Chapter 27
Mason
Ichecked my messages for the tenth time in as many minutes.
Nothing from Lila except her last text: Sorry, busy with work.
That was five hours ago. I shoved the phone back into my pocket as I approached the Miami Fusion’s executive suite, my jaw already clenched.
Being summoned to the GM’s office after the Toronto media circus wasn’t a surprise, but that didn’t make it any less stressful.
The executive floor of the training facility felt sterile. All glass and chrome and uncomfortable-looking furniture. I nodded at the receptionist, who gave me a tight, professional smile.
“They’re waiting for you,” she said, gesturing toward the frosted glass door with “Hank Bellamy, General Manager” etched into it.
I knocked twice before pushing the door open. The room went quiet as I stepped in. Bellamy sat behind his massive desk, fingers steepled under his chin. Beside him stood Cynthia Morales, our PR director, clutching a blood-red folder to her chest like a shield.
“Callahan. Take a seat.” Bellamy gestured to the lone chair positioned directly in front of his desk. “This sex dungeon business is a bad look.”
I sat. “It’s not what it looks like. The media’s blowing it out of proportion.”
The GM leaned forward, hands clasped on his mahogany desk. “Be that as it may, it’s creating a lot of unwanted headlines. The sponsors are getting antsy. You need to clean up your act, pronto.”
My fingers dug into the arms of the chair. “With all due respect, sir, that wasn’t—”
He lifted a hand, cutting me off. “I don’t care what it was or wasn’t. I don’t need the details of your personal life, Callahan. The headlines are what they are, and they’re causing problems.”
Morales, pinched-faced with horn-rimmed glasses, chimed in. “Our sponsors are concerned. Some are even questioning if it violates the morality clause in your contract.”
I gritted my teeth, biting back a retort. None of this was my damn fault, but arguing would only make it worse. I was stuck.
Bellamy leaned forward, forearms on the desk. “Look, son. I’m not here to threaten your contract. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you about the morality clause. Keep your head down and focus on hockey.”
The throbbing behind my eye intensified. The morality clause was intentionally vague, designed to give teams flexibility when dealing with player behavior that might reflect poorly on the organization. It wasn’t the kind of thing management brought up unless they were seriously concerned.
Morales added, her look pointed. “We’d hate for this to impact future negotiations.”
I swallowed the urge to tell them both where they could shove their morality clause. “Understood.”
Morales nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. Now, we’ve prepared a brief statement if the press approaches you directly.” She handed me a notecard with three bland sentences expressing regret for any “misunderstandings” and affirming my commitment to the team.
“That’s it?” I asked, scanning the card. “This doesn’t actually address anything.”
“That’s the point,” she replied. “We’re not validating the story by engaging with specifics. We’re moving past it.”
I pocketed the card, knowing I’d never use it. “Is that all?”
Bellamy studied me for a long moment. “We invested a lot in bringing you to Miami, Mason. The team needs you at your best. Whatever’s going on with that woman in Toronto, end it cleanly. Keep your life private and drama-free. Understood?”
I stood, my hands clenched at my sides. “Crystal clear.”
As I walked out of the office, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, hope flaring, then dying when I saw it wasn’t Lila. It was a text from King:
King: Coach wants everyone on ice 20 minutes early.
I stalked out to practice, my temper on a short leash. My thoughts were stuck on the PR nightmare and Lila ghosting me. I’d apologized for her name getting fed to the press, but she’d barely reacted before going quiet. I typed out a message.
Me: Just had a meeting with management. Can we talk?
I sent it and watched the status change from Delivered to Read. The three dots appeared, vanished, then appeared again before her reply came through.
Lila: Sorry. I’m busy right now.
I headed straight for the rink, hoping ice time would cool me down. It didn’t. My head wasn’t in the game, and it showed.
Coach Murray blew his whistle, and we gathered at center ice. “Line rushes with defensive coverage. I want crisp passes, heads up, smart decisions.” He tapped the zone diagram on his board. “Forwards, cycle low to high. D-men, I want active sticks and proper gap control. Understood?”
The drill started, and I forced myself to focus. Track the puck. Mind the gap. Watch the cross-ice pass. Basic stuff I could do in my sleep. Or at least, I usually could.
I missed my coverage, Brody tapped the puck past the goalie, and Coach’s whistle shrieked across the ice.
