Chapter 15 - Mason
Mason
I stepped onto the ice and the noise hit me straight in the face. Crowd on their feet, cowbells clanging, feet stomping the bleachers. Among the painted posters punching the air for Grayson, was my own name. Me. Mason.
The rush was indescribable.
Especially tonight. We’d been practicing all week, reviewing past game footage. We were ready. The fans were ready, too. Frost Bank Center had never been louder. Tonight it was personal.
Dallas Stars.
The team that kept us from the Cup last season. The team I’d replayed in my nightmares on a loop, every missed pass, every blown coverage, every damn second of that collapse.
“Tonight we’re rewriting things,” Coach said, his eyes sweeping over us. “Forget everything that came before this. Tonight we take what’s always been ours.”
He met my eye as we skated off and circled the zone. His arms were folded tight, but the nod was all I needed. I found my rhythm, blades carving into the ice. Grayson skated past me, tapping his stick once against mine. No words. The top line was locked in.
But it wasn’t just the game that had my heart pounding against my ribs. I glanced up into the fourth row and waved at my dad and Hallie. He was tense, but she was talking his ear off, ignoring the opening pre-game anthem buzz.
Toby Keith’s “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” blared over the system, and I easily picked out Cass arguing with the sound tech. He shook his head, refusing to give in. Good. That was a hard hundred dollars to part with, but at least he was good for it.
She stomped off, clearly pissed off in her defeat. Even from the ice, I caught the fire in her stare, the way her eyes narrowed and her lips twitched in annoyance.
I lifted my glove and saluted her, all smug, just to twist the knife. She didn’t flip me off, but the eye roll she gave me could’ve knocked me flat if I wasn’t ready for it. And yet, for all that sass, she didn’t look away.
It was that kind of silent pull that makes the rest of the world drop away, and the blood in my ears roar louder than the crowd. God, she made it hard to focus.
“You gonna skate or start writing poems?” Grayson elbowed me in the ribs as we lined up for face-off. “Head in the game, Calder. I won’t remind you again.”
“I’m in it.”
And I meant it, too. The game was all that mattered now. Not eye-fucking Cass across the arena. Just sixty minutes, the puck, and sweet revenge.
The ref dropped the puck, and we exploded into the point we were there to prove.
Grayson won the draw, sliding the puck back to Tucker, who dumped it deep down the ice into Stars territory. I chased it down, shoulder-checking a Stars defenseman hard into the boards. The crowd erupted. My legs burned, lungs sang. This was the kind of hockey I lived for.
Dallas came back hard.
Their winger took a cheap shot at Hunter early in the first. Skates too close, body brushing the crease. He shoved back, mask to mask, and the officials broke it up before gloves hit the ice. For now.
As if by reflex, I glanced at Coach. He gave Hunter a stiff nod, and play went on. He, like the rest of us, were more than satisfied with Hunter’s turn in the poles.
The whistle sang, and every shift was brutal. Bodies slammed against glass, blades caught and tangled. The puck was nothing but a blur between sticks.
And me… Damn, I was everywhere. Backchecking, grinding the corners, taking hits that rattled my old injury. But I gave back twice as hard.
In the second period, I scored.
Tucker fired it from the point, and I tipped it midair.
Nothing but instinct and muscle memory. It hit the post, ricocheted behind the goalie, and the red light flared.
I didn’t even celebrate. Just turned and looked to the crowd until I found my dad and Hallie, jumping up and down like crazy. It lit me up better than any spotlight.
Things got ugly in the third period.
The same Dallas forward who clipped Hunter before came barreling into Grayson, elbow up, high and dirty. I didn’t even think. Dropped my gloves and charged.
We hit the ice in a flurry of fists. I got in the first two punches, straight to the gut and one to the jaw. But he caught me under my right eye with an uppercut that blurred my vision. I didn’t care. He wasn’t going to walk out of here thinking he could cheap shot my team and breathe easy after.
The refs finally dragged us apart, blood on my lip, adrenaline screaming through my veins.
I caught Cass’ eye as I skated to the box. She shook her head, but wasn’t mad about it. She seemed almost proud. I winked, and she dipped her head with a shy smile.
Overtime came fast. We were tied 3-3, bodies sagging, legs spent on both sides. Grayson and I lined up one last time, and Coach yelled from the bench, “Now or never, boys.”
“Now feels good,” Grayson said, out of breath.
“Then now it is.” I tapped his stick with mine.
Shawn fed Grayson from the neutral zone. He cut across the blue line, drawing both defenders. I streaked in from the right, tape to tape, and received the puck. One touch, one shot.
Bar down. Goal.
Game over.
The Frost Bank Center went berserk. The crowd was so loud I was sure the whole place would crumble down around us. If it did, I wouldn’t have noticed. The guys engulfed me with slaps to my helmet, my body, nearly celebrating me to the ice.
But better than the feeling of sneaking a late win, was the chanting of my name rising up through the chaos of it all. Even better, was the look on my dad’s face when it happened.
*
The locker room was a war zone of celebration.
Sweaty gear tossed every which way, half the team stripped down to compression shorts and grinning like lunatics.
Someone turned up the music, and Tucker was already butchering lyrics to some rap track, jumping around with his stick like a microphone.
Grayson slapped my back hard enough to jar the bruise under my shoulder blade.
“Legend,” he said.
Even Coach—our steel-plated, never-crack-a-smile leader of the hour—gave me a nod and clapped my shoulder.
“That’s the kind of grit that earns you a letter,” he said low enough so only I could hear. “Keep your head on straight.”
