CHAPTER 8 Montana
At twelve fifty-eight the next afternoon, I was sitting in my car outside Mason’s rental house with an anonymous message open on my phone and absolutely no appetite for lunch.
The house surprised me.
I had expected something aggressively expensive.
Glass walls.
Giant windows.
A garage filled with luxury cars.
Instead, Mason had rented a two-story place on a quiet residential street outside Seattle while his team remained in town for several days. Dark cedar siding. Small front porch. Snow still gathered along the edge of the yard.
Normal.
Almost painfully normal.
My phone buzzed.
Mason.
**You’re outside.**
I looked toward the house.
One curtain moved.
I typed:
**Creepy.**
His reply:
**Observant.**
Then:
**Come inside before the pasta dies.**
I stared at the anonymous messages again.
**You don’t know what Mason Cole did in Montana.**
**Ask him why he really disappeared for four months.**
**And ask him why Noah has never told you the whole truth.**
I had barely slept.
Not because the messages frightened me exactly.
Because they knew too much.
My number was private.
Very few people had it.
Family.
Friends.
Work contacts.
No hockey reporters.
No anonymous strangers with opinions about Mason’s past.
I had considered telling Noah.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
Mason and I had made rules.
Honesty.
No hiding.
That needed to work both ways.
I got out of the car.
The front door opened before I reached it.
Mason leaned against the frame.
“Two minutes late.”
“I was early.”
“You sat in your car.”
“That counts.”
“No.”
He stepped aside.
“Come in.”
The smell hit first.
Tomato.
Garlic.
Fresh bread.
I stopped.
“You actually cooked.”
Mason looked offended.
“You sound shocked.”
“I expected protein bars arranged artistically on a plate.”
“That was dessert.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then he looked at my face.
His smile faded.
“What happened?”
That quickly.
I hated how well he was starting to read me.
“Nothing.”
His eyebrows rose.
I sighed.
“Right. Rules.”
“Rules.”
He closed the door.
“What happened?”
I took off my coat.
“Can we sit first?”
Mason went completely still.
That was apparently the universal sentence people used before ruining lunch.
“Sure.”
The kitchen was bright and open.
A pot simmered on the stove.
Two plates waited at the table.
Mason pulled out a chair for me.
I sat.
He sat opposite.
Neither of us touched the food.
I unlocked my phone and pushed it across the table.
“Last night.”
Mason picked it up.
I watched his face.
First confusion.
Then recognition.
Then something darker.
He read all three messages.
Once.
Twice.
His jaw tightened.
“Who sent these?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
He checked the number.
“I don’t recognize it.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“No.”
He handed the phone back.
“Have they contacted you again?”
“No.”
“Did you answer?”
“No.”
“Good.”
His posture had changed.
The relaxed man who opened the door was gone.
This was the version I had seen on the ice.
Focused.
Controlled.
Ready for impact.
“Mason.”
“Yes?”
“Who knows what happened in Montana?”
His eyes met mine.
“Enough people.”
“What does that mean?”
“My family. My old team. Some friends.”
“Noah?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mason looked down.
“Because he was part of what happened before I left.”
My stomach tightened.
“I thought Montana was after the fight.”
“It was.”
“Then what does Noah know that I don’t?”
Mason stood.
I immediately noticed.
“You’re doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“Moving.”
He stopped.
His expression changed.
I crossed my arms.
“No running.”
Mason looked toward the window.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he returned to his chair.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“You want Montana.”
“Yes.”
“You might not like it.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
I leaned forward.
“I’m not asking you to be perfect.”
His eyes held mine.
“I’m asking you not to make me find out who you are from strangers.”
That landed.
Hard.
Mason’s jaw tightened.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
He pushed his untouched plate aside.
“When Lily died, I stopped functioning.”
I stayed quiet.
“You already know that.”
“Some of it.”
“I stopped going to practice. Stopped answering calls. My mom would leave food outside my room because sometimes I wouldn’t come downstairs.”
His voice was detached.
Too detached.
“I blamed the guy driving.”
“Obviously.”
“I blamed Noah.”
I nodded.
“I blamed myself more.”
His eyes dropped to the table.
“And every time someone told me it wasn’t my fault, I wanted to hit them.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because it felt like they were trying to take away the only punishment I thought I deserved.”
That sentence stayed between us.
Mason continued.
“About six weeks after the funeral, I started going out.”
“Bars?”
“Mostly.”
“You were under twenty-one.”
“Fake ID.”
“Of course.”
“No lecture?”
“I’m waiting until after the trauma.”
His mouth moved faintly.
Then disappeared.
“I wasn’t drinking because I liked it. I wanted everything quieter.”
I understood.
Not personally.
But enough.
“And the fights?”
“They came later.”
His hands clasped together.
“I’d hear someone laugh. Someone say something stupid. Someone mention Lily.”
His jaw tightened.
“Anything was enough.”
