Chapter 18 - Cass
Cass
The Seattle Kraken had no idea what hit them.
From the moment the puck echoed off the boards, the Surge skated like they were possessed. Clean, ruthless execution. Passes weaved through traffic like thread through a needle. Precision like they could read each other’s minds.
But it was Mason who kept stealing my breath, over and over, like he had some private vendetta against my self-control. He was everywhere. On the forecheck, chasing rebounds, slamming into the glass to win possession.
The crowd roared every time he touched the puck, giving him even more fuel to go harder and faster.
Midway through the second period, a Kraken defenseman leveled him with a shoulder check that rattled the boards.
I stiffened behind the glass, breath frozen.
But Mason popped up fast, jaw tight and eyes blazing.
His mouth moved—trash talk, I was sure of it—and the next play, he came back with a vengeance.
Grayson dumped the puck into the zone, and Mason flew in after it. Faster than anyone else out there. He didn’t even flinch when a Kraken player tried to cut him off. He dropped his shoulder, spun around the guy, and toe-dragged the puck so smoothly I barely saw it move.
Then he flipped it. Between his legs.
Between. His. Legs.
The arena lost its mind. The puck kissed the top corner of the net, crossbar and down, so fast the goalie never stood a chance.
I covered my mouth with my hand. Not out of shock but because my body responded in a way it shouldn’t.
Not when I’d shut him down, ready to walk away for good.
Warmth curled through me, low and fast. My thighs pressed together as I watched him glide past the bench, tapping his stick twice against the boards, like it was nothing.
Brilliant was one thing, being cocky about it just made him hotter.
When the buzzer sounded, the Surge was five goals ahead of Seattle’s one. Grayson had two assists, the fourth line even got in a goal, and my dad looked smug as hell.
But it was Mason my eyes kept drifting to. And how I was quickly losing the ability to pretend I didn’t want him.
*
The mezzanine was quiet. Just the hush of post-game winding down and the occasional thud of equipment being wheeled below. The dim lights cast long shadows over the concrete floor, making it feel like a turning point in a spy movie when the elevator doors slid open.
“Figured you’d be halfway home by now,” Mason said, voice rough from the game. “Imagine my surprise when you texted me.”
If only he knew how much it had taken for me to do that. Typing out those words went against whatever better judgment would be in this situation.
I leaned against the railing, eyes locked on the darkened rink below. “How’d the interviews go? If you weren’t a firm favorite already, tonight kinda sealed it. I bet they couldn’t shut up about your goal.”
“Which one?” A crooked smile curved his lips.
“You show off like that in beer league, they ban you for being a menace.”
He laughed under his breath, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Wasn’t trying to show off.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, dropping his gym bag before he came to stand next to me. “Maybe I was showing off a little.”
The silence that followed was charged, like we were standing on the edge of a fault line, waiting for it to crack.
Then, softly: “You’ve been avoiding me.”
I bit the inside of my cheek as I tried to decide on the best response. “I’ve been busy.”
It wasn’t a total lie, and did the least damage.
“You never told me what that meeting was about,” he said. The pivot nearly gave me whiplash. “The one you rushed to the other morning.”
“You remember everything, don’t you?”
He shrugged, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Only the important stuff.”
“Policy review,” I replied, pretending I didn’t notice the other layers loaded into that simple statement. “They wanted us to sign a document saying we understood the importance of staff conduct off the ice. They’re getting stricter about… boundaries.”
“Boundaries,” he echoed, eyes locked on mine. Heat rose up between us, same as in his garage the other day. “So… what does that mean, exactly?”
Heart in my throat, I stepped closer. “It means I probably shouldn’t do this.”
Then I kissed him, fists curled into his shirt as I pulled him into me.
His hands were on me in seconds, gripping my hips, mouth opening against mine with a deep groan.
Our bodies pressed together, greedy, not thinking about anything but how much we needed the contact.
How we were starved for it. Every line we’d try to draw in the past blurred into nothing.
There was only this moment and wanting the same thing— each other.
Mason’s back hit the wall, and I pushed up on my toes, tongue tangling with his, hands sliding under his shirt. The warmth of his bare skin made me gasp.
