Chapter Twelve Daphne （In Mason’s Body）
“ D aphne! What’s wrong?” Mason bursts into my room as my shriek tears through the early morning air.
“What is it doing ?!” I gesture to my crotch and the erected blanket pointing into the air. “Get rid of it!”
Mason falls back against my bedroom door as laughter begins bubbling out of him.
He bends over, holding his stomach as he continues to find my uncomfortable situation hilarious. “Oh my God.”
I cross my arms and stare at him until he finally settles down. “That is not helping. At. All.”
He waves his arms in front of him as he catches his breath. “I’m sorry. This is just …” He shrieks. “The best moment of my entire life.”
“Oh, is it ?” I snap snarkily, fighting the smile tugging at my lips. “Because it’s the worst moment of mine.”
Mason straightens up, giggles still bursting free, as he kicks one leg up behind him against the door. “It’ll go away. Just give it a few minutes. And, uhhh, don’t touch it.”
“Oh, thanks, genius, because my first thought was to stroke it!” I shout at him, thankful that Maeve is at Jackson’s so she doesn’t witness or hear this entire thing.
“Were you having some good dreams or what?” He smirks, covering his mouth with his palm.
Come to think of it … yeah, I was.
Ones that I’m certainly not disclosing to him.
Where we were in our respective bodies and he fucked me on the porch swing out back under the stars. I mean, Jesus, the way he was devouring me was intoxicating .
Get it together.
I think it was more of a nightmare. I can’t help it how my body reacts to the thought of him. At least in my usual body, there aren’t signs that give away my every dirty thought.
“Nope. None,” I state a bit too enthusiastically.
“Whatever you say.” He smiles. “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes. Please don’t forget, I— you —have that scrimmage today. And we’re going to need to prepare.”
“Mason,” I exhale, nerves already beginning to eat me alive at the thought.
“You can do it. We’ll go to the rink early, and I can show you what you need to know. My body and— fingers crossed —my muscle memory will do the rest,” he says with confidence, as if either of us can even begin to understand what’s happening, let alone try to predict anything.
“ Please .” His eyes soften, and my heart melts at his tone.
Grabbing a pillow and squishing it against my face, I groan, “Fiiiine.”
“You’re the best!” He opens the door as I remove the pillow. “Be ready in, like, thirty minutes. I’ll make us breakfast.”
“Add extra gluten to mine, please!” I shout as he walks into the hallway.
“Just for you, Sunset,” he calls back, and I hate the way I swoon at the use of the nickname.
Something twitches beneath the blanket, and a bolt of pleasure shoots through my body.
Oh God, I’m not even allowed to think about him in that way without my body betraying me and reacting so noticeably.
No more thinking about Mason. Or how hot he is. Or how sweet he is.
It twitches again.
Oh God, I need to stop.
Mason whips up a big, fluffy omelet, hash browns, and a side of bacon.
I can’t believe how much food his body has to consume every day to feel satiated.
Ugh, I wish I could eat that much and not worry about the consequences. But for however long we’re trapped here, I’ll enjoy the bonus.
I devour my plate and go back for seconds of hash browns and bacon, happily eating my fill.
“Do you get full? I feel like I could eat for hours and never slow down,” I groan, shoveling the final bite into my mouth.
“Yes, of course I do.” He laughs. “But we aren’t trying to get full right now, or you’ll feel it on the ice later. Instead, we’re going for energy and using food as fuel this morning.”
“Ugh. Boring.” I stand up from the stool and walk away from the island toward the living room to stretch out for a moment. “How long is the scrimmage? How much talking will I need to do?”
Mason follows me and sits down in the recliner. “Well, luckily for you, I’m usually pretty reserved during game play, talking to myself, if anything. And this isn’t like an official scrimmage. It’s just a group of the guys getting together. No coaches or anything.”
“Oh, okay. Well, that makes me feel a little bit better if I don’t do as well as you usually would.” I pause, catching myself from being too genuine, still unsure if he’s earned seeing that side of me again. “Although there is still a chance that this will be the best anyone’s ever seen you play.”
“I would love to see that happen.” He smiles and leans forward. “You always were a natural on the ice. I remember how good you were with a stick in your hand.” His eyes darken, and my breath halts in my throat. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”
His confidence in my abilities does more for me than I was expecting, and I have to force my gaze away from him to stop from blushing.
It’s weird because even though he’s in my body and it’s my own voice that I’m hearing talk and flirt with me, my mind still finds a way to separate that and hear it as if his mouth were the one speaking.
