Chapter Twenty-One
MASON
The smell of fresh tape, rubber, and sweat clings to the locker room air as I grab my stick and a fresh roll of tape. There’s the usual low hum of pre-game banter, but I’m not in it today. Haven’t been in it for three damn days.
That’s how long it’s been since I last saw Victoria.
Three days without her laugh. Her stubborn little grumbles. I’m even missing the scent of her shampoo on my pillow.
Three fucking days, and I’m unravelling.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, messing up the pattern of taping my stick.
“You good, man?” Max nudges me with a padded elbow, his skates clicking lightly against the tile as we wait for warm-ups to be called.
“I’m fine,” I mutter. “Just focused.”
“Sure,” he says, drawing the word out. “Because ‘focused’ totally looks like you’re thinking about someone who’s not here and strangling your stick like it insulted your mother.”
I bark a short laugh. Max always knows what to say. “I just miss her,” I confess.
He nods, sympathy carved into every line of his face. “Well, you did it to yourself, dummy.”
I misinterpret what he’s referring to. “I know. You never did like Jess, so that should have been a sign.”
“No, idiot. I meant you walking out on Victoria. You did that all on your own.”
I nod, not needing to vocalize my fuckup again.
“At least it’s all going to come out soon. Sabrina said Victoria’s article was incredible.”
I blink, confused by his words. “What?”
“You haven’t seen it?” Max is already pulling his phone from his locker. “Dropped this morning. Sab said it’s the most powerful interview she’s done in a long while.”
“What article?” I demand, heart already pounding.
Sidney pipes up from behind us, still fiddling with his pads. “You think Victoria would speak at the next Goals for Good event? The way she opened up…it’d mean a hell of a lot to people who deal with panic attacks and anxiety.”
“Wait—hold on. What the hell are you two talking about? Can someone please start talking sense?” My voice is low but urgent.
Max hands me his phone, already opened to the article.
Victoria Westwyld: Fighting Fire with Fire. Interview by Sabrina Sutton.
The first few lines hit me like a slap. I read the first paragraph once, then again, needing to slow down and absorb the words. I’m amazed and dumbfounded that she’s done this.
She explains everything—the good, the bad, and the ugly truths of being in the spotlight. I feel myself getting choked up when she explains why she’s sober and how the loss of her grandmother cut her so deeply that she stopped writing.
It’s when she goes into her struggles with anxiety that I clutch the phone tighter. I know how much courage that must have taken. It’s easier to explain away your exterior battles than share your internal ones.
And then…she mentions me.
“I’m sharing all this with you today because of an amazing man—Mason Warren.
When we first met, I was a mess. I was dealing with my grief, struggling with understanding my anxiety, and spiralling from not being able to write my emotions down on the page like I’m known for.
He’s been my rock through it all. None of this—none of what’s happened—is his fault.
He showed me I was worth protecting and loving.
He’s the best man I’ve ever known. And I love him. ”
The breath leaves my lungs in one wild rush.
“She did this?” I whisper.
Max grins. “She did.”
And just like that, something in me ignites.
Fuck gloom.
Fuck sulking.
I’ve got a game to win—and a woman to get back to.
***
Warm-ups are a blur. My body moves, instinct guiding every shot and pass, but my mind is a different beast entirely. I keep wondering: Is she here? Is she watching? Will she take me back or make me fight for forgiveness?
I’m vibrating with nervous energy by the time the arena lights dim and the announcer’s voice booms through the stands.
“We ask you now to rise for the national anthem, performed tonight by none other than country music’s sweetheart—Tori Westwyld.”
My heart leaps into my throat.
I turn sharply toward the tunnel.
And there she is.
Hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and my jersey once again draped across her body, she slowly makes her way onto the carpeted ice. With a microphone in one hand, she uses the other to wave as her smile shines bright.
The crowd erupts. Cheers roar through the arena. And me?
I’m off in a flash.
I don’t think. I just move.
Straight toward her.
I jump onto the carpet at the last second and run to her.
She stops mid-stride, eyes wide. My stick drops to the ground when I lift her off her feet like I’m afraid she might disappear.
Her good arm wraps tight around my neck, her mouth already finding mine.
I kiss her like a starving man—because that’s what I am.
I’ve missed her more than words will ever be able to describe.
She pulls back just enough to whisper, “I love you.”
And I whisper right back, “I love you too.”
Only…we both forgot one very important detail.
Her microphone is on. Our confessions echo around the arena.
Once again, the crowd loses it.
There’s whistling, clapping, even someone yelling, “Get a room!” from the opposing team’s bench. But all I see is her.
I gently lower her back down, brushing a hand down her side. “We’ll talk after the game, okay?”
She nods. “Win it for me.”
I smirk. “Always.”
As I skate back to the bench, my chest feels lighter than it has in days. The ache is gone. The storm has passed.
And she’s still mine.