Chapter Eleven
MASON
The puck slips right by my stick, not even grazing the tape.
Again.
“Come on, Warren,” Coach Taylor barks from behind the glass. “You got more holes in you than cheese this morning. Get it together.”
A couple of the guys chuckle, but I just shake my head and skate over to the boards, needing a water break and a mental rest. Shit, I’m totally off my game today.
Every time I blink, I see her.
Every time my phone vibrates, I think of her.
Hell, every time I take a deep breath in, I swear I can smell her coconut-and-coffee shower oil. It’s driving me crazy.
It also doesn’t help that during the off-hours of training camp, all I do is relive moments over the last month that I’ve spent with her.
The most vivid in my mind is the image of Victoria, wearing my jersey like it was made for her, cuddled up close to me as we watched a serial killer documentary the last night I was at home.
For the first time in my life, hockey is my second thought.
Victoria is the first and last thing I think about each day. Not my footwork, or what I could have done better, or what I need to drill the next day—her.
And let me tell you, distance does not make the heart grow fonder. It makes my willpower and focus dwindle to nothing.
I’m a mess. I thought I was made of stronger stuff than this.
Max skates up beside me, reaching for his water bottle. Panting, he asks, “You good?”
“Yeah. Just tired,” I lie, dragging a towel over my face.
“Bullshit,” he says with a low voice, making sure our swearing-intolerant coach doesn’t hear.
“I’ve seen you at a 5:00 a.m. practice after getting off an international flight jet-lagged, and you still played better than what you’re doing today.
Tired, my ass. What’s really happening?” He nudges my shoulder.
“You want to talk about it, or should I start placing bets on how long before you sneak off to FaceTime her?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.
Max whistles low. “Wow. So it must be love.”
I glance over. “It’s not love,” I protest a bit too briskly. Max eyes me, tilting his head with a smug smile on his stupid face. “It’s not. It’s too soon.” I look back over the rink, not wanting to see my friend’s reaction anymore.
“But it is.”
It hangs there between us.
I don’t answer. Staying true to my word, I hadn’t told anybody about the pact I made with Victoria. As much as I want to confide in Max my feelings, I can’t without giving away the whole story.
“It’s complicated” is all I get out.
“Look, man, I’m not the best person to be giving advice, but take it from someone who almost lost the love of his life because he thought pretending was the best path to the ending I wanted.
Stop pretending you’re chill, and start showing her you’re crazy.
” He puts his glove back on and knocks my helmet.
“You like her, and I could tell when I met her that she likes you too. So do whatever you need to do to keep that woman by your side.”
Max begins to skate away but twists back to me a second later. “Don’t fuck it up.”
“Dawson! Jar!” Coach Taylor yells from the other side of the rink.
“How the hell did he hear that?” Max cries, tapping his stick on the ice.
Throwing the towel I was using back over the bench, I clench my jaw. Start showing her my crazy, huh. Yeah, I could do that.
One slow, long kiss at a time.
With a bit more hope thumping in my chest, I push off and join the defensive drills again, finally feeling more like myself.
***
Back at the hotel later that night, I make a half-assed attempt to join the team in the lounge. There’s a poker game happening at one end, mostly rookies trying to make an off-ice impression, and what looks like a video game competition at the other.
I last ten minutes before ducking out, exhaustion and anticipation getting the best of me.
I’m dying to text Victoria and start testing the water.
My phone’s already in my hand by the time I get back to my room. Jumping onto my bed, I pile up all the pillows I have behind me and settle in for what I hope will be an enlightening chat.
Opening her contact, I scroll up and reread our last interactions.
Basic stuff. Telling her I arrived, and I’ll see her in three weeks.
Her asking if she can come up to my condo to watch a Titanic documentary since I have the bigger TV.
Simple things, but all communications that hint at us being open and very comfortable with each other.
When I notice that my hands are literally shaking, I decide I need a bit of a breather before I come up with the perfect text.
So, like an idiot, I open my social media.
Horrible idea. My feed is immediately flooded with sports predictions for the upcoming season that have a pit growing in my stomach, videos of stupid dances…and my ex-girlfriend. Shit. I thought I unfollowed her when we broke up.
Quickly tapping into her profile, I unfollow, then get the hell out of there. I’m careful and precise with my movements, not wanting to accidently like or click into anything I don’t want to see.