“Well, come on. Let’s get going before the rink starts to fill up and people get the impression that I take goalie lessons from a figure skater,” he teases.
He makes his way out to his pickup, and I make a pit stop in the kitchen, swiping a doughnut from the box for good luck.
Pillowy, fluffy, fried doughnuts were my favorite thing before I got diagnosed, and I’m eating at least one or five a day while I can. I deserve it for having to put up with his unpre- dick -table body.
I walk out to his truck with a smile on my face as I bite into the frosted long john and slide into the passenger seat. “Mmm. So good.”
“Daphne,” he groans, pulling out of the driveway. “I know you’re enjoying yourself. But you have to stop shoveling doughnuts into my body like your life depends on it. It’s not used to that much sugar.”
I scoff. “What are you going to do, short stuff? You can’t stop me if you try. Want to go to air jail again?”
My nerves are eating me alive as I skate onto the ice in Mason’s full gear, heading toward the crease.
Thankfully, the gigantic mask gives me some sense of security and protection from the rest of the world.
“Holtyyy,” Ross sings as he skates behind me and slaps my ass with the blade of his stick. “Are you still crashing at your sister’s? We miss you.”
Be Mason. I am Mason. Mason.
“Do you miss me or my cooking?” I scoff and turn to him, skating backward toward my net.
He winces like I slapped him before his face falls flat. “Both. I miss both.”
I shake my head, forcing a laugh. “Sounds about right.”
Turning, I skate the last couple of feet and tuck my water bottle in the top of the net. Carefully, I scan the arena seating, looking for Mason.
He said that a few people usually wander in to watch. Students wanting to flirt with the players, faculty wanting a break from their classrooms or meetings, or players’ partners there to show support. Mason said he’d be up behind my net in the highest spot.
I inhale and exhale three times rapidly, rolling my head and shoulders back.
Mason told me to be sure to thank the posts so I crouch down and pretend to stretch so I can do that, whispering to the net. “Hello there. It’s nice to meet you all. I’m kind of new here, and I could really use your help today if you wouldn’t mind.”
After I’m done talking to the metal posts, I actually begin stretching, going through the specific ones Mason taught me a couple of hours ago.
He had me running drills nonstop, and honestly, it worked great.
Muscle memory helped me the most. When a puck came my way, I simply thought about blocking it, and it’s like my body did the rest. I felt like a superhuman.
It’s four-on-four hockey for this scrimmage, shortened ten-minute periods, three periods total. I can survive thirty minutes of this. Easy.
A thrum of excitement pulses through me. I’ve secretly always wondered what it was like for him on the ice. To be in gear with pucks flying ninety miles an hour toward you.
He’s always been such a natural at it, and I’ve always been good at teasing him about how easy it looks.
Time to find out if there’s any truth in that.
Assuming the position, I crouch down, readying my body for anything that could come my way.
His words echo in my mind. “Always be ready so you don’t have to get ready.”
The opposing team takes possession first, skating toward me and breaking into the zone. Ross passes it to his teammate, who dishes it back to Ross.
Ross pulls back to fire and?—
Holy shit .
It flies at me in the blink of an eye and ricochets off the post. I duck away from it and wince. Jesus, I could barely even see it. It was going way too fast!
I force a few breaths in and out to calm my heart as our team takes control.
Chet skates it up the middle, beating out their skater. Chet goes for a quick shot, but it ricochets and flies up and over the boards.
Thank God for a little break because I nearly shit myself a minute ago.
Turning to grab my water and taking a sip, I set it down and quietly talk to my savior. “Posty, you did it. Good job, buddy! Keep it up.”
Skates cutting across the ice grabs my attention, and I turn just in time to see two of my opponents flying toward me with no one in their way.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I mumble to myself as I brace to take a shot.
They pass the puck back and forth, closing the distance fast before one of them fires it toward me.
You got this. Just make one stop.
Lifting my blocker, I pray that it’s quick enough to beat the puck.
As if by magic or maybe just that exceptional muscle memory, the puck bounces off of me, rebounding wide enough that my teammate can grab it and take off back down the ice.
“Yes!” I scream, and a couple of the players look back at me curiously.
My stomach drops. Oh, Mason probably doesn’t audibly cheer after every save he makes. But this is a big deal to me. It’s not every day I get to do this.
Chet pulls back for a slapshot, and it flies straight into the back of the net. My team erupts with cheers.