“Callahan!” Coach Murray barked. “Is that what you call defending? My dead grandma could’ve scored on that play!”
Snickers rippled through the group. I scowled and skated back into position. “Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”
The next rep went better. And the one after that. Until I flubbed a simple pass, sending the puck sailing wide.
“Callahan!” Coach’s voice boomed across the ice. “What in the name of Gretzky’s missing tooth was that? Get your head out of your ass.”
I bit down on my mouthguard and took it. Coach wasn’t trying to embarrass me. This was his method. Humiliate, refocus, repeat. A time-honored hockey tradition.
By the fifth rep, I was playing more out of spite than technique. I hit harder than necessary in board battles and got aggressive with my stick. When Cade tried to slip past me along the boards, I pinned him hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
“Jesus, Mason,” he wheezed, shoving me back. “Save it for the game.”
Coach blew the whistle again. “Callahan. Two minutes for being an idiot. Skate it off!”
I circled away from the group, fury burning in my chest. This wasn’t me. I was controlled. Technical. Not the guy letting emotions get the better of me on the ice. Yet here I was, playing like a rookie with something to prove.
King skated past me, shaking his head. “Get it together, Callahan. We need you focused.”
It wasn’t what he said. It was the way it landed. Something in me snapped. Maybe it was the stress of the GM meeting or Lila’s distance, but I’d had enough. I shoved King’s shoulder as he passed.
King turned slowly. Surprise flickered across his face before the captain’s mask slid back into place. Around us, the guys tensed, practice momentarily forgotten as the rink went silent.
I was about to say something I’d regret when Coach’s whistle cut through the air.
“ENOUGH!” Coach skated between us and shoved us apart with his clipboard.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you two, and I don’t care.
This is practice, not therapy hour.” His eyes narrowed as he looked from King to me.
“We’ve got Boston tomorrow night. If you two want to fight, do it on your own time. ”
King gave a sharp nod and skated back to his position. I stayed where I was, my grip crushing the tape on my stick.
Coach angled closer, dropping his voice so only I could hear. “Pull yourself together, Callahan. I don’t know what’s eating you, but fix it before tomorrow or you’re watching from the press box.”
The threat snapped me back to reality. I’d never been a healthy scratch in my pro career. The humiliation would be brutal, and the optics after this morning’s meeting would be worse.
Practice kept going. I forced myself through the drills with mechanical precision. By the end, my body was wrecked and my head felt exactly the same.
As we filed off the ice, I skated up beside King. “Sorry. I overreacted.”
“I know.” He tapped my shin pads with his stick. “We’re good.”
I dropped onto the bench in front of my stall and started peeling off my sweat-soaked gear. My phone sat on the shelf like a challenge. No new messages. Just the empty screen.
“Fuck it,” I muttered, snatching it up. I fired off a text.
Me: I know you’re shutting me out. But I’m not going anywhere. Talk to me.
I hit send before I could think better of it. The message sat there, a lonely blue bubble. No reply. Not even those infuriating dots.
I looked up and found Dex watching me, his face serious for once.
“Just waiting on an important text,” I said.
“Woman trouble?” He dropped his eyes to his skates, working the laces loose.
I snorted. “What gave it away?”
“The way you keep checking your phone like it might explode. And the fact you nearly took King’s head off for a comment that wouldn’t normally faze you.” He yanked a skate off. “Also, the whole sex dungeon thing kind of screamed relationship drama.”
“It’s not a sex dungeon,” I said automatically, then sighed.
Dex tilted his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and this girl. Lila, right? But if she matters, don’t give up. If she won’t talk over text, you need to show up and listen in person.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“Anytime, Sir Underpants,” he shot back with a grin, then backed away with his hands up when I leveled a look at him. “Too soon? My bad.”
I shook my head, and a reluctant smile broke through. “You’re lucky you’re fast on the ice.”
He shrugged and headed for the showers, leaving me surprised by his insight.
Hated to admit it, but the kid had a point. Texts and calls weren’t working. If I wanted answers from Lila, I needed to see her face to face, no matter how “swamped” she claimed to be.
I hit the showers, letting the hot water pound against my tight muscles.
I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the tile, trying to make sense of the last few days.
One weekend in Toronto and somehow everything in my life was a mess.
My reputation with the team, my standing with management, whatever I had going with Lila.