Chapter 4 - Mason
Mason
There was nothing wrong with my blade.
I knew it. The equipment guy knew it. Firestarter would definitely know it. But I still limped my way into the maintenance hallway like I’d taken a puck to the ankle.
“Got a minute?” I held up my skate.
She looked up from her workbench, one brow arching as if she already smelled the lie I was about to tell. God, she was gorgeous, a casual angel in stained blue jeans and a black Pixies t-shirt.
“Let me guess,” she said, coming over to me. “Blade’s loose again?”
I nodded solemnly. “Wobbly. Very dangerous. Could cause a team-wide catastrophe.”
“That’s strange.” She took my skate and flipped it over in her hands that were far too delicate for the work she did. Yet somehow incredibly capable. “They were fine a couple of days ago when you had your last near-death experience. I made sure of it.”
Shit. I hadn’t thought that far. That my continued visits would look like I was calling her work into question.
“This is the other one,” I replied.
She didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “This thing’s flawless. You want me to break it for you so you have a reason to be here?”
I leaned against the doorframe and smiled, hands in my pockets. “Now why would I ask you to break something beautiful?”
Her eyes cut to mine. Just for a second. But it was enough to knock the breath sideways in my chest. She was so damn good at acting like I didn’t get to her, like she didn’t even notice this thing that was clearly happening between us.
There were moments, though… When she blinked a little too slow or didn’t look away fast enough.
Like now.
“Exhibition game’s tonight,” she said, turning back to her actual work. “You planning on spending it in the locker room pretending you’re injured?”
“Depends. Will you be there?”
Her hand stilled.
“I might be near the ice,” she said carefully. “Why?”
I shrugged. “We’re playing the Cyclones. You might be the only thing worth watching.”
She snorted. “You’re bad at this.”
“At what?” I moved into the room and sat at the end of her workbench. She didn’t seem to mind me in her space.
“Flirting.”
“That wasn’t flirting,” I said. “Just a statement of fact.”
She turned toward me, arms crossed. I tried not to stare at the smooth inside of her elbows, or the smudge of grease on her jaw. Her hair was in a loose braid that was starting to fall apart. My hand moved on its own to tuck a strand behind her ear.
But, what the hell was I thinking? She’d never go for that.
I regained control of my hand in mid-air, and could do nothing but fake a big stretch with a yawn to go with it.
“You’re pretty confident for a guy who’s about to be late for training.”
“Because I know I’m making the roster,” I said.
“Even with your wobbly blade?” She clamped my skate on the sharpening rig, and locked it in.
I gave a low chuckle. “Especially with my wobbly blade. It’s my signature move.”
She gave a slow shake of her head, but I caught the curve of her smile before she looked away. “Still going, right? You’re braver than you look.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Take it however you want,” she said, guiding the skate back and forth in smooth, consistent passes.
Sparks snapped and hissed in short, bright arcs, lighting up the greens of her eyes through the safety glasses. I felt like I could skip the game completely, and just sit there and watch her do her thing all day.
“So, what do I call you?” My voice barely lifted over the gentle hum of the rig. “In my head, you’re Firestarter, which is kind of badass but doesn’t feel right.”
“You don’t think I’m badass?” Another pass. Then another. Her hands were steady and focused.
There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved—deliberate but not robotic. Like she was in some sort of secret kinship with her tools that nobody else would understand.
“I’m beginning to think you’re the right amount of badass to keep most guys from pestering you for a name.”
This made her look up, one brow raised. “And you’re not ‘most guys’, I take it.” She gave me the once-over, her hawk-like gaze making me feel more vulnerable than I did in the recurring nightmare where I went out on the ice in front of a packed arena with nothing but my skates and a stick.
I was on the back foot, and needed to recover. Quick.
“I’m the guy who’s happy to call you whatever you want if you’ll go on a date with me.”
Her laugh wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for, but something warm flicked over in my gut just the same. I’d made her laugh. It was a start. A way in.
“What’s the game plan for tonight?” She lifted my skate from the rig and began smoothing it out with the leather strap dangling from the side of the bench. “Or you planning to wing it with a heroic solo goal and lots of hair-flipping?”
I ran a hand through my hair that was still damp from warm-ups. “Definitely thinking of going full Disney montage. Gonna throw my helmet off mid-play and break the fourth wall for all the screaming fans at home.”
“I think you better leave that stuff to Grayson,” she chuckled, then unlatched my skate and held it out to me. “Here. Try not to trip over your ego when you get out there.”
I stood up and took it from her with a mock salute, but I didn’t make to leave. Something about this little room made it hard. Or maybe it was her.
“Thanks,” I said, quieter now. “Seriously.”
“Anytime.” Her smile was barely there but goddamn if it didn’t raise the temperature by a hundred degrees. “Just— Maybe don’t bring it around too often. You don’t want it shaved too thin before the playoffs even start.”
“But how else am I going to see you?” Her eyes met mine, charging the moment until it seemed to contract around us. Closing us into a bubble that only we could feel.
“Mason.”
“Yes, Firestarter?”
She burst out laughing, dipping her head shyly. But—and this was the most important part—she didn’t back away. Not even when I took another step to close more of the distance between us. Close enough to smell that flowery perfume that had been wafting through my thoughts all week.
“Every time you say that it makes me think of one of my favorite songs,” she said, amusement sparking in her eyes. “You wouldn’t know it. I’ve heard the twangy heartbreak vibes coming from your Neon when you pull into the lot.”
