31. Mason
Chapter 31
Mason
I wake up with an uneasy feeling, and I don’t know why.
Well, I kind of do. We’ll arrive at the port any moment now, and Sophia and I still haven’t discussed our feelings—assuming she has any for me.
Fuck. My strategy to wait until she acknowledges my declaration of love is officially a loser.
Fine. I’ll have to talk to her now. Time to put all my cards on the table, or as Coach says: “put the fucking puck on the ice.” I can tell her how much I’ve grown to care for her, and more importantly, what I really think about the imbecilic idea that “what happens on the cruise stays on the cruise.”
“Ladybug?” I turn to her side… but find it empty and cold.
What the fuck? Where is she?
“Sophia?” I get up and knock on the bathroom door.
No reply.
I try the handle and find the door unlocked.
The bathroom is empty.
My stomach drops. The last few days, we’ve spent every morning together, so I foolishly assumed today would be the same.
Maybe she’s packing?
No. She told me she packed up yesterday.
Maybe she forgot to pack something?
My unease intensifies.
Frantically, I dress, brush my teeth, and run over to knock on Sophia’s suite door.
No one answers.
“Ladybug?” I shout, banging my fist on the wood.
No answer.
“Hey,” I say to a passing porter. “Open this door.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says, blinking. “If that’s not your?—”
“I heard a scream inside. Someone might need help.”
And hey, it’s not a complete lie: if he doesn’t do as I say, he will be screaming and in need of help.
“Oh.” The porter takes out a keycard and swipes. “Please stay here.”
He runs in and I follow, not trusting some stranger to deal with this—whatever it is.
“There’s no one here,” the porter says, looking around in confusion. “No suitcases either.”
No suitcases.
Until this moment, I could’ve made other guesses, like maybe she went to get some breakfast. But only one explanation fits now: she took her suitcase and left without saying goodbye.
Well, fuck that.
Spinning on my heel, I sprint for the elevator and jab at the button like what’s happening is its fault.
The fucking elevator doesn’t come for what feels like an hour.
I flip it the bird and sprint for the stairs.
I manage to descend only one level down before I run into a traffic jam of people.
Nope.
I don’t care how rude they’re about to think I am. Channeling my high school self, I slide down the stair railing to get past the gawking strangers. At the bottom, I run smack into a crowd of passengers waiting to disembark.
Okay. All isn’t lost. I’m on the ground level of the ship, and we haven’t docked yet. Maybe we can delay docking until I catch her? I take out my phone and dial the captain to call in one last favor.
He doesn’t answer.
Fuck.
I call Sophia.
She doesn’t answer either. She’s either ignoring me on purpose or is still on her “digital detox.”
Fine. I start pushing through the crowd.
The ship comes to a halt, and the captain’s voice cheerfully slurs about our arrival.
“Let me through,” I growl at the people in front of me.
Something in my voice must make them realize that it’s best to comply because many people move out of my way, and then I push through the ones who don’t.
When I enter the terminal, I spot what could be Sophia’s curvy figure hurrying toward the cabs.
I gauge the distance between us.
If this were ice and I had skates on, I’d make it for sure, but as is, I’ll have to rely on sprinting.
So, I sprint… and crash into a wall of defensemen that seems to have sprouted from nowhere to block my way.
“What the fuck?”
This seems eerily like a nightmare I sometimes have—though, granted, I’m on the ice naked in that one.
“And hello to you too, Yeti scum,” says one of the burly dudes in my way.
I scan them all, and only when I spot a familiar—and unwelcome—face, do I understand.
These are the Florida Bears, a hockey team that isn’t our rival but wishes they were.
And, of course, with them is Misha, or rather Michael Medvedev as I’ll call him to his face today because I’d rather deescalate the situation than waste valuable seconds kicking everyone’s ass.
Is this ambush his idea?
Apart from the usual Soviet-bred discontent on his hawkish face, his expression is unreadable. I’ve never told him this—as it might sound like a compliment—but he has always reminded me of a bogatyr from Russian folk tales. They are a type of Slavic knights errant and are always depicted as big men fierce enough to slay three-headed dragons.
Oh, and they aren’t really team players either.
“Michael,” I say, addressing Medvedev directly. “I’m in a big rush. If you care about your teammates’ wellbeing, tell them to get out of my fucking way.”
Then again, since when does he give two shits about his teammates?
“My wellbeing?” says one of the defensemen, whom I’m going to eviscerate first. “You and what army?”
“Listen,” I say in Russian, eyes still only on Medvedev. “I didn’t have anything to do with you losing your job. It was Coach’s decision, I swear.” Not that I didn’t agree with said decision, but I didn’t help him make it, which is why this isn’t a lie.
“Did he just say something about my mama?” grits out the same not-long-for-this-world defenseman. “I’m going to?—”
“Shut your mouth,” Misha says in perfect, unaccented English, his growly voice carrying so much threat that his teammate swallows the rest of his words. He then turns his attention to me and asks in Russian, “What’s in it for me?”
My jaw twitches. “You mean besides avoiding a trip to the hospital?”
He curls his upper lip. “You know perfectly well I could take you alone, if I wished.”
“If you wished on a genie lamp, maybe.”