Needing to cleanse my palate from all the flash content, I search and click into Victoria’s profile. It’s all soft colours and dreamy landscapes. I instantly feel better.
Best thing of all, she’s posted something in the last hour. A smile grows on my face as soon as I see her. She’s stunning.
Her bright blue eyes are shining up at the camera, red hair flowing wildly around her, and I can tell she’s seconds away from a belly laugh. Her guitar is in her hands, balanced on her lap, with a notebook not too far off. She must be in the studio working on something.
I zoom in on her face, screenshotting the picture so I have it with me always. I’m so thrilled she’s back in the studio, feeling creative again.
She’d mentioned to me the night before I headed out to training camp that she was experiencing writer’s block. The words and melodies that used to come to her so easily had been silent. And that scared her.
I understand that kind of fear. Even though our careers are vastly different, there are striking similarities at times.
If she couldn’t write, something that was part of her brand, then her career would likely suffer.
Same with me—if I hurt myself and didn’t recover fully, my career would suffer, and I’d be put out to pasture before I was ready.
So seeing her back in the studio, happy, is like a bolt of lightning to my system.
Back to hearing voices and sweet, sweet melodies.
Even the caption makes my smile grow.
My need to connect with her is overwhelming now. Tapping back into our text chain, I send the first thing that comes to mind.
MASON: Yay to hearing voices again! Studio time paid off…finally!
My heart is beating overtime as soon as I press Send. Eyes glued to the screen, I wait to see those three magical dots dance, letting me know she’s writing back.
But I wait.
And wait.
Fifteen minutes of me flipping through TV channels later, and still nothing from Victoria. A strange feeling starts to build in my gut. This isn’t like her.
She could still be writing and focused, her phone across the room or on silent…but even that doesn’t sit right with me. It’s almost ten. Her day at the studio should have ended hours ago. Or do artists really burn the midnight oil if their muse is still talking to them?
Crap. I’ll have to ask Victoria about that. Yet in the time that I’ve known her, she’s been pretty adamant about getting good sleep. It helps with her anxiety.
Another five minutes pass, and I’m really starting to worry. My thumb hovers over the Call button, but I don’t want to jump the gun. Am I letting my imagination get the better of me?
I’m just about to say “fuck it” and call her when her face appears on my screen. Holy shit. She’s calling me.
“Hey. Everything okay?” I ask, my voice brisk with worry.
“Well, hello to you too,” she laughs over the line. “Yes, everything is fine. Saw your text and figured it’d be easier to call you since I’m walking home.”
“You should have grabbed an Uber, Victoria. It’s too late to be walking alone.”
“I know, I know. I didn’t mean to be out so late, but I forgot my guitar, like an idiot, at the studio and had to turn back right as I got home. I’m speed walking, so I’m almost back.”
“Victoria,” I sigh, feeling both relief at hearing her voice and a pinch of nervousness that she’s out so late. I’m not her keeper; I just want her to be safe.
“Mason,” she mimics back. “I’m fine, really.”
“I know. I just hate that I’m not there walking with you.”
“That’s sweet. But you’re focusing on other, more important things at camp, right? You’re honing your skills and bonding or whatever.”
I chuckle at her wording. “Or whatever. Yeah, I guess I am. What about you? I saw that you’re writing again.”
“I am! Oh my God, Mason. It’s a miracle. The words just started coming to me last night, and I couldn’t stop. I had to practically beg to move up my studio time to today, but it worked!”
“That’s fucking awesome, honey. I’m so happy for you. I had no doubt that it would come back to you.”
Her voice is quiet as she replies. “Thank you. I had huge doubts, but something has felt different the last couple of days. Like my emotions and senses have been heightened, and I was finally able to capture everything.”
“Love that.” There’s a beat of silence as I gain my courage to say the next part. “I miss you. I wish I was with you tonight so we could celebrate.”
I don’t know what I was expecting her to say, but it’s not what she mutters next.
“I—what the—?”
Sirens start blasting through the phone, and the background noise drowns out Victoria’s voice.
“Victoria? Honey? Victoria, what’s happening?”
“I’m not sure,” she yells, “but there are fire trucks outside our building. Maybe there was a fire.” There’s more shuffling. “Excuse me? What’s happening?”
“Ma’am, please take a step back. We have a situation on the thirty-sixth floor.”
“I live on that floor. Please tell me what’s going on.”