Chapter 8 - Mason
Mason
The locker room was quiet. Not focused quiet, or playoff quiet.
Tense.
It crackled under my skin like white noise from an old-school out-of-tune TV set. Every breath, every glance… Guys lacing up without jokes. No music to amp us up for the game. Just the low scrape of skates against tile, Velcro ripping, the occasional grunt.
Because of me.
Or more specifically, because of Josie’s post.
I hadn’t even made the damn thing. How was I supposed to know she’d be there at the right moment to film the most incriminating part of our not-date?
Grayson slammed his locker closed, and the echo snapped through the room like a gunshot. I didn’t flinch, but every part of me wanted to.
He turned to face me fully, arms crossed, mouth tight. “You seriously thought it wouldn’t blow back on the team?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but didn’t get the chance.
“You’re in uniform,” he said, his voice sharp, eyes sharper. “So you’ll play tonight. But you’re not just screwing around with your own ice time, Calder. You’re playing with ours.”
“I didn’t post it,” I said, jaw tight. I respected the man, but I wasn’t going to let him turn this into the problem it wasn’t. Not Cass. “Your girlfriend did. I didn’t even know she was there. Or filming.”
“That’s not the point. You were making out in the middle of a coffee shop, when you know the heat we’re taking from the press as is.”
I straightened. “We weren’t—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped. “People will think what they think. Trust me, I know more than anyone. That clip is everywhere. Your name, her face. You think Coach won’t have to answer for it with the board? Yeah, he’s going to be real happy about that.”
Hunter stood up, wedging himself part way between us. “Okay, let’s just take it down. Mason hasn’t done anything wrong. He went out with a girl. Big whoop.”
Grayson didn’t even blink in his direction. “You want to win this season?”
“You know I do.”
“Then get your head out of your ass, and back in the game where it belongs. The Stanley has our name on it, but only if you’re focused. We need you, Mason.” He was done with me, and stomped off to prove it.
I stared at his back, at the Surge logo stitched between his shoulders.
I wanted to chase after him, to tell him how hypocritical it was for him to criticize me after he and Josie had fucked around all last season and during the playoffs.
But I didn’t move, because the fight was draining out of my skates.
For the first time since I’d been drafted, I felt like I didn’t belong in this room.
“Take it easy, bro,” Hunter said, ignoring the side glances he was getting from the guys. “It’ll blow over like these things always do. Just focus on the game, and you’ll be fine.”
Coach stormed in, clipboard under one arm, already barking names for the lines. He’d done some rearranging, apparently. He didn’t look at me until the very end.
“Calder,” he said, looking up from the roster sheet. “You’re skating third tonight.”
My heart dropped. “What?”
“Excuse me?” The man glared at me like he wanted to take a stick to my head. “You want to warm the bench instead? Because I can make that happen.”
“No, Coach, I just—”
“Then shut up and get your helmet on.”
I clenched my teeth so hard it felt like my molars would crack. Third line. It was barely above being benched.
“You should be grateful I’m not pulling you completely,” Coach added, scribbling something down with a red pen. “You should be chasing the Cup, and that’s all.”
I stuck my helmet under my arm and made for the door. “Be right back.”
Nobody stopped me. Not even Hunter. We were minutes from the game, but I couldn’t go out there without talking to Cass first.
I jogged the familiar hallways like a man on a mission. She hadn’t answered any of my texts or calls since this whole thing went down. I didn’t know if she was mad or embarrassed. But still. I just needed her to let me explain.
I checked the maintenance room. Door cracked, lights off.
“Cass?” I knocked. No answer.
Ice level. No sign of her at the Zamboni controls. Bathrooms, nope. Media booth, locked.
It was like she’d gone up in smoke.
“Looking for your girlfriend?”
I turned and found Carter standing there with a handful of Gatorade bottles, wearing a shit-eating grin.
“Pretty bold of you,” he said, “hard launching in the middle of a coffee shop like that.”
I wasn’t in the mood, nor did I have the time.
“Get lost, Carter.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “No hard feelings, man. I get it. You’re new, and she’s hot. But come on… it’s kinda on the nose, don’t you think?”
