CHAPTER 12 The Future We Choose #2
I watched my brother process that.
Four years earlier, Mason and Noah couldn’t stand beside each other without violence.
Now Mason was asking him to face the cameras together.
Noah looked through the glass.
Then back.
“About Lily.”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else.”
Mason glanced at me.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing else today.”
“Fine.”
Noah nodded.
“Together.”
They walked outside.
Camera flashes exploded instantly.
Questions came from every direction.
“Mason, has the investigation changed?”
“Noah, were you questioned?”
“Are charges expected?”
“What did Lily know?”
“Has your rivalry ended?”
Mason raised one hand.
The crowd quieted slightly.
He looked uncomfortable.
Noah looked worse.
Then Mason spoke.
“For several years, both Noah Bennett and I believed Lily Cole died in a tragic car accident.”
The cameras continued flashing.
“We now know that wasn’t true.”
Reporters erupted.
Mason waited.
“The investigation is ongoing, so we’re not going to discuss evidence.”
Noah stepped closer to the microphones.
“But we do want to say one thing.”
He looked toward Mason.
Then toward the cameras.
“We spent years blaming each other for something neither of us fully understood.”
Mason continued.
“That blame became public.”
A faint smile.
“Frequently.”
Several reporters laughed.
Noah looked at him.
“Very frequently.”
Mason smiled.
Then his expression became serious.
“We were wrong.”
Silence.
Noah nodded.
“We were.”
Mason looked directly into the cameras.
“Lily deserved better than being remembered as the reason two idiots hated each other.”
A strange sound moved through the crowd.
Almost sympathetic.
Noah smiled faintly.
“She would’ve called us worse.”
“Definitely.”
Then Mason stepped away from the microphones.
A reporter shouted:
“So is the rivalry officially over?”
Mason looked toward Noah.
Noah looked back.
“On the ice?” Mason asked.
Noah smiled.
“Absolutely not.”
The reporters laughed.
Mason nodded.
“He’s still ugly.”
Noah shoved him lightly.
“See you next game.”
“Looking forward to it.”
That clip went viral within an hour.
By lunch, the internet had declared their reconciliation the greatest character development in professional hockey history.
By dinner, someone had created shirts.
By the following morning, Noah sent me a link to one that read:
BENNETT + COLE: STILL HATE EACH OTHER, JUST HEALTHIER.
I bought two.
Three weeks later, Richard Vale and Jason Mercer were formally charged.
The investigation into their financial network expanded beyond hockey.
Several people were arrested.
Evan was located in British Columbia under another identity.
Alive.
Terrified.
And finally willing to cooperate.
His testimony confirmed what Richard had said.
Jason had been in the vehicle.
He had gotten out after an argument.
Richard had followed them.
The collision had been intended as intimidation.
Not murder.
That distinction changed nothing for Lily.
Evan accepted responsibility too.
For driving after drinking.
For hiding.
For lying.
Mason refused to meet him.
That surprised me.
“Don’t you want answers?” I asked.
We were sitting in Mason’s kitchen late one evening.
He shook his head.
“I have the answers that matter.”
“What are those?”
He looked at me.
“Lily loved me.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
“I loved her.”
He reached across the counter.
“That’s enough.”
I smiled.
“Look at you.”
“What?”
“Emotionally healthy.”
“Don’t spread rumors.”
I laughed.
Hockey returned quickly.
It always did.
Schedules didn’t care about emotional breakthroughs.
Portland played Seattle two weeks later.
The arena sold out instantly.
Half the marketing revolved around Mason and Noah.
Of course.
I sat behind Seattle’s bench.
Noah had insisted.
Mason complained.
I ignored both.
During warm-ups, Mason skated toward my section.
He looked at my jersey.
Bennett.
His expression turned offended.
I smiled.
He pointed toward himself.
I shook my head.
No.
He put a hand dramatically over his heart.
The crowd around me laughed.
Noah skated past.
He saw the interaction.
Then intentionally sprayed Mason with ice.
Mason shoved him.
Noah shoved back.
The crowd exploded.
I stood.
“Children!”
Neither could hear me.
Probably better.
The game was brutal.
Fast.
Competitive.
Beautiful.
Noah scored first.
I cheered.
Mason scored second.
I tried not to.
Failed.
The woman beside me noticed.
“You’re terrible at choosing sides.”
“I’ve accepted it.”
Seattle won four to three.
Mason had the puck in the final seconds.
Noah blocked his shot.
Final horn.
They collided near the boards.
For one second, the entire arena held its breath.
Then Mason tapped Noah’s helmet.
Noah pushed him away.
Both smiled.
The crowd lost its mind.
Afterward, I waited near the players’ exit.
Again.
Everything had changed since the first time.
Mason appeared first.
He wore a dark suit and an expression of deep personal betrayal.
“You cheered for him.”
“He’s my brother.”
“I scored twice.”
“I noticed.”
“Minimal enthusiasm.”
“I stood up.”
“You stand for everyone.”
“That is equality.”
He stepped closer.
“You wore his jersey.”
