Chapter Six
VICTORIA
By the time I reach the penthouse floor, I’ve wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans so many times I’m starting to wonder if denim can get water damage.
The hallway is quiet, which does nothing for my nerves. I swear I can hear my heartbeat echoing down the hall as soon as I step off the elevator.
Maybe I should have taken the stairs. That would have backed up my lie as to why I’m so sweaty and out of breath.
I smooth my tank top down over my hips, wishing I’d worn literally anything else. But I didn’t want to show up like this was a date. It’s not a date. It’s a business meeting with quinoa and emotional boundaries.
I raise my fist to knock just as the door swings open.
Mason stands there in sweatpants and a fitted tee, barefoot, looking entirely too relaxed for the conversation we’re about to have.
Damn, he looks good. I’m trying my best not to stare at the bulge of his sweatpants, but I know I’m failing.
He grins over at me. “We thought the same thing.”
“What? No. Wait. What are you talking about?” I stumble over my words. There’s no way he’s having the same dirty thoughts I am.
“About wearing comfort clothes.”
“Oh,” I breathe out, relief cascading through my whole body. “Yeah.”
“I love that you’re early too,” he says, smiling.
I look at my phone screen. “I’m on time. You said seven.”
He steps aside to let me in. “Ish. Sevenish.”
“Well, I like to be punctual. Ho-ly crap…” My voice trails off.
The condo is massive. Open-concept, glass walls, views of the lake and skyline. It’s decorated in that effortless masculine way: gray tones, dark wood, and one very large sectional that could fit half a hockey team.
“This is…” I glance around. “Big.”
“Yeah,” Mason says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I live here part-time with two of my teammates. It’s sort of a shared space during the season. But I’ve got it to myself until training starts up next month.”
“So…we’re alone?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His smile turns sly. “Unless you brought backup?”
I roll my eyes and toe off my shoes. “Didn’t realize I needed a chaperone.”
“You don’t,” he says, leading me toward the kitchen. “But if it helps, I made turkey burgers and sweet potato fries. Keeping with the comfort theme. Figured we could both use it after travelling.”
“You cooked?”
“I do that sometimes.” He shrugs. “Can’t live on protein bars and takeout alone. Well, I could, but then I’d probably get kicked off the Nighthawks for rolling around the ice. I’ll save that luxury for when I retire. Many, many years from now.” He knocks on the counter.
“Right,” I say, sliding into a bar stool as he plates the food. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”
He arches a brow. “Jealous already?”
“Not even close.”
“Can I get you a drink?”
“I don’t drink,” I say on autopilot.
“Like anything? Not even water?”
“Har-har, Mr. Funny. I just meant I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Is that for any particular reason?” he asks, hand on the fridge door. It’s on the tip of my tongue to lie to him and make a joke to distract from his question. A little voice in my head whispers that with Mason, I can be my authentic self.
“When I was in my early twenties, I was part of a rock group with my brother. Drinking was like breathing back then. But it comes to a point where the hangovers are never worth it, and I saw what booze was doing to the people I loved. So I just stopped drinking. I wasn’t an addict or anything, but I didn’t like who I was. ”
“It’s incredible that you were able to see that within yourself. Not many people would or could do that.”
I scrunch my lips up, giving him a small acknowledgment.
“I was going to grab a can of raspberry sparkling water. Does that sound good to you?”
“Perfect.” A zing goes through me at how easily he accepted that part of me. He didn’t question whether I was telling the truth or what the tabloids always made me out to be a drunk. Mason listed and accepted me on my word.
He rounds the island, sitting beside me and placing two cans on the marble. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the food was right in front of me. Apparently, a bag of tortilla chips and coffee as sustenance wasn’t enough.
I must make a sound when I bite into the turkey burger because I see Mason scrunch up his shoulders and laugh from the corner of my eye. I don’t care. This burger deserves my praise.
We eat in comfortable silence until most of my food is gone.
“So why were you in Barbados? Were you attending a wedding too?” I ask around my next bite of food.
“No, I was there with my family for the last week. We try to do family vacation once every couple of years.”
“That…sounds really nice. You must be close to them.”
“I am. My parents and youngest sister live in Calgary. Then I have a brother who’s also here in the city, but he flew back early due to a work emergency.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. He works in covert security with some ex-Marine friends, and I never really know what he’s doing. He’s okay. I think they needed his expertise on something.”
