Chapter Eight
JACK
The drive back to Evergreen passed far too quickly.
Spokane's streets were quieter than they had been only a few hours earlier, the excitement of the game gradually giving way to the comfort of a typical Saturday evening, yet I found myself wishing every red light would last a little longer.
Mason sat beside me with one arm resting against the open window, occasionally glancing my way.
I'd discovered something unexpected during our afternoon together.
Words mattered, but they weren't the reason I enjoyed being with him.
For the first time in years, I dreaded reaching campus.
Eventually the entrance to Evergreen appeared ahead of us. Residence halls stood illuminated beneath pools of soft light, students wandered between buildings in small groups, and laughter drifted across the lawns from those celebrating the opening weekend of the semester and our hockey win.
I eased the SUV into the parking lot outside Mason's dormitory and switched off the engine, neither of us making any immediate move toward the doors.
Mason looked across at me.
"I don't want today to end."
Neither do I.
He read the screen before looking back at me, something soft settling into his expression.
"Come upstairs for a while."
I hesitated only long enough to think about tomorrow morning. Ice had to be ready before the team arrived but I had plenty of time before having to be at the arena. I nodded.
The walk to his residence hall took barely a minute, yet every step beside him seemed strangely significant.
Our shoulders brushed once or twice without either of us moving away, and instead of settling, my pulse quickened as the elevator doors slid open.
The reality of being alone with Mason suddenly felt far less like a dream and far more like something that was actually about to happen.
When the elevator doors slid open, the corridor outside his room was deserted.
Most of the team had clearly followed Ryan's suggestion of celebrating downtown. Mason unlocked the door, stepped aside, and motioned me inside.
"Welcome to my palace."
I laughed silently as I crossed the threshold. The room reflected exactly what I'd already learned about him. Mason was organized and comfortable in his space.
His hockey equipment occupied one corner in meticulous order, sticks lined neatly against the wall beside a rack of freshly cleaned practice gear.
Textbooks and notebooks covered the desk beneath the window overlooking campus, and photographs from Florida had found places on the shelves above his bed.
Family. Friends. Hockey. Every picture represented something important to him.
The soft click of the door closing behind us transformed everything.
We'd spent the past two days surrounded by teammates, coaches, students, or strangers, but for the first time since we'd met, we were completely alone behind a closed door, the quiet of Mason's room wrapping around us until I became acutely aware there was no one to interrupt us.
Mason took a few steps into the room before turning back toward me.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, paced as far as the desk, then stopped again, rubbing the back of his neck as though he was arguing with himself.
Twice the words reached his lips before he abandoned them, and by the third attempt I realized he wasn't searching for the right thing to say nearly as much as deciding whether he could risk saying anything at all.
"There's something I've been wanting to ask you since this afternoon." His voice was softer than usual, stripped of the easy confidence I'd become accustomed to hearing. "I kept talking myself out of it because I figured there was a good chance I'd completely misunderstood."
I held his gaze, waiting, my own pulse refusing to settle as dozens of possibilities raced through my mind.
For the first time in years, not having a voice felt like an even greater frustration because I couldn't reassure him without reaching for my phone, and that seemed too slow for a moment that already felt painfully fragile.
Mason drew a slow breath before continuing.
"When we were at the rink..." He hesitated, searching for the right words instead of forcing the wrong ones.
"A couple of times I caught you looking at me, and it didn't feel like the way you look at everyone else.
" His voice faltered for a moment before he finished.
"I've spent the last few hours trying to convince myself I imagined it but I don't think I did. "
Relief washed through me so suddenly it left me light-headed. Without taking my eyes off him, I slowly shook my head and stepped forward.
He released a slow breath and the tension in his shoulders eased. The uncertainty that had clouded his expression gave way to something different—hope.
"So I wasn't imagining it." The words were barely above a whisper. He studied me before adding, "I'm glad, because I haven't been able to think about much else since we met."
He took one careful step toward me, leaving enough space that I could still decide whether I wanted him any closer.
"I don't want to assume anything."
His voice had grown softer.