He grunts—which for him probably passes for an amused chuckle. “How about we make a deal,” he says, switching to English.
I arch an eyebrow and ball my hand into a fist, just in case.
“A game between our teams,” Misha says. “Not as part of the league bullshit. Just for us.”
Hmm. “Exhibition game?”
He nods.
“Fine. My team could use the practice.” Not that we’re going to gain much of that by playing this sorry bunch of Florida Men. Wrestling gators doesn’t help you navigate the puck across the ice, nor does punching sharks.
“Move aside,” Misha says to his teammates.
They get out of my way, and I sprint to where I saw Sophia.
Except when I get there, there’s no sign of her.
Maybe that wasn’t her? I search the terminal up and down, but she’s nowhere to be found.
Fuck.
On my phone, I pull up the last dispatch I got from Max and check when she’s supposed to be flying back to New York.
Okay. Unlike me, who chartered a flight, she is flying first class out of Orlando in two hours. That means I can still intercept her.
Heart hammering, I jump into a cab and bribe the driver to punch it. He does, and the next forty minutes are like a chase scene from Mission Impossible … until we hit traffic, that is.
Double fuck.
I tap the driver’s shoulder. “Can’t you do something?”
He shrugs. “This car doesn’t fly. Sorry.”
I’m so pissed I want to return to the port and beat up every single player on the Florida Bears team, starting with Misha. Alas, the traffic doesn’t let me go forward or backward, and we trudge through it with the speed of one of Sophia’s turtles. Or tortoises. Whichever.
Turns out, the cause of the traffic is something that could only happen in Orlando: an off-duty Mickey Mouse drove his beat-up Volkswagen beetle into a BMW.
The driver clears his throat. “I thought Disney employees are forbidden from taking costumes out of the park, let alone wearing them when off duty.”
“I guess someone is getting fired today,” I say with a sigh.
Once we pass that lovely scene, we get to the airport fast, for all that that’s worth. Still, just in case Sophia was late to her flight, I get out and scour the airport for her.
Nope. She’s not here.
Fucking fuck.
I take another cab to my private plane, and once I’m in the air, I entertain myself by playing out violent scenarios featuring every member of the Florida Bears, as well as dudes dressed as Mickey Mouse.
Upon landing, I decide that I can’t just go home.
Nope. I’m going over to Sophia’s mansion.
Hopping into the limo waiting for me, I inform the driver of the change in destination. As we battle yet another bout of traffic, I play out all sorts of conversations in my head. It’s not until we’re at her gates that I begin to have second thoughts about what I’m doing right now.
After all, her biggest gripe with me was that I was stalking her—and here I go again.
Then again, we have to talk and resolve this.
I can’t just let her go.
Wait a second.
Speaking of stalking, there’s a guy sitting on the ground just outside the view of Sophia’s intercom camera. Seeing him brings to mind the expression “cute as a button,” or put another way, he makes me feel disgust and rage.
Oh, and there’s something furtive about his position. Something shifty.
Teeth clenching, I exit the car.
The guy spots me, and some sort of recognition seems to spark in his weaselly eyes.
“Who are you?” I demand. “And what the fuck are you doing here?”
I don’t care if this isn’t my home that he’s loitering next to. It’s Sophia’s, so the fucker had better impress me with his answer.
“You’re the hockey player.” The guy jumps to his feet and extends his hand toward me. “I’m Rupert.”
I look at the proffered appendage as I would at a pile of blobfish vomit. “I will only ask one more time. What are you doing here?”
He backs up. “I’m here to visit Sophia.”
“Why?” If glares could castrate, mine would have him singing contralto.
He flaps his pale lashes, all innocent-like. “She didn’t mention me?”
“Why would she?”
Who the fuck is he? She never mentioned a brother, and she said she’s never had a serious relationship.
The dude juts out his chest, which makes him look like a pufferfish. “I’m the love of Sophia’s life.”
I freeze, and for the second time today, I wonder if I’m living a nightmare. Should I pinch myself? No. The sting from my knuckles when they smash into this asshole should suffice.
“You don’t believe me?” He pulls out his phone and taps at it. “Here. This is our engagement party.”
Feeling like it’s he who’s punched me, I can’t help but check out the image on his screen.
Fuck. There they are, smiling, standing way too close together, and fucking fuck! There’s a ring with a microscopic cubic zirconia on Sophia’s finger.
Not only was she in a serious relationship, but it was with this shit stain, and… they were engaged .
“There are more pics.” He swipes at the screen. “For example?—”
I snatch his phone and crush it with my fist until the screen cracks. “I’ll give you one second to run.” I punctuate my words by smashing the phone into the ground.
He stares at it in disbelief, then looks up at me. “What the fuck? That phone was?—”
With a satisfying thud, my right fist smashes into what passes for his jaw.
He flies up at least an inch off the ground, then crashes into a heap on the grass.
Shit.
Did I just murder Sophia’s ex?
Assuming this is an ex. Maybe they’re currently dating, and what happened on the cruise was?—
The fucker moans, so I guess he’s alive.
“Are you ready to run now?” I growl.
Legs trembling, he gets to his feet and starts to wobble away, silently—proving he’s not as suicidal as he seemed at first.
When I can’t see him anymore, I turn around—and come face to face with Sophia.