A letter. Jesus. I’d never even imagined becoming Captain of the team.
I laughed and fist-bumped a few guys, but the noise had started to throb in my skull. It was like each shout bounced around inside me like a puck off the boards. I ducked out before anyone noticed.
Out in the hallway, the air was cooler. Cleaner. Echoing from the empty concourse and the soft rumble of the Zamboni still circling the ice. I made my way through a side tunnel until the rink opened up in front of me again, vacant now. The insane roar of the crowd was only a ghost in the rafters.
Cass had her hoodie up, probably buds in her ears blasting some rock band from the ‘70s while she finished up on the ice.
I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the ledge, and just stared out.
This was happening.
Me. Here. Playing top line for a team that used to feel so far out of reach I couldn’t even see it from the place I started. And now I’d put the puck bar down in overtime against the Dallas freaking Stars.
My throat tightened as the emotion rose up. Not tears, but something pretty close. The kind of feeling that squeezed in my chest and left me breathless.
“You should be with the guys.”
I turned at the sound of her voice.
Cass stood just behind me, earbuds slung around her neck, hoodie unzipped. A stray curl fell across her cheek, making my fingers itch to brush it away. Her eyes held the same tired defiance from earlier, but softer now.
“I’m fine right here, thanks,” I said.
She walked up beside me, hands in her pockets, looking out at the resurfaced ice. “Toby Keith, huh?”
I smirked. “Did it stir something deep inside you?”
“Only nausea,” she deadpanned, but the corner of her mouth tugged into an almost-smile.
I bumped her shoulder lightly. “Admit it. That was a power play.”
“Oh, it was,” she said, stepping closer until we were side by side, her arm brushing mine. “I just didn’t expect you to go that hard. Corrupting the innocent sound tech through bribery.”
“You started it.”
“Hey, I’m out here fighting for musical integrity,” she said with a laugh that made my insides all warm and mushy.
“And I weaponized country nostalgia.” I tilted my head, voice dropping low. “I’ll always win that war.”
Her breath hitched, just barely. But I felt it.
Silence stretched between us, thick as the ice beneath our feet.
“You were something else tonight,” she said finally. “The way you moved out there… how you took those hits and just kept going. It was like watching—”
She didn’t have to finish. We were both thinking it. We’d both seen enough players to know how stars were born.
I swallowed hard, her words landing in a place I didn’t expect.
“That’s kinda what it feels like. Like I’m becoming the player I always wanted to be.”
Her gaze met mine. “Good. You’ve earned it.”
The moment snapped tight, and I reached for her without thinking. Just a hand on her waist, grounding myself. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned closer.
“You smell like sweat,” she murmured.
“You smell like I should kiss you.”
Her hand lifted, fingers skimming along my jaw, feather-light. I didn’t know if I moved first or she did, but the space between us vanished into nothingness. Our mouths met in a kiss that wasn’t careful or cautious. Just pure heat.
I backed her gently into the boards, hands in her hair, her jacket bunching beneath my fingers as she gripped the hem of my shirt.
Like she was using me to stay upright. Her mouth opened for me, and I tasted the sigh that fell out of her.
The soft hum in her throat that wrecked me more than anything.
She kissed like she’d been waiting for this, like she was starved for it.
And I drank in every single drop.
The game, the guys… everything faded away. It was just her. The way her lips moved against mine, her tongue in my mouth, slow, devastating. Her thigh brushed mine, and I pressed harder, wanting more, wanting all of her.
Her hand fisted in my shirt, right over my heart.
I’d kissed my share of women before, but never like this. I didn’t usually feel totally aware of my skin and me inside it. On fire.
We broke apart for no other reason than breath, and I kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the spot just under her ear that made her shiver. She tilted her chin up, eyes dazed.
“You should know, I’m still mad about the whole Toby Keith thing.”
I kissed her again, just to shut her up.
Cass deepened the kiss, sliding her hands into my hair and down to the back of my neck. Her fingers were warm against my skin, but made goosebumps shoot out all over. She drew me closer, her mouth moving against mine like we’d been doing this kind of thing for years. Melting into each other.
I braced one hand against the glass behind her, and the other settled low on her waist just above the dip of her hip. That sliver of skin where her shirt rode up burned against my palm.
She fit against me like something impossible and inevitable at the same time.
Every part of me ached for more. Her hand slid under my shirt, tracing the planes of my back, slow and easy. I could feel her breathing hard against me, her chest rising to meet mine. And the sound she made when I tugged her bottom lip between my teeth nearly undid me right then and there.
I pressed my forehead to hers for a second to catch my breath.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I said.
“It’s not.”
“Are you sure about that?”
And then we were kissing again. Her need met mine full-on, consuming us both in the heat of the moment.
Her arms snaked around my neck, pulling me right up against her as she settled into me, hips angled to mine like she didn’t want even an inch between us.
There was nothing soft about it now. It was urgent and hot.
We’d spent too much time pretending we didn’t feel like this.
We staggered a little against the boards, fumbling and grabbing at each other with hungry hands. I grinned against her lips and she responded by biting mine just enough to make my pulse jump.
“I’m not sorry,” I said into her mouth.
She whispered back, “You better not be.”
A loud and sharp ringing pierced the air like a fire alarm. We froze. Our mouths still brushing, hands still clinging like we hadn’t gotten the memo. She blinked once, twice, then pulled out her phone, breath ragged.
I watched the blood drain from her face as “Dad” lit up her screen.