadn’t expected me to say that, or maybe like he needed to hear it more than he realized.
“Thanks,” he murmured eventually. His voice wasn’t loud, but it landed.
I reached for my cup, mostly to give my hands something to do. “Now can we stop talking about you, please? This is my moment. I’m up two-zero in the music department, in case you’ve forgotten.”
He laughed softly, letting out a sigh as he relaxed into the warmth of the place and his drink. Under the table, his leg brushed against mine as he shifted.
God help me, I didn’t move away.
“I’ve got this voice in my head telling me to prove myself,” he said. “Be faster. Hit harder. Score more. Somehow I end up doing the opposite.”
“Because you're overthinking.”
He nearly choked on his chai, and said, “Apparently it’s obvious to everyone but me.”
“Only because I’m guilty of the same thing.”
“Oh yeah?” He inched his knee just a little closer to mine, kicking my pulse up a notch.
“I overcorrect. Overprepare. Over… everything,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.
His smile was small but real. “Maybe we’re more alike than I first thought.”
“Well, I’m better looking. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he said with a wink.
God, he was cute. Mason was making me swoon like it was my first freaking crush. I wanted to reach across the table, fist his jersey at the collar, and smash his mouth into mine.
Our drinks sat mostly untouched. The music shifted to something gritty and low-fi, a woman’s voice soaked in reverb and static. I didn’t catch the lyrics, but didn’t need to. The mood was set.
“This place is very you, by the way,” Mason said, glancing around at the mismatched chairs, string lights, and walls plastered with old band posters. “It smells like burnt coffee and rebellion.”
“Rebellion? I like that.”
There was something in his eyes when he looked at me then, quiet and unshaken, that made my pulse catch.
“You’re not like any girl I’ve met before.”
The words hit harder than I expected, especially coming from a rising NHL star who could get anyone he wanted.
“And how many girls have you said that to so far today?”
He leaned forward, arms braced on the table. “Just you.”
My heart skipped, betraying the shit out of me.
“Well, then I’m flattered,” I said, hiding the flush in my cheeks by taking a slow sip of my drink.
“You should be.”
God, he wasn’t even trying, and still everything in me felt off-balance. Like I was speeding down a hill with no brakes and also no interest in stopping.
“I’m not saying this is a date,” Mason said, a grin playing on his lips. “But if it were, I’d say it’s going pretty well.”
I raised a strategic eyebrow. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes steady on mine. “I’m sitting across from a girl who schools me in music, orders for me, and gives better pep talks than my captain. What’s not to like?”
The flutter in my chest went nuclear.
I made a show of rolling my eyes. “You’ve been practicing. Your game has definitely improved since last season.”
A shadow crossed his face. There for a split second, and gone again. I knew he was thinking about hockey, because how could he not?
I nudged his foot with mine under the table. “You’re doing fine. Despite what you think.”
He gave a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, except it’s not just me thinking it.”
I sat back, letting the weight of that settle.
He wasn’t fishing for pity. He didn’t strike me as the type.
But I could see the cracks. He carried them behind the confident smile and shoulder checks.
The pressure, expectations, the need to prove he earned his spot on the ice.
I recognized it because I was living it.
My eyes dropped to the table, to the curl of his fingers around the mason jar, knuckles pale. When I looked up again, he was staring at my arm.
“What happened here?” And without warning, he reached over and ran his fingertips along the Band-Aid just below my inner elbow.
I flinched, but not from the pain. “It’s nothing.”
His thumb stayed there, brushing the sensitive skin, making me totally forget how to breathe.
“Scratched myself while fixing a… thing,” I managed to say. It came out all strained and tight. “Occupational hazard.”
His smile was light. “If it makes you feel any better, I can’t hit the ice without half a roll of tape on my knees.”
He was still touching my arm, still tracing featherlight patterns against my skin.
I swallowed hard. “Already falling apart at the ripe old age of twenty-three?”
“Don’t let the knees fool you,” he said, his voice brighter than before. “I’m in my prime.”
I laughed—short and breathy, and maybe a little too flustered. “You sound like those guys at the gym, in compression sleeves, pumping like they’re training for Iron Man, but everyone knows they peaked in high school.”
“How dare you?” He dragged his hand down my arm, slow and deliberate, as he went to lean back in his seat.
But I wasn't ready to let go just yet, and caught his hand in mine, fingers lacing through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The grin slipped off his face. His eyes locked on mine, and the air between us stilled. No music, no coffee, no chatter from the counter. Just the beat of my heart drumming in my ears.
Everything about him was warm. His hand in mine. The slight flush in his neck. The way he looked at me like I was all he cared to see.
And I hated how much I wanted to believe it.
“Cass,” he whispered.
I was leaning forward without realizing it. His leg brushed mine again, sending a new wave of electric sparks through me. I was so lost in it—in him—that I almost didn’t catch the flash of movement from the corner of my eye.
Just past Mason’s shoulder, across the coffee shop near the far wall. Josie. Her phone aimed straight at us.
The spell shattered.
I let go of his hand like it scalded me, sitting up stiff and straight.
“Are you okay?” The easy smile he wore wavered a bit, his brows furrowing lightly.
“It’s nothing. I just—” I forced a smile and picked up my mug like nothing happened. “I just remembered I have an assignment due tomorrow.”
His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t buying it. And as he opened his mouth to say as much, both our phones pinged at the same time.
We glanced at each other, then at our screens.
Mine was a TikTok notification. New post from— my stomach dropped.
I tapped it, and Josie’s latest video started playing with a filter that added fake sparkles around the two people in frame: Mason and me, holding hands as we gazed at each other.
The caption read, “New romance is anything but ice cold.”