I ran back the way I’d come, ignoring his last jab telling me to play my game, not the help. My jaw ached with how much I was biting back all I wanted to say. To Grayson, Coach, everyone.
I checked my phone again. Still no response.
No texts. No call. Nothing but the ghost of her hand in mine, and the warmth of her laugh lingering in my ears.
I headed back toward the tunnel, the sounds of the crowd swelling just past the exit, knowing I had a job to do even if my head wasn’t in it.
Even if my heart was somewhere else entirely.
The first period was all noise.
The crowd, the announcers, the scrape of blades on ice. The roar of the boards rattling behind me. None of it touched the knot in my chest. Not Grayson’s cold shoulder on the bench, or Coach’s clipped calls. Not even the tight rotations with the third line. It was like skating through sludge.
But I forced myself to move.
Shift after shift, I burned through the frustration, my lungs working overtime, legs pumping hard enough to drown out the voice in my head. The one that kept asking why she wasn’t there. Why she wasn’t watching. And why it suddenly mattered so damn much.
Midway through the second, Denver—our opponent tonight—took a penalty. Grayson and the first PK unit rolled out like clockwork.
Coach tapped my shoulder. “Next kill, you’re in.”
“Me?”
His look said don’t make me regret it, and he went back to watching the game.
Two minutes later, I was on the ice, down a man and chasing a loose puck like my life depended on it. Which, maybe it did.
I read the breakout, intercepted a lazy pass at center ice, and took off. It was just me and the goalie, the whole crowd on their feet. I didn’t think. Didn’t panic. I just went for it. Stick-handling low, baiting left, then roofing it glove-side.
Goal.
The horn went off, and I coasted behind the net, arms raised, every muscle in my body screaming with the rush of it.
The guys slammed into me at the bench, shouting and pounding on my helmet.
Even Grayson gave me a sharp, approving nod.
And Coach… Coach didn’t smile, but he muttered, “Nice job, Calder,” and moved on.
That single goal didn’t erase the drama, but it bought me a sliver of space.
Late in the third, with the Surge clinging to our one-goal lead and the Avalanche pressing hard, I dropped into the slot to cover their top winger. He was big, fast, and angry. The kind of guy who hit like a wrecking ball and never missed an opening.
I saw the pass coming just in time to get between him and the puck. What I didn’t see was his shoulder.
It came high and fast, slamming into my ribs just under the padding.
I hit the ice with a thud, my breath punched out of me like air from a collapsing tent.
Everything hurt, but I got up quickly. Wheezing, swearing, gritting my teeth, I stayed on the ice until the whistle blew and the Surge had cleared the zone.
We’d held on for the win. 3-2.
I limped off the ice to the roar of the home crowd, trying to pretend it didn’t feel like someone had taken a baseball bat to my side. Guys slapped my helmet, some grinned at me like I was the comeback story of the night. I was halfway to the showers when I heard Coach call my name.
“Calder. My office. Now.”
Shit.
Hunter gave me a look from the hallway, but I just shook my head and kept walking.
Coach’s office was small, cluttered, and harshly lit by a single fluorescent bar. I stood just inside the doorway, still in full gear, sweat cooling on my skin.
He didn’t invite me in, or tell me to sit. Hell, he didn’t even look at me right away.
“I saw the video.”
His eyes lifted slowly and the look in them was calm, but deadly.
“Coach, I want this. I promise I won’t—”
“Officially,” he said, leaning back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, “I can’t tell you who you can and can’t date.”
I swallowed hard, and waited for the other shoe to drop.
“Unofficially?” His steely gaze pinned me like a butterfly to a wall display. “Keep your filthy paws off my daughter.”
The word hung in the air like a threat.
Daughter.
I didn’t know if he’d said anything after that. Couldn’t remember hitting the showers or walking back out to my car. The lot was empty when I finally got buzzed out of the spiral in my head, and I pulled my phone out.
Cass: GG. Wanna come over and read hate comments on our video with me?
My thumb hovered. All day I’d been dying to talk to her, and now I didn’t know what to say.
She’s the coach’s daughter.