Chapter Eleven
JACK
Three weeks passed quickly at Evergreen.
The uncertainty surrounding my developing relationship with Mason disappeared beneath an endless cycle of classes, conditioning sessions, practices, video analysis, and four demanding preseason games that allowed Dad to experiment with each line combination he wanted before the standings began to matter.
Evergreen finished the exhibition schedule with three victories from four outings, the only defeat coming in overtime after Dad deliberately reduced the ice time of several veterans to evaluate younger players in pressure situations.
Nobody placed much importance on preseason records because they disappeared as soon as conference play opened, yet there was an unmistakable confidence growing throughout the program.
Each practice refined the team's execution, exhibitions strengthened the chemistry developing throughout the lineup, and with every passing day it became increasingly obvious why Dad believed Mason had been the final piece we needed to mount another championship campaign.
Opening night finally arrived.
Like all home games, my day began long before anyone else reached the arena. I arrived before sunrise to inspect the refrigeration plant, check humidity levels, examine each section of the ice beneath full lighting, and complete the first resurfacing before most of campus had even begun stirring.
Classes occupied the middle of the day, but every break between lectures brought me back to the arena for another inspection.
Even having years of experience, I'd never been tempted to cut corners.
Ice conditions could change with something as simple as a shift in temperature or humidity, and I trusted routine far more than assumptions.
By late afternoon I completed the final resurfacing, the conditioner shaving away the last skate marks before laying down a flawless sheet of hot water that reflected the overhead lights like polished glass.
No matter how many times I performed the job, seeing a perfect surface waiting for the players remained deeply satisfying.
When I guided the Zamboni through the resurfacer gate and climbed down to complete the maintenance log, the building around me had already begun changing.
Equipment staff moved purposefully through the corridors preparing for warmups, television crews checked camera positions along the glass, and arena employees completed the last of their pregame inspections.
By the time I locked the garage and stepped onto the concourse, students were already streaming through the entrances carrying homemade signs, jerseys, and enough excitement to make opening night feel more like a playoff game than the first contest of the season.
The regular season would open at home against the Portland Northern Wolves, a team whose reputation had been built on punishing physical hockey rather than dazzling offense.
They didn't rely on speed or spectacular skill.
They wore opponents down with relentless forechecking, disciplined defensive structure, and punishing physical play that tested both patience and resolve.
Dad had reminded the team throughout the week that the opening twenty minutes would shape the entire game.
If Evergreen stayed disciplined and resisted the temptation to answer every hit with one of their own, speed and puck movement would eventually take control.
If emotions dictated the team's decisions, they'd spend the night playing the kind of game Portland wanted.
The atmosphere inside the arena had changed noticeably.
Excitement pulsed throughout the building, yet beneath the music, conversations, and growing roar of the crowd lay a tension shared by everyone connected to the program.
Exhibition hockey belonged to the past. From the instant the puck dropped, every point earned or surrendered would become part of the journey toward another Frozen Four.
Ordinarily, the time before warmups settled my thoughts. Tonight they accomplished exactly the opposite.
During the previous three weeks Mason had stopped feeling like someone I happened to be dating and had become the person I instinctively looked for whenever I entered a room.
We rarely planned to spend all our free time together, yet that was exactly what kept happening.
Breakfast before classes if our schedules aligned, quick lunches between lectures, evenings studying together, late-night walks across campus whenever neither of us felt like returning to our rooms, and the comfort of falling asleep beside someone who never treated my inability to speak as something requiring patience or accommodation.
Around Mason I never felt defined by what I couldn't do.
That should have erased the insecurity I'd carried for years. Instead, it highlighted how much I stood to lose.
Mason never complained about waiting while I typed replies. He never finished my sentences or spoke over me. He adapted so naturally to my way of communicating that I occasionally caught myself forgetting how unusual it appeared to everyone else.
Even so, an unwelcome voice kept reminding me how easily circumstances could change.
Hockey would become more demanding as conference play intensified.
NHL scouts would begin appearing regularly now he was in his third year.
Media attention would increase if Evergreen lived up to expectations.
Mason's future stretched toward professional hockey with remarkable clarity, and despite what he'd said, part of me still wondered whether one day he would decide I complicated that future more than I belonged in it.
The fear wasn't born from anything Mason had done. It came from years of convincing myself that eventually people would decide I required more effort than they wanted to give.
Recognizing how unfair to Mason that thought was didn't make it disappear. Neither did the second concern occupying my mind.
Corey still hadn't called.
During the past three weeks I'd caught Mason glancing at his phone when it vibrated, never making a point of it, never allowing disappointment to show for more than a heartbeat before slipping the device back into his pocket and turning his attention to whatever we happened to be doing.
He continued to insist Corey needed time, and perhaps he did.
Learning someone you'd considered a brother had hidden such an important part of himself for years couldn't have been easy to process.
Even so, I hated watching hope slowly surrender to uncertainty.
Mason deserved better than silence from someone he'd trusted almost his entire life, and although I couldn't change Corey's reaction, I found myself wishing I could spare Mason from wondering whether his unanswered messages and calls marked another step toward losing a friendship he'd treasured since childhood.
Familiar greetings echoed along the corridor, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter as teammates arrived and settled naturally into the routine that accompanied game day.
Ryan was the first to spot me standing outside the resurfacer garage and he lifted his hand in greeting before disappearing into the locker room.
Oscar followed a short time later already discussing rebound control with Assistant Coach Viktor Sokolov as though the game had begun hours earlier.
One by one the rest of the roster filtered past until the corridor gradually filled with the comfortable energy that always surrounded a team preparing to compete.
Mason appeared near the back of the group carrying his stick in one hand, his suit jacket folded over his opposite arm after deciding the September evening remained too warm for unnecessary layers.
When he saw me his expression changed in the same effortless way it always did, as though the noise surrounding him faded into the background the instant our gaze met.
He crossed the remaining distance without the slightest hesitation, stopping close enough that only the steady flow of players moving around us prevented either of us from forgetting where we were.
"There you are."
I lifted my phone.
Where else would I be?
"I know. Habit."
I slipped the phone into my pocket before reaching down to straighten the collar of his shirt where it had folded beneath the strap of his bag. The movement took only a second, yet it carried an intimacy neither of us considered unusual anymore.
Three weeks earlier I would have worried someone might notice.
Now the concern barely crossed my mind. We'd told Dad and we'd told Mason's family but around the arena we remained careful.
Neither of us wanted our relationship becoming a distraction for the team, but I no longer felt compelled to behave as though he meant nothing more to me than the other players walking through the same doorway.
"You looked like you were thinking too much."
What gave me away?
"You get this little crease between your eyebrows."
I raised one finger to the spot in question.
You notice everything.
"I notice you."
The simple reply settled deep inside me.
"I've been worried about Corey," he admitted. "I keep hoping he'll call when he's ready, but every day that goes by makes me wonder if he isn't going to call at all."
I rested my hand lightly against his forearm until he looked at me.
You've given him time to understand. The next step belongs to him.
"I know."
He exhaled through his nose and glanced toward the locker room entrance where the rest of the team had already disappeared.
"I just miss my best friend."
There wasn't a message I could type capable of fixing that. Instead, I squeezed his hand once before letting go. He understood exactly what I meant.