“Cass,” he whispered, already breathless. “We can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep—”
“Shut up, Calder.” I dipped my face to his neck.
A split second passed, then he whirled round to switch positions, pinning me to the wall.
His thigh wedged between mine, and I rolled my hips instinctively, chasing that delicious friction.
His mouth was everywhere… jaw, collarbone, the sensitive curve of my neck.
I moaned out loud, eyes fluttering closed.
I didn’t care anymore. Not about the rules, my dad, what I should and shouldn’t be doing.
I tugged at the waistband of his pants, fingers desperate. “I need…”
My words trailed off. I wasn’t even sure what I was asking for. He slipped his hand beneath my shirt, and palmed my breast through the lace of my bra.
“I know what you need.” Mason pushed my pants down just enough, fingers sliding into my underwear. I was already soaked.
He cursed softly against my skin, fumbling with his jeans.
There was no slow build or teasing, just fast, hungry hands and too many layers keeping us from what we wanted most. He turned me toward the railing and braced me with one hand on my waist. The other guided his cock into me in one smooth, punching thrust.
I gasped, head dropping forward.
There were still people in the arena, the usual stragglers after the game.
Being quiet was more than decency, it was necessary.
I bit down on my hand to keep from crying out as he worked up a tantalizing rhythm.
He moved fast and hard, muffling his own sounds against my shoulder.
I gripped the railing tightly, rocking back to meet him, pleasure building heavy and relentless.
It was messy. Hot. Half-dressed and out of breath. Two consensual adults blowing off steam. A one-time thing after the first one-time thing.
That’s what I kept reminding myself.
One more time.
When I came, I didn’t hold back. My body trembled as Mason groaned behind me, shuddering through his own release. He wrapped an arm around me, holding me close until he’d spent every last drop.
If it were up to me, we would’ve continued the night and this activity plan back at my place. But my phone buzzed a few times in quick succession. We hurried to fix our clothes, avoiding eye contact. Or maybe it was just me not wanting to look at him…
“This doesn’t feel like a mistake,” he said, chest still heaving after all that exertion.
I still didn’t look at him, but stared at Josie’s rapid-fire texts instead. She was at the bar and wanted me to come.
“It doesn’t matter what it feels like, Mason.”
I grabbed my bag and left him standing there. Probably with a reasonable argument that would easily win me over, but I couldn’t risk it. I had to get away before I made another mistake.
No matter how good it felt.
Josie and I weren’t exactly best friends, but she was the best distraction to whatever the hell I’d just gotten myself deeper into.
Or at least, that’s what I thought she’d be.
But the second I stepped inside Gerry’s, my stomach flipped.
The whole team was there, taking up more than half the tables in the place.
It was loud. Not in an overcrowded, bodies pressed against the bar kind of way, but in the way that laughter and clinking glasses could make it feel too full, too warm, too much.
I scanned the room, eyes adjusting to the low light and neon signs.
The Surge had basically colonized the back half of the bar.
Jerseys, backwards caps, signature shit-shooting…
the whole roster had shown up to celebrate tonight’s blowout win.
I’d never hung out with these people, because they weren’t my people. Not really. The world was very different for them. We had nothing in common.
Still, I didn’t turn to leave.
Grayson was halfway through telling a story that had his shoulders shaking with laughter. Hunter sat across from him, nursing a beer with his boot propped on an empty chair. Every now and again he’d toss peanuts at whoever tried to sit there.
Josie waved me over, and despite several reservations rooted in common sense, I obliged.
My underwear clung to me in the worst way, damp with memory. The ghost of Mason’s breath tickled my neck, the bruising grip of his hands on my hips. My body was electric, caught between panic and something far more dangerous. I smiled through it all.
“Hey,” Josie said, sliding a whiskey sour in my direction. “I didn’t think you’d come, but this is amazing!”
“Amazing.” I cringed inwardly. When was I ever amazing? “Thanks for inviting me.”
Her laugh tinkled, light and airy. “I should be thanking you for helping me balance out the testosterone in here. Speaking of…”
She glanced in the direction of the door, and I immediately guessed what she was on about because so did everyone else.
The shift in the room said enough. Mason carried his own atmosphere when he entered a space, and tonight’s flashy play doubled that effect.