"I'd rather hear no than make you uncomfortable."
Emotion caught unexpectedly in my throat. No one had ever given me room to choose so completely.
You could never make me uncomfortable.
His expression softened as he read the words.
"I've wanted to kiss you since you arrived."
Heat crept into my face.
"I'm taking your blush as a good sign but you can still leave," he assured.
I shook my head.
I want this…all of it.
Mason's expression changed. The confidence he'd carried all afternoon gave way to something far more vulnerable, and I realized I wasn't the only one afraid of what came next.
"Jack." He spoke my name softly. "I need to know you're sure."
I want you. I'm not confused. I'm not doing this because I can't say no.
Mason read the words once. Then again. His throat worked.
"Okay," he whispered. "But if you want me to stop, tap my wrist. Twice. Or push me away. Anything."
After I nodded, he stood, close enough that the heat radiating off him reached me. A faint red mark crossed his jaw where a helmet strap had rubbed the skin. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to touch everything I had spent days pretending not to notice.
Mason lifted one hand and stopped just short of my face.
"Can I?"
I caught his wrist and placed his palm against my cheek.
His breath caught and the small sound shot through me. I leaned into his hand, and for one suspended second I had what I'd wanted since first laying eyes on the man: his touch, careful and certain, not pitying, not rushed.
When I opened my eyes, he was watching me like I had given him something precious.
"I've thought about this since I first saw you," he admitted. "More than I should."
My mouth curved despite the tightness in my chest. I tapped at my chest and Mason's eyebrows rose.
"You have too?"
I reached for the front of his shirt. The cotton was cool beneath my knuckles. Mason's gaze dropped to my hand, then returned to my face.
"Tell me if this is too fast."
I pulled him closer.
Our first kiss was slow. Deliberate. Mason closed the final distance between us and lifted one hand to my cheek. His touch was feather-light, giving me every opportunity to move away if I'd changed my mind.
I didn't. Instead, I leaned into his hand.
Then, with all the patience I'd come to expect from him, the lips I'd been dreaming about finally found mine. The kiss was gentle enough to steal my breath, carrying none of the urgency I'd expected and all of the tenderness I hadn't realized I'd been searching for.
His lips were warm. Softer than I had expected. He held my jaw with one hand and my waist with the other, keeping me close without trapping me. I opened for him when he asked with the pressure of his tongue, and the room filled with the faint scrape of our breathing.
I had no voice to give him. No whispered name, no broken confession. So I gave him my hands.
They slid beneath his shirt, finding the hard planes of his back and the heat gathered beneath his skin. Mason shuddered against me. His fingers tightened at my waist. He pulled back only far enough to look at me.
"Still okay?"
I answered by sliding my hands behind his neck and drawing him back into another kiss. When we finally separated, he rested his forehead against mine as he struggled to steady his breathing.
His hands remained around my waist, holding me as though letting go was no longer an option, yet I could feel the tension that had replaced the easy certainty we'd shared only moments earlier.
"I don't want to ruin this before it's even started," he admitted. "But there's something we can't ignore."
I waited, my attention never leaving him.
"Patrick Callahan isn't just your father. He's my coach. He's responsible for whether I play, how much ice time I get, and whether I reach the NHL. If we're together, I don't ever want anyone believing I'm getting special treatment because I'm dating the coach's son."
I understood. The thought had already crossed my own mind.
Then we tell him.
Mason stared at the screen and slowly nodded.
I don't want him hearing it from somebody else. If we're honest from the beginning, there are no secrets.
Mason slowly exhaled.
"I've spent my whole life avoiding conversations like this. No one in my family knows I'm gay. None of my friends know either. Back home it was easier to hide behind hockey because everyone expected that to be my only priority."
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
"My father has always had a very clear picture of the son he wanted. NHL. Wife. Kids. The whole thing." His mouth twisted into a faint, humourless smile. "I'm pretty sure this wasn't part of his plan."
I rested my hand against his chest before answering.
You don't have to tell them until you're ready.
He covered my hand with his own.
"But I don't want you thinking I'm ashamed of you."