Page 117 of Writing Mr. Wrong

A quiet moment passed, and then Denny said, “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“I saw you play when I was a kid. I’d beg my dad to take us to Growler games, even though we lived in Seattle. And it was because… because the time I saw you in Seattle, you were tearing it up, owning the ice, and looking so damn happy. That…”

Denny’s cheeks flushed. “It was the first time I saw someone who seemed to feel the same way I did out there, and that was when I decided I wanted to make the NHL. And then I was drafted to the Growlers? I could not believe my luck. I got to play withMason Moretti.”

“Who then let you get slammed into the boards and miss weeks of the season.”

“That wasn’t on you. Yes, you’ll say it was your job, and I think you’ve been beaten up way too much for a simple mistake.” He met Mason’s eyes. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose. You wouldn’t do it to the team. If I could ask you to teach me something, that’s it. How to put the team first. After juniors, I still feel like everyone is my competition, even my teammates. I know that’s wrong, and I need to get over it.”

“Sure, I can help with that.” Mason straightened. “Are you heading out? Or do you have time for a beer?”

The kid grinned like a fan being asked to join his hockey hero for a drink. Mason thought of what Denny said, about following Mason’s games when he was a boy. He pictured young Denny in the stands and, man, did that make him feel old. But he’d been a kid in those stands, too, cheering for players long since retired. And somewhere in the stands tonight, there’d probably been a kid who saw Denny play and said,I want to do that.

That was the cycle, and Mason was part of it. A career in pro sports was a Roman candle, a brief blast of brilliance, that you had to enjoy while it lasted. Then it was time to start planning for the next stage. And for the first time in his life, Mason was starting to think it could be just as amazing and shine just as bright… and maybe last a whole lot longer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

GEMMA

Mason had texted two hours ago to say he was going out for a beer with Denny, and he hoped that was okay, and she shouldn’t wait up. It was better than okay—a shared drink meant the talk had gone well. As for waiting up, she certainly wasn’t going to bed. He’d had a hellishly long and stressful day. She’d be here for him.

Also, she was hoping for sex. Okay, fine, that was probably not on the table after that long and stressful day, capped off by a physically strenuous game. Gemma had already watched the highlights reel, and she’d seen how hard Mason had worked, as if he wasn’t already exhausted from the trip. He’d even scored an assist to help Denny win the game.

So probably no sex. But she could hope, right? Either way, there would be lots of time for that, because their getaway had gone into overtime.

Gemma stretched out with her laptop in front of the roaring fire, watched snow drift past the window, and she grinned at her luck. The luck of finding a guy who didn’t just listen to her butheardher.

They’d had a lazy conversation late last night, where he’d gottenher to admit what she’d wanted for their getaway. And that’s what he gave her. A chalet in Whistler for a week.

He’d been careful about the “surprise” this time because, again, hehadbeen listening. He told her what he had in mind and asked the driver to stop by her apartment so she could pack. Whistler was only an hour from home, and he’d promised they’d go into the city tomorrow to grab anything she’d forgotten.

This was not the chalet she imagined. It was about three times the size. Two fireplaces. A Jacuzzi. A sauna. A hot tub on the deck. A full kitchen. And both a living roomanda study for her to write in. Because that’s what she was supposed to be doing here. He’d need to come and go, with practices and games, and she’d hole up and write.

What would she be writing? Her new book, apparently. She flipped to her work email and reread the message. Yesterday, she’d written a proposal for her editor. She’d said she’d still finish the promised book two if they wanted it, but she had this other idea that might work better, given the success—however humble—ofFling.

She’d written the email, attached the proposal, and hit Send while they were on the island without cell service. Once they had service, she let it and several other emails go… and then forgot about them in the chaos of the flights. It was only once she reached the chalet, settled in, and cracked open her laptop that she realized she had a reply.

Love the new direction! We’d need to rework the schedule, but I hadn’t presented thenew book to sales yet, so we’re fine. Let’s chat when you’re home. We can talk due dates and get you back on the schedule. Hope you had a great trip!

And that was it. All her worrying that she’d torpedo her nascent career, and her editor gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up. The other email from her editor might have helped. It congratulated her on hitting theUSA Todaylist. Gemma had forgotten all about that. Her editor—and the imprint—was thrilled that she’d debuted on the list and that her sales were going strong into the second week.

Then there was the email from Daphne.

Congrats on hitting the list!!! I’m so thrilled for you. And before you credit Hockey Guy and the publicity, you’re holding above four stars on Goodreads. The extra publicity only helped people find your book. That’s what Chris reminded me every time I fretted that Edge only sold because it had your hot brother playing the author :)

On a related note, my agent would like to speak to you about representation. No, I did not ask him. I know you didn’t want that. I mentioned months ago that my sister-in-law had a romance coming out, but now that he’s had a chance to read it, he’s eager to talk to you. Whether you go with him orsomeone else, I really think you’re going to need representation. It’ll also help having someone to talk to about issues with deadlines, hint, hint.

Gemma had replied to Daphne and said yes to a meeting with Lawrence. He was her dream agent, naturally, but he didn’t represent romance, and she’d been terrified of him taking her on as a favor to his biggest-selling client.

Gemma had spent the last two hours working on her new book, and she already had a first chapter. Her new hero wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but he wasn’t an asshole. Nor did he particularly remind her of anyone she knew, which was good. And being in Lilias’s point of view made the words flow like water. These were the sorts of characters Gemma wanted to write—capable women and the not-entirely-assholes who loved them.

When the front door opened, she scrambled up and ran like a twenty-year-old newlywed. She skidded barefoot into the hall just as Mason flicked on the light and saw her. He grinned, any exhaustion falling away as he swept her up in his arms.

“Did it go well?” she asked. “With Denny?”

“Very well.” He hugged her, still holding her aloft. “Thank you. I needed to do that.”

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