Chapter Four
MASON
Getting recognized in an airport is hell.
The literal worst thing that can happen, in my opinion. I realize that I am a hockey celebrity, and getting spotted by fans is a common occurrence—but in airports, you’re trapped.
There’s nowhere to run to. There’s nowhere to hide.
I’d once made the mistake of running into a men’s bathroom, thinking that if I stayed in there long enough, the fans would lose interest.
Oh, how wrong I was.
Social media blew up that day, talking about how long I was in there and that I should get my colon checked. Not my finest moment.
Today, my luck doesn’t seem to be holding up either. There’s a special kind of hell reserved for public attention at 7:00 a.m. when you’re undercaffeinated and overstimulated.
A swarm of bright phone screens, lip-glossed smiles, and unsolicited touching happens as I make my way through security and to my gate.
Two women who have been speed walking directly behind me, taking pictures of me but not asking for one with me, gossip at a regular talking volume. My skin crawls at their chosen topic.
“That’s him, right? The Golden Boy?”
“He totally looks like a boy next door. One I want to do unspeakable things to.”
“I heard he broke up with Jess—the model with the yoga line?”
“She broke up with him, I think.”
“Wait. Didn’t he, like, hook up with someone last night? I think I saw a picture on my—”
I duck into my gate and practically shove my boarding pass at the attendant. I need to get away fast.
When I started my career in the NHL, the nickname of Golden Boy didn’t bother me. Mostly because the nickname was about my looks. I’d had shoulder-length, long, blond hair and a golden tan that had me looking like a surfer rather than a hockey player.
Yet as the years passed, the name evolved into something I didn’t like. My hair is much shorter now, and I learned more about sun protection as my career developed.
People heard “Golden Boy” and assumed I didn’t mess up. That I was always polished and good, the clean-cut poster child for the league. But I’ve made mistakes—on the ice and off it. I’m not perfect—don’t claim to be. Yet no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the image I’ve been dubbed with.
For one brief second last night, I’d had a taste of what it felt like to be just a random guy to a woman in need. When Victoria came down from her panic attack, she’d had no idea who I was. Her eyes ate me up, but there was no familiarity in them.
I was a stranger.
I’d loved it.
I was going to hold on to that feeling as long as I could—because if I thought about the photo that was shared with me this morning by my agent…
Yeah, I’ve seen the photo.
Saw it the second my manager, Brent, texted me at four thirty this morning.
brENT: This is gonna be a problem. Do you even KNOW who that is?
I hadn’t. I know now.
Not her full story, not yet. But enough to know she’s not just “some beautiful woman who needed help.” Enough to recognize the pain behind her panic and the weight she carried in her silence.
Her name’s Victoria. She told me people call her Tori.
What she didn’t share was that her full name was Victoria Westwyld, former lead singer of rock group Stolen Sundays turned country music superstar.
That information was shocking, but nothing that I couldn’t get past. What really bugged me was how the tabloids treated her. Her face was splashed across gossip sites with phrases like “hot mess starlet” and “PR nightmare.”
Even before I could calm Brent down and let him know what actually happened, he messaged again, reminding me that my contract with RocketRed Athletic Shoes has a strict morals clause tied to my clean image.
It annoyed me what he was implying. That even me being in Victoria’s presence could damage my reputation. I bet money that if Brent could, he’d put me in a plastic bubble to preserve his perfect client who brought in the most money to his agency.
God, I’m really in a mood.
I need to get to my seat, order the largest sparkling water they have, and then sleep. Once I’m rested and back to thinking normally, I’ll figure out what—
No way.
I stop dead in the middle of the aisle, not believing what I’m seeing.
When someone clears their throat to get me moving again, I slip into the seat across from her and just stare at her.
Victoria is on my flight.
Something about her got under my skin last night, and with her only a couple of feet away from me, I can feel that something again. The way she looked at me. The way she trusted me without hesitation when everything else in her world seemed to be crumbling. It made me feel needed.
As if sensing my stare, she slowly blinks her eyes open.
“Morning, seatmate,” I say, twisting my body toward her at a more comfortable angle.
Her body stiffens at the sound of my voice. Slowly, she turns her head. Like she’s hoping I’ll vanish before she confirms what she already knows.
“Of course,” she mutters, her voice dry. “As if the universe hasn’t tested me enough.”
“You sound thrilled,” I say, buckling in.
“I’m still deciding,” she replies, facing forward again.