“That sounds like a wild job.” Popping a fry into my mouth, I twist on my stool to get a better look at him. “Right now, you’re in the off-season, right?” He nods around his last bite of burger. “So what do you do with your summers off?”
“We don’t really get the summers off—even though it is the off-season. I still have to train and watch what I consume. That kind of stuff. But I do have a little more time for fun.”
“Fun like what?”
“Travel, golf, concerts. I build in time to be a person and explore new hobbies. Not just a player.”
There’s something about the way he says it—a person, not just a player—that lands heavier than it should. Like maybe he knows what it feels like to constantly be on for the happiness of others.
Not wanting to really get into how many layers Mason has and how much we have in common, I finish the last bite of my burger and wipe my hands on a napkin.
“Okay,” I say, straightening. “I think it’s time to talk rules.”
Mason mirrors me, suddenly serious. “Hit me.”
With nothing to do this afternoon, I’d had plenty of time to think about some of the parameters I wanted to put in place.
I hold up a finger. “One: if we are to fake date, it must last for a reasonable amount of time to make it look real. Not like a hit-it-and-quit-it situation. That won’t help either of us.”
“I like it,” Mason replies, thinking my words over. “What were you thinking? Nine months? More?”
I literally jolt. Wow. That’s a long time.
“No,” I say a little too firmly. “I mean, I was thinking around six. That way, when news breaks of us splitting, you’re about to go into playoffs—at least, that’s what Google has told me—and I’ll probably have an album announcement around then too.
So the public will be focusing on those individual things instead of our relationship. Hopefully.”
“You had to google how long a hockey season lasts? Do you not watch hockey?”
“I know the bare minimum about hockey—but don’t get off track. Does that timeline make sense to you?”
Astonishment is all over his face at my lack of hockey knowledge, but he eventually shakes it off and nods. “Yeah, I think that’ll work if you do.”
“I’ll have had time to get my head on straight. Maybe figure out if I even want to make another album. See if my goddamn writing muse comes back to me.”
“You’ve not been able to write?” he asks, sounding genuinely upset. I shoot him a look. Throwing up his hands, he apologizes. “Sorry, getting off track. Alright. Rule one: we date for six months.” He bangs his fist against the island like he’s a judge with a gavel. It makes me laugh.
“For the next rule, I was, umm, thinking about…PDA.”
“Okay.” He draws out the word, encouraging me to continue, even though my face feels like it’s on fire.
“It’s not like we’ll be kissing kissing, but we do need to act like we’re a couple in public. That means…” I clear my throat, saliva having built up. “Hand holding, hugging. Maybe cheek kisses? Whatever we decide, PDA only happens when we’re actually in public. We don’t want to blur any lines.”
His smile twitches, and I swear I see the flicker of something very unhelpful in his eyes. Something curious that makes my breath catch for just a second too long.
“Umm, does that work?”
“Yes, it works. But we may need to revisit that a little later. Like when my roommates are back.”
“Oh.” I struggle for air. “Yeah, we can do a check-in when that happens.”
“Great.”
“That was really all I thought of. Do you have any?”
“Yes. I think one should be around communication. If one of us starts catching feelings—” He pauses, looking deep into my eyes. “—then we need to communicate that to the other.”
“What do you mean—”
“Oh, sorry!” he laughs. “I meant, if we catch feelings for someone else. It’s better we talk about it and come up with a plan to call this off early rather than cheat. Because that defeats the purpose of this plan.”
The full-body flush I was experiencing at thinking this man was plotting an actual romance with me fizzles out. With the way he was looking at me and how he phrased that, I truly thought…well, it doesn’t matter.
“Love it,” I lie. “Rule three: communication is key. Those, I think, will do nicely until we can test this,” I wave my hand back and forth between Mason and myself, “out in the real world.”
He nods.
I extend my hand across the counter. “Deal?”
He clasps it. His palm is warm. Strong. Too strong. The kind of touch that makes my stomach dip in dangerous directions.
We shake once. Firm. No games.
But as his thumb brushes against mine before he lets go, I realize something terrible.
“Deal,” he says back.
Why does it feel like, even with these rules in place, I’m going to be tested?