Chapter Six
JACK
The locker room corridor was unusually silent by the time Graham and I completed the equipment inventory for the morning.
Most of the players had disappeared behind the heavy doors several minutes earlier, leaving only the occasional burst of laughter echoing faintly down the hallway before fading into the familiar sounds of showers and running water.
Practice days always followed the same routine.
Once the ice session ended, everyone scattered toward their own routines, and the arena settled into a calmer pace until the team gathered again for afternoon video analysis.
I glanced at my phone for what was probably the tenth time in as many minutes.
Twenty minutes.
That was how long Mason had estimated he'd need.
Nineteen had already passed.
I had spent years telling myself that medicine left little room for distractions.
Every lecture, every practical assessment and every clinical placement demanded complete concentration.
Relationships had always remained in the distant future because they didn't fit alongside everything else I wanted to accomplish.
Even before medical school, I'd accepted that being mute complicated every part of meeting new people.
Most conversations eventually reached the same awkward point when someone realized I couldn't answer verbally, and despite everyone's best intentions, the dynamic inevitably changed.
Some became uncomfortable. Others overcompensated.
A few drifted away because they found communicating with me too difficult.
Mason hadn't.
He had treated my silence as though it were nothing more than another way of communicating.
He watched my expressions instead of waiting impatiently for spoken answers, never once making me feel rushed while I typed replies and managed to make our conversations feel completely natural.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd met someone who adapted so effortlessly.
It was...refreshing.
Dangerously so.
I'd known him for only a few hours, yet I found myself checking the hallway every time footsteps approached, hoping they belonged to him.
Logic insisted I was reading far too much into a single invitation to lunch.
Players invited new teammates to eat all the time.
It didn't have to mean anything beyond simple friendship.
Unfortunately, logic wasn't winning the argument in my head.
The locker room door finally swung open and several players emerged first, talking animatedly as they headed toward the parking lot, each offering me a wave or nod as they passed.
Ryan caught my eye long enough to flash an exaggerated grin before disappearing through the front entrance with Oscar and Ben still debating whether Ryan's final shot during practice had actually crossed the goal line.
A few minutes later Mason stepped into the corridor and for just a second, I forgot how to breathe.
Gone were the shoulder pads, helmet and practice jersey that had hidden most of his build throughout the morning.
In their place were dark, fitted jeans and the same forest-green Evergreen hoodie I wore so often myself, the university crest stretching comfortably across his broad chest. The sleeves had been pushed casually to his forearms, exposing strong hands that looked equally capable of handling a hockey stick or offering comfort to someone who needed it.
His dark hair was still slightly damp from the shower, and the fresh, clean scent floating toward me as he approached made my pulse stumble in a way I hadn't expected.
The hoodie suited him.
Far more than I cared to admit.
He found me within seconds, and the easy smile that spread across his face erased every sensible thought still lingering in my head.
"Sorry if I kept you waiting."
I shook my head before tapping out a reply.
Not at all. I only got here a few minutes ago.
The corners of his mouth lifted.
"You're a terrible liar."
I shrugged innocently before adding, Hungry?
"Starving."
I gestured toward the arena exit. Once we were outside beneath the warm Spokane sunshine, I pulled out my phone.
I know a little Italian place about ten minutes from here. Nothing fancy, but the food's incredible. It overlooks the river if you'd like to see a little of Spokane.
Mason's expression brightened.
"I'd like that."
I'll drive.
"Sounds good to me."
The drive into downtown Spokane took barely ten minutes, yet it gave Mason his first real glimpse beyond the university campus.
Evergreen occupied its own corner of the city, insulated by tree-lined streets and academic buildings that could easily make someone forget there was an entire community surrounding it.
As we followed Riverside Avenue toward the heart of downtown, the skyline gradually opened around us.
Historic brick buildings stood comfortably beside modern glass offices, cafés spilled onto sidewalks beneath colorful awnings, and people moved at an unhurried pace that made the city feel welcoming rather than busy.
I caught Mason studying everything through the passenger window, his attention shifting from the river appearing between the buildings to the small boutiques and restaurants lining the streets.
There was an unmistakable curiosity in his expression, reminding me of someone discovering a place they'd only ever seen in photographs.
When we stopped at a traffic light, I unlocked my phone and typed out a message before holding it toward him.
I've lived here my whole life. Every time I think I've seen everything Spokane has to offer, I find another place worth coming back to.
"Sounds like you're trying to convince me to stay."
Maybe I am.
The light changed, and I pulled away from the intersection, following Riverside Avenue as it curved alongside the river.
Mason continued peering through the passenger window, taking in everything from the restored brick warehouses that had become cafés and galleries to the green parkland stretching along the waterfront.
Every now and then his attention settled on another landmark—a bronze sculpture, a historic building, or another stretch of sparkling water—and I found myself seeing my hometown through fresh eyes.
A few minutes later I eased into a parking space beneath a row of towering maples overlooking the river.
Even before the engine stopped, Mason was looking toward the collection of small restaurants lining the street, each occupying one of the beautifully restored buildings that had stood there for well over a century.
I climbed out, waited for him to join me, and together we crossed the sidewalk toward a weathered brick building tucked beneath the Riverside Bridge.
The restaurant occupied the lower level of a century-old brick building overlooking the Spokane River.
From the street it appeared hidden, the entrance tucked beneath a wrought-iron balcony draped with flowering baskets overflowing with red and white petunias.
A hand-painted wooden sign bearing the name Rossi's Trattoria swung back and forth above the doorway, giving the impression the little restaurant had been welcoming customers for generations rather than trying to attract tourists.
As soon as we stepped inside, the aroma of garlic, basil, fresh bread, and simmering tomato sauce wrapped around us like a warm embrace.
The dining room wasn't large, perhaps twenty tables altogether, with polished timber floors, exposed brick walls and shelves displaying dusty wine bottles alongside black-and-white photographs of Italy.
Soft instrumental music drifted unnoticed through the room, adding to the relaxed atmosphere without ever demanding attention.
The hostess greeted me with immediate recognition before leading us toward my favorite table beside the wide windows overlooking the river.
Mason paused for a moment before sitting down.
"This place is incredible."
I smiled and showed him my answer.
Wait until you see the view.
Beyond the glass, the Spokane River flowed steadily beneath the afternoon sunshine, the water sparkling like scattered crystal whenever it caught the light.
Several pleasure boats drifted lazily along the broader stretch downstream, their passengers enjoying the warmth of the late summer day, while closer to shore a family of ducks glided effortlessly across the calmer water, leaving ripples spreading behind them.
Cottonwood trees shaded the opposite bank, their leaves stirring softly in the breeze, and now and then the distant laughter of children carried across from the riverside walking paths where families and cyclists enjoyed the day.
For several seconds neither of us felt any need to speak.
The river invited silence. Not the uncomfortable kind I'd spent years watching people struggle through after discovering I couldn't talk, but the peaceful sort that invited people to appreciate where they were.
A waitress appeared beside our table with menus and glasses of iced water before giving us a few minutes to decide.
Mason studied the menu with obvious interest.
"I don't think I've ever seen this many pasta choices."
My thumbs moved across the screen.
Everything's good, but the house-made fettuccine is worth coming back for.
He laughed softly.
"So you've got a favorite."
I gave him a thumbs up.
When the waitress returned, Mason looked toward me before ordering.
"I'll trust the local. I'll have the house-made fettuccine with grilled chicken."
Her attention shifted to me.
I pointed to the menu, then turned my screen toward him.
Same as always. Seafood linguine. Extra shrimps.
He chuckled.
"Now I know why you wanted to come here."