CHAPTER 5 Crossing the Line
I did not go to Portland because Mason asked me to.
That was the lie I told myself for most of Saturday afternoon.
I went because I needed a break from Seattle.
Because I hadn’t had a free weekend in months.
Because Portland was only a few hours away and I happened to know a gallery showing the work of a photographer I admired.
Because sometimes people drove to another city for absolutely normal reasons that had nothing to do with a six-foot-three hockey player who had kissed them against a car four nights earlier.
By six thirty, I was standing outside Portland’s arena wearing a black coat, dark jeans, and enough guilt to qualify as luggage.
My phone buzzed.
Claire.
**Please tell me you actually went.**
I stared at the message.
**Went where?**
Her response was immediate.
**Coward.**
I locked my phone.
Technically, Claire was the only person who knew.
Technically, that made this worse.
The ticket Mason had sent me was digital and anonymous. No player family section. No obvious connection to him. Just a very good seat eight rows from the ice on the opposite side of the arena from Portland’s bench.
Calculated.
Discreet.
Dangerously thoughtful.
I entered with the crowd and immediately felt like I had crossed into enemy territory.
Portland colors surrounded me.
Black.
Silver.
Red.
Fans wore number seventeen everywhere.
COLE.
His surname stretched across shoulders in every direction.
I had seen Mason’s popularity online.
I had watched arenas boo him in Seattle.
But this was different.
Here, people loved him.
Children wore his jersey.
Adults argued about his shooting percentage.
A teenage girl beside me carried a sign that read MASON, MARRY MY MOM.
I almost laughed.
Then I caught myself.
Why did that bother me even slightly?
I found my seat and took off my coat.
No Seattle jersey tonight.
No Bennett name across my back.
Just me.
That felt more intimate than it should have.
Warm-ups began.
Portland came onto the ice.
My eyes found Mason immediately.
Again.
I needed to stop doing that.
He skated two laps before looking toward my section.
There was no reason he should find me so quickly.
Yet he did.
He slowed.
Just slightly.
Then his expression changed.
Not a grin.
Not the smug look he gave me in Seattle.
Something softer.
Almost surprised.
Like some part of him had believed I wouldn’t come.
I lifted one shoulder.
Here I am.
Mason stared for another second.
Then one of his teammates bumped into him deliberately.
Mason shoved him away.
The teammate laughed.
I looked down.
Fantastic.
Now his teammates knew too.
The game started aggressively.
Portland was playing Calgary, which should have made it easier for me.
No divided loyalty.
No Noah.
No family complications.
Just hockey.
Except watching Mason without my brother on the ice beside him changed everything.
I saw details I had missed before.
His vision.
His patience.
The way he read plays before they developed.
The discipline beneath the reputation.
Mason wasn’t simply talented.
He was intelligent on the ice.
That annoyed me.
I had already found enough things to like.
He didn’t need additional qualities.
Portland scored first.
Mason assisted.
The crowd erupted.
I clapped before remembering that I had intended to remain emotionally neutral.
Nobody cared.
Two minutes later, Mason scored.
The play happened fast.
A turnover near center ice.
Mason picked up the puck.
One defender between him and the goalie.
He accelerated.
Cut left.
Dragged the puck back.
Shot.
Goal.
The arena exploded.
I stood with everyone else.
Mason circled behind the net as his teammates chased him.
Then he looked toward me.
Our eyes met.
His smile was immediate.
Not for the crowd.
For me.
I sat down quickly.
The woman beside me laughed.
“Oh, honey.”
I turned.
She was maybe sixty, wearing a Cole jersey and holding a beer.
“What?”
“You know him.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve been watching that boy play for six years.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“He doesn’t look at random women like that after scoring.”
Heat crawled up my neck.
“I think you’re imagining things.”
“Sure.”
She drank her beer.
“I’m Linda.”
“Emma.”
“Nice to meet you, Emma-who-definitely-doesn’t-know-Mason-Cole.”
I almost choked.
“I really don’t.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I focused aggressively on the ice.
Linda laughed.
By the third period, Portland was leading four to two.
Mason had a goal and two assists.
He was also bleeding again.
Of course he was.
A collision near the boards opened a cut above his eyebrow.
Medical staff looked at it.
He stayed in the game.
“Men are stupid,” Linda said.
“Extremely.”
“You sound experienced.”
“Unfortunately.”
Portland won.
The crowd stayed loud long after the final horn.
I waited until most people left before putting my coat back on.
My phone buzzed.
Mason.
**Don’t leave.**
I stared.
Then:
**Please.**
That word changed everything.
Mason rarely asked.
He challenged.
Teased.
Provoked.
But please?
I sat back down.
Twenty-five minutes later, another message arrived.
**Section 104. Lower tunnel.**
This was an objectively terrible decision.
I went anyway.
Security checked my ticket and directed me downstairs.
The hallway beneath the arena was brighter than Seattle’s.