“I have owned this jersey for years.”
“Burn it.”
“No.”
“I’ll buy you a better one.”
“With what name?”
His expression changed.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
“Cole.”
My heart skipped.
“That’s subtle.”
“Never claimed subtlety.”
Before I could answer, Noah appeared.
“Absolutely not.”
Mason looked at him.
“No one asked.”
“I heard enough.”
He walked toward us.
“Emma, you’re not wearing Cole.”
I crossed my arms.
“Interesting phrasing.”
Noah’s face changed.
Mason started laughing.
“No.”
Noah pointed at both of us.
“No. Whatever joke you’re about to make, no.”
I laughed.
Mason looked delighted.
“I finally like your brother.”
Noah groaned.
“Worst day of my life.”
That night, Mason drove me home.
Except he missed the turn toward my apartment.
I noticed immediately.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere.”
“That sounds reassuring.”
“Trust.”
“That word is carrying an unfair amount of responsibility in this relationship.”
He smiled.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the private rink.
The same one.
Empty.
Dark except for the ice.
My chest warmed.
“Mason.”
“Come on.”
He had skates waiting.
Of course.
“You’ve become disturbingly sentimental.”
“I blame you.”
We stepped onto the ice.
I was better now.
Not good.
Better.
Mason skated backward in front of me.
“Bend your knees.”
“I know.”
“You still look tense.”
“You’re still annoying.”
“Consistency matters.”
I smiled.
We moved slowly around the rink.
No reporters.
No family.
No secrets.
Just us.
Eventually, Mason stopped at center ice.
I stopped too.
“What?”
He looked nervous.
Mason Cole.
Professional athlete.
Public menace.
Man who had fought six-foot-four defensemen without blinking.
Nervous.
My heart started pounding.
“Mason.”
He reached into his jacket.
I froze.
“No.”
His eyebrows rose.
“No what?”
“If you pull out a ring right now, I might actually kill you.”
He stared.
Then laughed.
Hard.
“What?”
“We have been dating for approximately a month.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m reckless, not insane.”
“Debatable.”
He pulled out a key.
I blinked.
“What is that?”
“Less terrifying?”
“Significantly.”
He held it toward me.
“My place.”
“You already let me into your place.”
“Portland.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“My actual place.”
His smile faded.
“I want you to have a key.”
My chest tightened.
“Mason.”
“You don’t have to move in.”
“Good.”
“You don’t even have to use it.”
“Then why give it to me?”
His expression became serious.
“Because I spent years making sure nobody could stay.”
The rink suddenly felt very quiet.
“And now?”
“Now I want you to know you can.”
My eyes burned.
“That was annoyingly good.”
“I practiced.”
“You did not.”
“Maybe once.”
I took the key.
His fingers closed around mine.
“But there’s more.”
I stared.
“Dangerous sentence.”
“Come to Portland.”
“To live?”
“Eventually.”
I froze.
Mason immediately continued.
“Not tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“Not next month.”
“Better.”
“I know your work is in Seattle.”
My chest tightened.
“And I’m not asking you to give it up.”
Daniel.
My old relationship.
The man who expected my career to bend around his.
Mason remembered.
Of course he did.
“So what are you asking?”
“I’m asking if we can build something that fits both of us.”
There it was.
No demand.
No sacrifice disguised as romance.
A future negotiated instead of assigned.
“What does that look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Excellent proposal.”
“Weekends.”
He counted on his fingers.
“Seattle when my schedule allows. Portland when yours does.”
“Very glamorous.”
“Hotels.”
“Romantic.”
“Airports.”
“Better.”
“Eventually maybe one city.”
“Which?”
“We fight about it later.”
I smiled.
“That sounds fair.”
He looked at me.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Will you try?”
My heart tightened.
“Yes.”
Mason exhaled.
Almost relief.
I laughed.
“You thought I’d say no?”
“You enjoy making me suffer.”
“True.”
He pulled me closer.
“Emma Bennett.”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
I smiled.
“I know.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Wrong response.”
“I learned arrogance from you.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Emma.”
I laughed.
“I love you too.”
He kissed me.
Center ice.
Exactly where he spent so much of his life fighting.
Now holding me like he had finally learned the difference between loving someone and trapping them.
When we separated, I rested my forehead against his.
“Do you think Noah will ever completely approve?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
Mason smiled.
“Need some rivalry.”
I laughed.
“You’re hopeless.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Best thing that ever happened to you.”
“Dangerously confident.”
He kissed me again.
And for once, there was nothing waiting to interrupt us.
No phone.
No storm.
No reporter.
No secret.
Only the future.
Six months later, Portland made the playoffs.
Seattle did too.
Naturally, the universe arranged for them to meet in the second round.
The media went insane.
Mason called it destiny.
Noah called it proof that God hated him.
I called it exhausting.
Game seven was in Seattle.
I sat with my parents.
My mother wore Noah’s jersey.
My father wore neutral colors because he claimed diplomacy mattered.
I wore neither.
Mason had noticed during warm-ups.
He approved.