Twenty-three #2
We filled the bathroom with steam. I followed through on my word and added something extra, even though it wouldn’t last on his skin: a dark bruise over the twin marks on his neck where I had bitten him.
Werewolves healed quickly, and yet that scar had remained.
I loved that my mark was on him. I loved that I could kiss it.
Since that bite, getting near his neck hadn’t made me crazy again.
Some chemical misalignment had fallen into place.
I could kiss along his vein. I could wrap my fingers around his throat and feel his pulse. My fangs stayed put.
And Mason was beautifully sensitive on his neck.
I loved brushing my teeth next to him in the mirror.
I loved curling up in a bed that fit us both.
Mason showed me how to detangle his wet hair and lay on my stomach, practically purring, while I combed through it.
We spoke in hushed tones not because we had to but because we were allowed to.
We looked at each other with the lights out.
We fought over who got to be the big spoon (I lost), and I loved how it made no difference, because the moment he fell asleep, Mason sprawled out like a starfish.
I tucked myself against his side and loved him quietly.
***
Mason was gone when I woke up. In a moment of weakness, I considered sending him a dirty picture for good luck. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror turning this way and that for maybe thirty seconds before I decided sexting wasn’t for me.
Go get ’em, Tiger x
10:06 a.m.
The day was unusually sunny. I arrived at the stadium after 1 p.m., wearing a horrid black-and-orange baseball cap embroidered with Carrington’s boxing giant otter. Mason had bought it from our school’s sad little gift shop for this exact situation.
Tensions were high all around the stadium.
Just walking through the parking lot, I passed disheartened players from the team that had lost the morning game and the riotously happy families of the team that had won.
I took the lowest available spot on our side of the bleachers, six rows from the field.
It meant sitting between a sweaty man who didn’t understand personal space and two middle schoolers throwing popcorn at each other, but at least I could see well.
And boy, did I look. The teams were warming up on the field.
I had never in my life found anything about football uniforms even remotely attractive until I’d seen Mason in one.
No one had ever worn it like he did. The pants were just so tight.
And the shoulder pads—no, those were still ugly.
But the way they exaggerated the taper of his waist? Sacred.
The man next to me let out another rib-rattling cough, so close I would feel the gust of it if I were wearing shorts.
“That’s disgusting,” I said.
Looking startled, the man scooted over. I shot the kids a scalding look and wasn’t hit with a single stray kernel from that point on. The game began.
In the months since I’d last watched Mason play, I hadn’t prepared myself for how different it would be without the layer of denial clouding my vision. He’d always been impossible to look away from, but now I wasn’t even trying.
It was nothing like the last game I’d attended.
It was a battle. The crowd roared around me, each side trying to swallow the other whole.
The cheerleaders never seemed to stop moving.
I sat at the edge of my seat, watching beneath dark sunglasses as the scoreboard ping-ponged back and forth.
Sometimes the field was just a blur of orange and black and purple and white.
I almost wished I had done some actual research about the rules of the game.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Lost as I was, I could always find the number 23.
Every time Mason bolted down the field, I saw it again, a tiger bursting from a cage.
His confidence when he moved was terrifying, but the way he restrained himself, holding back the strength I could feel beneath my hands whenever I touched him—that was beautiful.
I was pretty sure I didn’t breathe for the entire game. Literally.
It was halftime when I saw her. Cella. She stood at the base of the stairs on the other end of the bleachers, distracted by the cheer team’s big routine. She cheered so hard for Lara she nearly dropped her pretzel.
If things were different, we would be sitting next to each other in the stands. We would have driven together and shared a room, and she would be here to cheer on both Lara and Mason. I watched her as long as she stood there, glad she hadn’t seen me. Her smile was huge.
We were barely leading going into the second half, but Dalton quickly closed the gap, taking a small lead that they defended with their lives.
In the game’s final minutes, the play turned desperate.
Mason was halfway up the field, less than a minute left, when a linebacker twice his size brought him down with a nasty grab to the front of his helmet.
The referee called the foul, and the kids next to me roared, shaking their third bag of popcorn, thrilled about the yards Carrington would gain.