A beat of silence passes. And it simmers—thick with last night’s memory, this morning’s headlines, and a thousand other things we’re not saying. The cabin doors close as the flight attendants begin to give their overly practiced safety performance.
I don’t look at her. Not yet. But I feel her. Every quiet breath. Every restless shift.
Eventually, once the plane levels out after takeoff, she speaks. “Did you see the photo?”
I nod. “Yup.”
“You know who I am now?”
“Sure do. And you know who I am, right?”
“Regrettably, yes.” I know she’s trying to get a reaction out of me, but it won’t work. I think the attitude she’s throwing my way is adorable. “And?” she finally presses.
“And you didn’t look terrible.”
She lets out a huff that’s half laughter, half aggravation. “You’re not supposed to say I didn’t look terrible. You’re supposed to say you looked great.”
“Confidence isn’t one of my weaknesses,” I say. “Neither is honesty.”
That earns me a sideways glance. Not warm. Not cold either. Just…watching.
Flight attendants come around with trays of pre-takeoff champagne. Victoria waves the offer away with a polite smile. I do the same.
“Can I get a coffee?” she asks, then hesitates. “And an orange juice?” The flight attendant nods, then looks over at me.
“A sparkling water, please. In the biggest glass you have.” Again, she nods and continues forward to the other first-class passengers.
Victoria is staring at me. I lift an eyebrow, and this time, she does smile—just a tiny one, but it’s there. “You’re annoying early in the morning.”
I shrug, giving her a wide smile before focusing on the tiny screen in front of me.
Our drinks come, and we sit in comfortable silence.
Taking small sips of her hot coffee, Victoria closes her eyes.
A hum of contentment comes from her side of the aisle.
I’m not watching her anymore, but I can’t help but be aware of her.
After a while, she leans her head back against the seat. Her mouth tips slightly open as she exhales, her hands resting loosely on her lap.
She doesn’t speak again.
I notice the gentle rise and fall of her chest, slow and steady, and I know the moment she tips into sleep. Her body relaxes in that quiet way people do when they’re finally safe enough to let go. Or exhausted enough.
I’ll watch over you, I find myself promising to her.
A weird warmth builds in my chest. Protective. Fierce. Not what I expected to feel toward a woman I just met and am now being told could “ruin my reputation.”
Screw that. There’s no way this woman is the train wreck the media made her out to be.
She’s complicated, sure. But I’ve been stuck in a media-perfect relationship before, smiling for sponsorship deals and pretending I liked kombucha. It nearly killed me.
Victoria might be a storm. But she’s real.
And right now? Real sounds like a relief.
I glance over at her again—at the way her lashes rest against her cheeks, the slight curve of her lips. She’s not the girl the tabloids make her out to be.
As the plane levels out, I randomly pick a movie from the offered entertainment. The rom-com I blindly chose turns out to be a good time waster. It’s about two coworkers who hate each other but decide to fake date for the sake of their careers.
The idea hits me, formulating in the back of my mind. Something reckless, yet strategic.
Crazy.
Something that could save both of us.
***
When the captain announces our descent into Toronto, Victoria’s still out cold.
Her head’s tilted slightly toward me, lips parted, with one hand tucked under her chin. Even asleep with a bit of drool in the corner of her mouth, she’s gorgeous.
I hate to wake her, but I don’t want her to feel disoriented in the rush to disembark the plane. My hand is outstretched, about to gently nudge her, when the plane jolts from turbulence.
She stirs with a small groan, her lashes fluttering open. It takes her a moment to understand where she is. Then she sits up straighter, brushing her hair behind her ears, and blinks at the cabin around us.
“Morning, again,” I murmur.
She groans. “Is it still morning?” Rubbing her eyes, she gently rubs at the rest of her face, pausing when she gets to her lips. “Was I drooling?” she asks in a lower tone.
“No. But you did make a weird snoring-chuff sound when we hit turbulence.”
She turns to look at me, horrified. I hold her gaze for a beat, then crack a grin.
“You’re lying,” she accuses.
“Maybe.”
She mutters something under her breath and shakes her head. I pass her a napkin.
“Thanks,” she says, taking it and dabbing under her eyes. “I can’t believe I actually slept.”
“You needed it.”
She pauses, then nods. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
We taxi toward the gate, and people begin standing too early, as usual, jostling for overhead bins like the plane might take off again if they’re not the first out.