Chapter Eight #2
I shook my head.
I don't.
His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"I just need a little time with my family. Coach is different." He glanced toward the closed door before looking back at me. "He deserves to hear it from us because he's both your father and my coach."
I answered without hesitation.
Tomorrow.
He searched my face, making certain I meant it.
"Together?"
Together.
The last of the tension eased from his expression.
"I can do that."
I slipped my phone onto the bedside table and took his hand again.
You're worth having difficult conversations for.
Emotion flickered across his face before he drew me back into his arms.
"And so are you."
Mason backed toward the bed, never breaking contact. The backs of his knees touched the mattress, and he sat with me between his legs. His hands moved over my sides, slow enough for me to stop him, warm enough to make stopping impossible.
When he lifted the hem of my shirt, he paused. I raised my arms and he slid off my shirt, tossing it across the room. Cool air passed over my skin, followed by Mason's gaze. He studied the faint scar near my ribs, the one I usually hid beneath layers, and his fingers hovered above it.
"Can I touch you there?"
I placed his hand to the scar.
His fingertips traced the scar with reverence, not curiosity. He didn't ask how it had happened, he would likely wait until later when I used my phone. I felt my throat tighten around a sound that couldn't come. Mason leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the mark and the tenderness undid me.
I bent over him, gripping his shoulders, and he wrapped both arms around my waist. His face rested against my stomach for one breath, then two. The position made me feel held in a way I had never known how to request.
I threaded my fingers through his hair.
"You're sure?"
I answered by pulling him to his feet and dragging his shirt over his head.
His body was marked by hockey: bruises fading along his ribs, a thin cut near his collarbone, muscle built from endless drills and collisions. I touched each place slowly including the raw welt caused by his helmet. Mason reacted to my hands by trembling. It was as if they were speaking.
When I pressed my mouth to his shoulder, he exhaled sharply.
Mason spun me around until the bed caught the backs of my legs. He lowered me onto it, then followed, bracing his weight on one arm. He kissed me until the fear in my chest became heat, need. His palm slid beneath the waistband of my pants and stopped.
I urged him to continue and within seconds we were both naked.
He moved carefully, watching my face and wrapped a calloused fist around both our dicks and dragged back and forth..
Every time the sensation grew too intense, I caught his wrist, and he slowed.
Every time I wanted more, I drew him closer.
Our communication became a language of pressure and breath, of his mouth returning to mine whenever doubt threatened to separate us.
Mason kissed the corner of my mouth. "You're beautiful."
I ran a finger softly across his full lips and thought, You make me feel seen.
My eyes fixed on his as we crossed the distance between wanting and giving, until his forehead rested against mine.
The room blurred. I was lost to his breath at my neck, the roughness of his palm, and the clean scent of soap and sweat.
The bed shifted beneath us. I held on to his shoulders and let myself feel everything I'd kept locked behind silence.
Mason whispered my name. Each time, it sounded less like a question and more like a vow he was afraid to make too loudly.
Every cell in my body tingled as his fist tightened around our dicks and he faltered ever so slightly.
I pulled at his hair, trying to convey my feeling of need. Minutes later, we erupted together and warm cum painted both our chests and stomachs. My head spun and stars danced behind my eyes. I'd never come so hard in my life.
When it was over, we stayed tangled together beneath the thin dorm blanket.
Mason's head rested against my shoulder. His fingers moved lazily over mine, tracing the spaces between them. My body felt tender and loose, but the deeper ache had eased. I had crossed the distance and he'd met me there.
After a while, he lifted his head.
"This changes things," he warned.
I reached for my phone, but Mason caught my hand.
"You don't have to say anything." He brought my knuckles to his mouth. "I'm not sorry."
I studied Mason's face, searching for regret, for retreat, for the moment when someone decided my silence and inability to communicate made me too difficult to care about.
There was no sign of fear. There was the cost of us beginning a relationship waiting beyond the door but there was no retreat.
I turned my hand and kissed his palm.
Morning would still come and with it the need to speak with Dad, but for now, I felt safe in Mason's arms.