He had the kind of presence you noticed whether you wanted to or not.
Teammates called out to him, a few clapped him on the back. I caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and something fluttered in my chest.
The moment he clocked me at the table, there was the slightest hitch in his step, the smallest flicker of confusion behind his eyes.
Then he slipped back into his role again.
It was all easy smiles from the dashing star of the night.
Everyone, regular patrons included, called him to come sit at their table. But it was ours he made a beeline for.
Grayson greeted him with a full-bodied slap on the back. “Took you long enough.”
“Sorry,” Mason said, sliding into the open seat next to me. “Couldn’t find my pants.”
I nearly choked on my drink. The rest of them burst out laughing.
“Stardom already working out for you,” Hunter said proudly. “That’s our guy.”
His gaze lingered on me for a beat too long, then he added, “No offense. Josie’ll tell you all about the groupies.”
“You need nerves of steel with this bunch,” she said.
It felt like the spotlight landed right on us, and while I was still stammering through the right thing to say, Mason came to the rescue.
“You’re not offending anyone,” he said, cool as anything. “Cass and I are just friends.”
The others laughed, but Grayson shifted in his seat, watching us a little too closely. My brain went into overdrive, calculating the distance I was sitting from Mason, whether my body language supported his story or not, and if the dim lighting would hide the flush in my cheeks.
“Instead of hockey,” Hunter said, taking another sip of his beer. “I should’ve made a career out of having friends who bullshit me. Would’ve made a killing.”
“You’re making a killing now, even as the backup goalie,” Josie chided.
His face lit up. “Oh, right. Best of both worlds, I guess.”
They laughed again, and this time Grayson joined.
When I saw that, I forced myself to relax and do the same.
There was no point in hiding if I wasn’t going to sell the act.
I shared a look with Mason who seemed to be on the same track, and that made it all feel a little better.
We were back in character. Teammates, coworkers, puck-heads in arms.
But Mason’s knee brushed mine under the table. A light contact. Deliberate. My breath caught, but I didn’t move away.
Grayson raised his glass. “To making the Kraken cry on home ice.”
“To making them regret existing,” Hunter added.
“To goals that make headlines,” Mason said with a smirk. “Finally.”
Everyone clinked glasses and despite myself, I started enjoying the camaraderie.
The conversation drifted between stories from the road, inside jokes I didn’t quite get, and Hunter’s terrible impersonations of opposing team coaches. I found myself laughing until my cheeks hurt and my shoulders weren’t sitting up by my ears anymore.
Mason let the others carry the weight, offering a well-timed quip or anecdote here and there.
I could tell our earlier rendezvous was front of mind.
It was there every time our eyes met by accident.
But he was careful. Distant enough, without being cold or obviously avoidant.
He made space for me as one of the gang, without demanding anything.
I hated how much I wanted to lean into it. Into him. To have his arm around me the way Grayson’s lazily rested on Josie’s shoulders. Not giving a fuck about what anyone thought.
It felt so unfair that they could do whatever they wanted, but I couldn’t.
“Cool of you to come,” Mason said quietly, catching me off guard. The others were joking about something Hunter had done in the locker room, not paying attention to us.
“I almost didn’t,” I replied, staring at him a little too hard. A little too long.
“Well, I’m glad you did. This is fun.”
I was about to say something about having lost touch with all things fun lately, when a tall blonde came up to the table and chimed in.
“Hey, Mason.” She was all legs in a short skirt and crop top that looked like it lived a previous life as a sample piece of fabric no bigger than a washcloth. Not a breath older than twenty-two, full of unearned confidence and college-girl charm. “Sick game tonight. You were out of this world.”
“Hey… person I don’t know. Thank you, but it’s always a team effort. Glad you enjoyed the game.”
Mason’s smile packed a punch. The blonde giggled.
“Melissa,” she said, twirling her hair between her fingers. “Now that you know me… wanna dance?”
The air thinned. But maybe just for me.
“Sure.”
Sure. No mulling it over or asking the group if they minded his absence for a few minutes. Or a glance in my direction.
Then again, why would there be?
He was young, single, and free to do as he pleased.
But as I watched them walk out to the dance floor, my fingers clenched my drink so tight I wondered if the glass would break.