Chapter 24 - Landon #2
“You’ll still get beer and sitting,” Mason said. “Just not exclusively.”
The guys complained, but it was only half-hearted.
Nobody actually meant it. The fire popped, someone told a story I’d already heard twice about a road trip gone wrong, and Tucker exaggerated it anyway.
Grayson kept angling his chair closer to the grill, guarding his steak like one of us might steal it.
Hunter laughed loud and easy, the sound carrying into the trees.
I didn’t say much, but I listened, passed beers, took the shit when it came my way and gave a little back when it was warranted.
Somewhere between the third six-pack of beer and Mason flipping the steaks, something eased in my chest. The space I usually kept between myself and everyone else felt smaller. Less necessary.
When Mason handed me my steak, juice running down onto the makeshift plate he’d fashioned out of the plastic grocery bag, he clapped my shoulder once, quick and solid. Not to say anything, but when I looked at him it kind of hit home all the same.
We ate with our fingers, because no one had brought forks.
After dinner, Mason straightened and clapped his hands again. “Okay. We have an early start, so I suggest we turn in. Let’s see how long it takes before Grayson regrets choosing to sleep alone.”
“Yeah, right. You’ll be begging to creep in next to me by nightfall. Mark my words.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. But as we stood there, surrounded by gear and noise and the easy friction of men who trusted each other, I had a feeling this trip was going to matter more than any of us were saying out loud.
Mason was a menace before sunrise.
He unzipped the tent like it owed him money, and cold morning air rushed in, followed by his voice at full, unnecessary volume. “Rise and shine, ladies. Time and fish wait for no man.”
I groaned into my sleeping bag. Hunter made a noise that sounded like a dying engine, and Tucker told Mason to go fuck himself. Loud and clear all the way from their tent.
“I resign,” Grayson called from his. “This is diabolical.”
Mason just grinned, teeth bright in the half-light. “Five minutes, and we’re heading out. Don’t want to miss all the good fish.”
“Where are they going?” I muttered. “They’re fish. They’re just… there. All the time.”
He slapped my butt through the sleeping bag. “Less talk, more action, rookie.”
“But it’s not even light out.”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “Prime time.”
That seemed to be his answer for everything.
We stumbled into clothes with the coordination of drunk toddlers.
Boots unlaced, hoodies pulled on backward and fixed again, coffee replaced with the vague promise of caffeine later.
The world was still quiet in that suspended way it gets right before morning commits.
Pale sky. Damp air. The river murmured like it hadn’t noticed us yet.
Mason herded us up a short scramble of rocks overlooking the water, the spot opening up into a wide bend where the current slowed and the surface glassed over.
It was pretty. I hated how awake he looked standing there, hands on hips, fishing rods propped against a boulder like this was his natural habitat.
“Okay,” he said. “Ground rules.”
Tucker leaned on his rod. “I already hate this.”
“We’re fishing as a unit,” Mason continued, ignoring him. “One line in the water at a time.”
Hunter frowned. “That’s inefficient.”
“Listen,” Mason said. “Each guy gets one cast. If you catch something, you pass the rod to the next guy. If you don’t, you pass it anyway. Goal is to land five fish total before the sun clears the ridge.”
Grayson crossed his arms. “And if we don’t?”
“Then you all listen to me say I told you so for the rest of the day.”
“That’s not a punishment,” Tucker said. “That’s already happening.”
I eyed the river, then Mason. “What’s the point?”
“The point,” Mason said, too cheerfully, “is communication. Timing. Paying attention. Same shit we need on the ice.”
I huffed a laugh. “You turned fishing into a drill.”
“Everything is a drill,” Mason said. “First cast’s yours, rookie.”
Of course it was.
I took the rod, feeling the familiar weight settle into my hands. Skepticism sat heavy in my gut. It was too early. This was corny. Forced bonding in the wilderness wasn’t exactly my thing. I’d spent most of my career keeping my head down, doing my job, trusting talent to carry me.
I cast anyway.
The line arced out clean, the lure kissing the surface and disappearing. We waited. The river slid by, unbothered.
Nothing.
I reeled in and handed the rod to Hunter. “Your turn, caveman.”
Hunter smirked and cast, smoother than he looked like he should be this early. We watched the line together, five grown men standing shoulder to shoulder, breathing fog into the morning.
Hunter’s rod jerked.
“Oh shit,” Tucker said.
Hunter yelped, half-laughing as the line pulled. “I got one.”
“Easy,” Mason said. “Don’t horse it.”
“I know how to fish,” Hunter snapped, still grinning.
The fish broke the surface, silver and flashing, and Tucker cheered like we’d just scored in overtime. Hunter landed it, clumsy and proud, and passed the rod to Grayson.
“One,” Mason said. “See? Easy.”
Grayson cast like he was doing us a favor. “If this works, I’m taking credit.”
It kept working, but the credit was shared without any argument. We actually ended up having fun, to all of our surprise.
Not every cast hit, but enough of them did.
We started calling shots, reading the water together, shouting advice that was half bullshit and half instinct.
Mason slipped on the rocks and blamed the captain.
Tucker almost lost a fish and got heckled mercilessly.
By the third catch, we were laughing for real, not just killing time.
I found myself leaning in. Listening. Adjusting when someone suggested a different angle, a slower reel, a better spot. It felt… good. Natural, in a way I hadn’t expected. Like I’d been bracing for impact my whole career and suddenly realized no one was trying to knock me down.
By the time we landed the fifth fish, the sun had climbed high enough to burn the chill off our backs. Sweat crept under my hoodie. The river sparkled.
And Mason looked insufferably pleased.
“Told you,” he said.
Tucker dropped onto a rock. “I hate that you’re right.”
Grayson’s phone buzzed then, sharp and out of place. He glanced at the screen, expecting nothing, still smiling.
Then his smile faded.
“What?” Hunter asked.
“It’s from Coach.”
We all went quiet.
“He says Shawn’s healing really well—” Then Grayson swallowed. “But he’s done. Out for the rest of the season.”
The river kept moving, the sun kept rising. And just like that, that familiar weight was back, settling over all of us.