Uncalled-for and way out of line.
“First of all, it’s not twangy. Country music is lyrical storytelling at its finest. Filled with soul and grit.”
She nodded along, patronizing me. “Uh huh, sure, yeah, whatever you say, Tennessee Whiskey.”
“One of the greatest songs ever written!” I threw my hands up, all thoughts of flirting forgotten. And somehow, this still felt like it. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now. You wound me, Firestarter. You wound me deep.”
“The truth hurts, Calder. Country is mopey and annoying, and requires about a tenth of the talent real music does.”
“And by real music you mean—?”
“Ever heard of a little band called The Rolling Stones?” She stuck out her chin defiantly, too. As if she’d just made a good point.
“I should’ve known,” I shook my head in unveiled disappointment. “You’ve got classic rock written all over you.”
“I guess that means you don’t want to take me out on a date anymore, huh?” The challenge hung in the air between us, and her emerald gaze stayed glued to mine.
I opened my mouth to reply, but the call buzzer echoed down the hall. Practice time. I had about ninety seconds to get back to the ice or get benched.
“What do you say we make this interesting?” I asked, stepping back into my skate as I hobbled for the door. “Whoever gets the sound tech to play their kind of music at practice, wins. Best of seven.”
“So, our own personal playoff,” she said with an approving nod. “What do I get when I win?”
I was out in the hall already, torn between responsibility and desire. “When I win, we’re going on a date.”
She called something after me, but I was already down the hall, heart pounding and adrenaline high even though I hadn’t touched the ice yet. Thankfully, she wasn’t around to see the stupid smile I couldn’t get rid of.
It was ridiculous. The way one conversation with her could light me up more than a playoff goal. My blood hummed with it. In the arena, the air felt sharper, cleaner somehow. Like I’d just come off a power play shift.
The guys were skating out, but I made a pit stop at the sound booth first. The tech wasn’t into it at first, but once I hurriedly explained the bet, he gave me a thumbs up.
By the time I hit the ice, Brooks & Dunn was blasting through the speakers. My chest filled with an exhilarating warmth at the thought of her walking out here and hearing that.
Or just… walking out here at all.
“Dynamic warmups.” Coach clapped his hands loudly and everyone fell into a practiced rhythm.
We knew the drill. Quick feet, tight pivots, one-timers off the boards. My eyes kept picking out Grayson in the thick of it. It was always the same calm, deadly precision with him. And as always, he made it look so damn easy.
I picked up the pace, skating harder than I needed to. I didn’t want to look like I was lagging behind the senior players.
“We’re not at playoffs yet, Calder,” Shawn hollered from the other end of the rink.
Hunter glided by me and tapped me with his stick. “Yeah, Calder. Quit before you pull something.”
“Just because it’s an exhibition game doesn’t mean we should take it easy,” I said, following his pace with ease.
But it was Grayson I wanted to pair with. This practice was like a final audition for the top line, and I almost had it in the bag. He didn’t say much, but I could feel him watching. Always measuring, calculating. And one word from him to Coach would seal the deal for sure.
Three drills in, I was cycling pucks with the second line. We’d just reset after a face-off when the music cut out with a sudden scratch.
“What the—?”
The arena paused for half a beat.
Then, a howl split the speakers. Wild. Sharp. Raw.
“Fuck yeah!” Tucker punched the air, and started skating like mad to keep up to the pounding rhythm of Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song tearing through the speakers. A war cry that was all wailing guitar and driving drums.
And there she was.
Standing just beyond the sound booth, arms folded, a smug smile on her perfect face. She lifted one hand and gave the tiniest wave.
1-0 to Firestarter.
I was so deep under her spell that I didn’t hear Coach call the next drill until Shawn nudged me with his elbow.
“Snap out of it.”
Right. The drill.
I took my spot on the ice for slap shots. My favorite. I skated the loop, and caught the feed. But the puck came off my blade a fraction late, and it hit the boards with an awkward thunk before it skittered off wide.
I cursed under my breath.
Coach’s whistle cut through the music. “Again, Calder! And stop messing around this time.”
I shook it off, reset.
The second shot was better, but not as crisp as my usual work. Grayson knew it. I heard him grumbling to Hunter.
I glanced up, and my stomach churned to see that she was still up there. Watching me fuck up a simple drill.
“Let’s go,” Coach barked. “This isn’t figure skating, Calder. Show me your balls.”
On my third try, I was too in my head about it. My blade caught the edge totally wrong. I stumbled, not into a full fall, but enough to kill the shot and leave me flailing like a preschooler in his first pair of skates. A few sticks tapped the ice behind me, but not in applause.
“Bench, now!” Coach snapped. “You can do nothing from there for the rest of practice.”
My heart sank.
I coasted to the side, pulled off my gloves, and sat with my back against the boards. The music still pulsed overhead, beating through my chest as if it wanted to replace my pulse completely.
A few seniors skated by and jeered at me, but it was Tucker who called out, “Still got those rookie legs, huh, Calder?”
“Bite me.”
But it was just as Grayson came up to the bench. He gave me a clipped look. Not angry, or mocking, but I could tell what he was thinking. It was the way a surgeon might study an intern with a shaky hand.
That stung more than anything else.
I ripped off my helmet and let the cold air hit my neck. Immigrant Song faded into something else, probably another one of her picks but I couldn’t even hear it anymore. The only thing in my head was my own blood rushing, loud and fast and angry.