Staff moved equipment.
Reporters walked past carrying microphones.
Somewhere nearby, players were finishing interviews.
I stood beside a vending machine and tried to look like someone who had a legitimate reason to be there.
“Bad disguise.”
I turned.
Mason walked toward me.
Dark suit.
Wet hair.
Fresh stitches above his eyebrow.
I stared.
“What happened to you?”
“Hello to you too.”
“Did they sew your face?”
“Three stitches.”
“That seems excessive for entertainment.”
He stopped in front of me.
His eyes moved over my face.
“You came.”
The words were quiet.
“You invited me.”
“You said you probably wouldn’t.”
“I changed my mind.”
“I noticed.”
His smile appeared slowly.
I pointed at him.
“Don’t make this worse.”
“Impossible.”
I looked at the stitches.
“You should sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Professional athletes need a new vocabulary.”
His smile widened.
Then his gaze softened.
“Seriously.”
“What?”
“Thank you for coming.”
My chest tightened.
“You played well.”
“I know.”
There he was.
I rolled my eyes.
“Moment ruined.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Not even slightly.”
Footsteps approached.
Two Portland players appeared around the corner.
I recognized one as Ryan Keller, Mason’s center.
He saw me.
Then Mason.
Then me again.
His expression became delighted.
“Well.”
Mason sighed.
“Keller.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“No one.”
I glared at Mason.
He immediately corrected himself.
“Not what I meant.”
Ryan laughed.
“This is excellent.”
Mason’s jaw tightened.
“Go away.”
Ryan held out a hand.
“Ryan.”
I shook it.
“Emma.”
His eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
He knew.
Bennett.
I could see the calculation.
Ryan looked at Mason.
Then back at me.
“Oh.”
“Don’t,” Mason warned.
Ryan smiled.
“I said nothing.”
His teammate behind him clearly understood too.
This was bad.
Very bad.
Ryan pointed toward Mason.
“You realize Bennett is going to murder you.”
“I’m aware.”
I crossed my arms.
“My brother doesn’t control my life.”
Ryan nodded.
“Terrifying. I like her.”
Mason stepped closer to me.
“Leave.”
Ryan laughed as he walked away.
“Nice meeting you, Emma.”
I waited until they disappeared.
“Your teammates know.”
“Two of them know.”
“That’s two too many.”
“They won’t say anything.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Keller has secrets I can weaponize.”
I stared.
“That is not reassuring.”
Mason smiled.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“Dinner.”
I froze.
“Dinner?”
“Yes.”
“You said nothing about dinner.”
“If I had, would you have come?”
I considered it.
“No.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s manipulation.”
“That’s strategy.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Getting repetitive, Bennett.”
I should leave.
This was already beyond what I intended.
Watch the game.
See Mason.
Go home.
Simple.
Dinner made this something else.
A date.
I hated how much I wanted that.
“Somewhere private,” I said.
Mason’s expression changed.
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a condition.”
“I accept.”
“Somewhere nobody recognizes you.”
“That part might be difficult.”
“Then wear an ugly hat.”
“I own several.”
I laughed.
And just like that, I agreed to my first date with my brother’s greatest rival.
The restaurant was twenty minutes outside downtown.
Small.
Italian.
Hidden on a quiet street.
Mason wore a baseball cap and dark jacket.
I still thought people recognized him.
Nobody approached.
We were given a corner booth.
“This is suspiciously good,” I said after tasting the pasta.
“I have excellent judgment.”
“You eat protein bars that taste like drywall.”
“One flaw.”
“Several.”
“Name three.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“Personality trait.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Subjective.”
“You punch my brother.”
“He participates.”
I sighed.
“You make everything difficult.”
Mason leaned forward.
“You still came.”
There was no answer to that.
The restaurant was warm.
Low music played overhead.
Candles reflected in the window beside us.
For the first time since meeting Mason, neither of us was trapped by weather or surrounded by hockey.
There was no excuse.
We were simply having dinner.
That realization made me nervous.
Mason noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re doing the lip thing.”
I stopped biting my lip.
“I hate that you notice that.”
“I like noticing you.”
My pulse jumped.
“Do you practice lines like that?”
“No.”
“That’s worse.”
He smiled.
“Why?”
“Because it means you’re naturally irritating.”
He laughed.
The waitress brought wine.
I took a sip.
Mason didn’t.
“You’re not drinking?”
“Game recovery.”
“Responsible.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“I’m recalibrating my expectations.”
He leaned back.
“What exactly were your expectations?”
“That you would be…”
I hesitated.
“A disaster?”
“Something like that.”
“And?”
I looked at him.
The answer felt too revealing.
“You’re more complicated than I expected.”
Mason’s expression became quieter.
“So are you.”
“You thought I’d be like Noah.”
“Yes.”
“That’s offensive.”
“I realized.”
“What did you expect?”
“Perfect little sister.”
I almost laughed.