Sleep eventually claimed us, though not before we'd surrendered completely to everything we'd both felt since Mason arrived at Evergreen.
Every lingering uncertainty disappeared beneath whispered smiles, gentle touches, and the certainty that neither of us had been imagining what had drawn us together.
Nothing about being with Mason felt hurried or uncertain.
Instead, every embrace, every kiss, and the time we spent looking at one another strengthened the feeling that this wasn't the beginning of something reckless, but the beginning of something that had been waiting for both of us.
***
I woke before sunrise without immediately understanding why.
The room remained dark, pale morning light only just beginning to seep around the edges of the curtains, but it wasn't the unfamiliar surroundings that held my attention. It was the man at my back.
Mason's arm rested comfortably across my waist, his steady breathing brushing softly against the back of my neck as he slept without the slightest hint of awareness that he'd managed to claim almost the entire bed during the night.
I'd shared hospital call rooms with classmates, fallen asleep on couches after study sessions, and spent countless nights alone in my own bedroom, yet none of those memories came close to how I felt waking with Mason.
Lying there with him holding me so naturally felt less like spending the night somewhere unfamiliar and more like waking exactly where I belonged.
For several peaceful minutes I allowed myself to exist in the moment, listening to the cadence of Mason's breathing and wishing the glowing numbers on the bedside clock would stop advancing.
They refused to oblige. Responsibility wasn't going to wait because I wanted another hour in his arms. The arena wouldn't prepare itself, and if the ice wasn't ready before the team arrived, Dad would be the one dealing with the consequences. Reluctantly, I checked the clock.
5:38 a.m.
Much as I wanted to ignore it, it was time to get up.
I closed my eyes for a second. It wasn't nearly long enough.
Carefully, I shifted just enough to reach for my clothes, hoping I could slip out of bed without disturbing Mason. The attempt lasted all of three seconds before he tightened his arm around me and buried his face more firmly against my shoulder.
"Mmm...don't go."
The sleepy murmur carried just enough complaint to make me laugh silently.
His eyes opened a fraction before finding mine.
"You're actually leaving."
I gave him an apologetic smile.
I have to. The team trains this morning, and the ice has to be ready before everyone arrives.
He read the screen before letting his head fall dramatically onto the pillow.
"It's Sunday."
He feigned offense on behalf of the entire roster.
"I can't believe Coach scheduled practice the morning after the first game."
Most Sundays are yours.
He sighed with theatrical disappointment.
"So this isn't going to become a weekly torture session?"
I shook my head and relief spread across his face.
"Good. I was beginning to think your father hated weekends."
I grinned before adding another message.
Next year I probably won't know what a weekend is. Fourth year is busy enough, but once residency starts the hospital won't care whether it's Saturday, Sunday, or Christmas. Patients don't stop needing doctors because it's the weekend or holidays.
Mason became noticeably quieter after reading.
"I never really thought about that."
I shrugged lightly. Medicine demanded what it demanded. It always had.
Mason reached for my hand before intertwining his fingers with mine, his thumb brushing absentmindedly across my knuckles as though reluctant to let go.
"Come on," he finally decided. "If you're going to work, I'm coming with you."
I blinked in surprise.
He grinned.
"I've never actually watched anyone prepare a rink before, and I'd rather spend another hour with you than lie here pretending I can get back to sleep."
Warmth settled deep inside my chest and I squeezed his hand before nodding.
Together, we climbed out of bed and began getting ready for the day, neither of us rushing despite the early hour, both aware that even the simplest moments felt better when we were sharing them.
The campus remained close to deserted as we crossed toward the arena, the cool morning air carrying the clean scent that always followed an overnight drop in temperature.
Spokane hadn't fully awakened yet but a handful of students wandered across the lawns toward the nearest café.
Maintenance staff moved between buildings, and the rising sun painted the eastern sky with streaks of gold that reflected from the arena's broad glass frontage.
Beside me, Mason walked with his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, still looking as though another two hours of sleep would have been his preferred way to spend the morning, yet not once did he complain about coming with me.
"I don't think anyone should be awake before nine on a Sunday."