I wanted to upend the bag over their heads. Mason still hadn’t gotten up.
For a moment there, I had almost convinced myself that he was invincible. Even from the stands, I could smell that he was bleeding. I gripped the edge of the seat, fighting a violent, red-tinted instinct. It felt animal.
When he stood, the applause shook the stands. I got to my feet and shouted with them.
We were trailing by three points. Blake sent the ball forty yards down the field. The coughing man screamed in outrage as it soared onto Dalton’s side, and he dropped heavily onto his seat like he had given up on the game.
Mason tore down the field, a nightmare on two legs. He caught the pass and ran like hell—like something from hell. Nobody could touch him long enough to slow him down. I screamed when he crossed into the end zone.
The referee blew his whistle, arms crossed over his head, and everything just sort of exploded.
Mason disappeared from view as his teammates dogpiled him to the turf.
The cheerleaders shot up like fireworks.
The noise from the stands was deafening, strangers jostling each other around as they celebrated.
It was exactly the sort of thing I hated, except right then I was kind of obsessed with it because they were cheering for Mason.
And a few others, I guess. But. Mason.
My boyfriend had done that. I laughed, unbidden, as he and Blake were hoisted onto their teammates’ shoulders.
Mason threw off his helmet, shaking out his sweat-soaked hair, which was way too gross to be so attractive.
He was bleeding from a cut on his eyebrow and grinning like a madman.
He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt because he was that kind of asshole, swimming in the attention.
Mason’s eyes scanned the bleachers. He was looking for me, but there was too much commotion as people of all ages ran to the field to congratulate the players they had come to support. Some parents and girlfriends had signs. Everyone was celebrated by someone.
I pushed my way to the stairs to stand at the bottom row of bleachers where he could see me. If he wanted me to stroke his ego, I figured he’d earned it.
Mason’s smile grew impossibly wider. He tapped the shoulders of the guy carrying him and was walking toward me the second his feet touched the ground.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Good game, I guess.”
Mason grabbed the back of my neck and hauled me into him.
My eyes flew open, then squeezed shut. It was messy.
I nearly lost my balance with how far he had to yank me down.
My hat was knocked askew when I grabbed his face, pressing into him as much as the railing between us allowed.
Mason reached up and took it off of my head.
The flavor of him then, of sweat and his own blood, was unforgettable.
I couldn’t resist taking a good taste. I was going to dream about it probably forever.
Mason pulled away. It was a good thing he did. I wasn’t sure I could, and it was going to get obscene.
“I thought you wanted strobe lights,” I said, stunned.
Mason shrugged. “Got live music and dancers, though.”
“And fireworks.”
His brow furrowed before it dawned on him. “Holy shit. You said something corny. Are you feeling okay?”
“A little lightheaded. Those pants . . .” I said. I touched the bloody side of his face. “Are you?”
“This is nothing,” he said. “Was I cool out there or what?”
I indulged him. “So cool. The scouts are going to line up at your door.”
Mason looked over his shoulder. A few of his teammates were cheering so loudly you’d think they had just watched their own game.
After a beat, I realized they were cheering for Mason.
A few gaped in authentic human shock, and the rest were too occupied with their own families to pay any mind.
Blake cupped his hands around his mouth and howled like a wolf.
“How supportive,” I said. Mason howled right back. It was mortifying. I loved him.
“I should probably . . .”
“Go,” I said, leaning down to kiss him briefly, just because I could now.
Mason jogged back to his team. A few people in the stands near me were blatantly staring. I tried to smother my smile—I had an image to protect.
***
On the way back to my car, an unpleasant static scratched around my head. It prickled at my skin. So much time had passed I didn’t recognize it right away. My steps faltered. I checked over my shoulder and found a girl with long beaded cornrows and saddle-brown skin already looking at me.
“I knew it!” she said, loud enough to be heard across rows of the parking lot. To my horror, Mason’s sister stalked right up to me. To my even greater horror, she shouted, “Mom!”
I wasn’t proud of it, but my first thought was to bolt. My car wasn’t far, and I was pretty sure I could outrun a werewolf.