“And the man Noah told me about?”
Mason stared down.
“His name was Travis.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“He knew Lily.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“College.”
“Was he her friend?”
“No.”
Mason’s expression darkened.
“He was the guy who sold alcohol to half those parties.”
I stopped.
“Okay.”
“One night, Noah found me at a bar.”
“Noah?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you weren’t speaking.”
“We weren’t.”
“Then why was he there?”
“Because my mother called him.”
That surprised me.
“Your mother called Noah?”
“She thought he was the only person I might listen to.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
I almost smiled.
Mason didn’t.
“She was wrong.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“Noah came in. Tried to get me home.”
“And Travis?”
“He was there.”
My pulse quickened.
“What happened?”
“He recognized me.”
Mason’s face hardened.
“He made a joke about Lily.”
My stomach dropped.
“What kind of joke?”
“You don’t need the exact words.”
For once, I agreed.
“I hit him.”
“One punch?”
“No.”
His voice became quieter.
“I didn’t stop.”
The kitchen suddenly felt very still.
“Noah pulled me off him.”
“You almost killed him.”
“Yes.”
There was no defense.
No softening.
That frightened me more than denial would have.
“Were you trying to?”
Mason looked at me.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
He took a long breath.
“I wasn’t thinking enough to know what I was trying to do.”
I appreciated the honesty even though I hated the answer.
“What happened after?”
“Police.”
“Charges?”
“Aggravated assault initially.”
My stomach tightened.
“Noah said they were dropped.”
“They were.”
“Because Travis didn’t cooperate.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mason’s expression became complicated.
“My uncle paid his medical bills.”
“So Noah was right.”
“Yes.”
“But that can’t be the whole Montana story.”
“No.”
I waited.
Mason looked toward the window.
“After the arrest, my team suspended me.”
“Officially?”
“Indefinitely.”
“What did the media know?”
“Nothing.”
“How?”
“I wasn’t famous enough yet.”
That made sense.
He had been a promising player.
Not the Mason Cole he became later.
“My mother came to get me.”
His voice softened.
“She looked at me like she didn’t recognize me.”
That seemed to hurt him more than anything else.
“She sent you to your uncle.”
“Yes.”
“In Montana.”
“Yes.”
“What was there?”
“Nothing.”
He smiled without humor.
“That was the point.”
I waited.
“My uncle owned a ranch outside Bozeman.”
“You lived on a ranch?”
“For four months.”
I tried to imagine Mason in work boots instead of skates.
The image almost made me smile.
His face stopped me.
“He took my phone.”
“Seriously?”
“I let him.”
That surprised me.
“No social media. No hockey. No alcohol.”
Mason stared at the table.
“No fighting.”
“What did you do?”
“Work.”
“What kind?”
“Fence repairs. Horses. Equipment. Everything.”
“That sounds almost peaceful.”
“It wasn’t.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because when you remove every distraction, you’re left with yourself.”
That landed harder than I expected.
“And you hated yourself.”
“Yes.”
Simple.
Brutal.
“What happened there?”
Mason looked at me.
“This is the part Noah didn’t tell you.”
I sat straighter.
“Okay.”
“About three weeks after I got there, I left.”
“The ranch?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought I could handle being alone.”
My stomach tightened.
“Mason.”
“I took my uncle’s truck.”
His voice became colder.
“Drove for hours.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere specific.”
He paused.
“I stopped near a lake.”
Something inside me shifted.
His eyes stayed on the table.
“I sat there until sunrise.”
I didn’t breathe.
“I had my father’s old hunting rifle in the truck.”
Everything in me went still.
Mason looked up immediately.
“I didn’t use it.”
I exhaled.
Slowly.
He continued before I could speak.
“I took it because I was angry. Because I wanted to feel like I had control over something.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then I sat there looking at it and realized I had no idea what I was going to do next.”
My chest hurt.
“Mason.”
“I called my uncle.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“First person I called in weeks.”
I reached across the table.
He watched my hand.
Then let me take his.
“What did he do?”
“Came and got me.”
“No questions?”
“Plenty later.”
Mason smiled faintly.
“But not that morning.”
His thumb moved over my fingers.
“He put the rifle in his truck. Put me in the passenger seat. Drove home.”
I swallowed.
“And then?”
“He made me talk to someone.”
“A therapist?”
“Yes.”
“That was why he saved your life.”
Mason nodded.
“Not the ranch.”
“No.”
“The fact he didn’t let you disappear.”
“Yes.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
I understood now why he had hesitated last night.
This wasn’t a dramatic secret.
It was deeply personal.
And someone had weaponized it.
“Does Noah know all of that?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I told him eventually.”
“You were speaking again?”
“No.”
I frowned.
“Then why?”
“Because he came to Montana.”
I froze.
“What?”
Mason’s expression tightened.
“About two months in.”
“Why would Noah come?”
“My mother called him again.”