Page 17 of Penalty Box
“I call it like I see it,” I said with a shrug, and pushed off to follow after him.
He reached down mid-stride and adjusted one of his laces. “Okay, then, let’s see what you’ve got.”
I slowed to a near stop. “What do you mean?”
“I’m saying—” He gestured grandly across the open ice. “Skate-off. You and me. Show me what you’ve got.”
“Is this because I won the first point at practice? Because you’re a pro, and I work in a basement. That’s hardly fuel for a skate-off.”
But he wasn’t about to budge. “I know ice, and I know people on ice. You look like someone who can hold her own. Come on, Firestarter. Dazzle me.”
I rolled my eyes, but accepted the challenge anyway, picking up speed as I made a clean circle around the neutral zone. His gaze followed every movement. I hadn’t skated like this in months. Even when I was alone at the rink, it always felt like someone might see.
It was funny then, that Mason watching didn’t make me feel judged. Just seen.
When I looped around and came to a slow stop beside him, he gave a long, appreciative nod.
“You’ve got form,” he said. “And guts.”
“Guts, huh?”
“Not everyone would take on a challenge with a Surge player.” He started drifting backward again, and I skated alongside him.
“Yeah, well, it’s easier when said Surge player has an overblown ego that needs checking.”
He laughed out loud, the sound ricocheting off the cold rafters. “You think you know me.”
“You’re just easy to read,” I shot back, nudging his shin with the toe of my blade. “All that overtraining, the stunts on ice… You’re a flashing neon sign.”
“Yeah?” He skated closer, enough that I could see the little wrinkle near his eyes, and the mischief dancing in those deep pools of blue. “What’s my sign say?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Trying too hard.”
“Well, I’d like to see you really try,” he said, turning to face front again. “All this child’s play when I can tell you’ve got more in you. Come on.”
And he was off, blades slicing through the ice in rhythmic swishes. I caught up easily, a peal of laughter rippling out of me despite myself.
“To the end and back,” he said, already out of breath. “Winner takes all.”
I chased the sound of his skates tearing across the ice. Wind clawed at my face, and adrenaline surged through my chest like a second heartbeat. Every push of my legs burned, but the kind of burn that made me feel alive. Made me feel free. Mason was beside me almost the whole way, not pulling ahead, not falling back, just matching my rhythm stride for stride. For a second, I forgot everything—my dad, the rules, my unspoken code of never dating a hockey player.
All I felt was the rush, the perfect glide of blade on ice, and him right there beside me like we were made for the same pace. Neck and neck, breathless and laughing, like we were making something new that was just ours.
Then, just when I was all lost and mushy over the handsome face in my periphery, he pulled ahead. Because of course Mason Calder wasn’t about to take a loss.
“Winner takes all.” He held out a hand to help me to the side.
I was still catching my breath, and the stitch in my side wasn’t helping. “What exactly is ‘all’?”
“Your number,” he said, as though he’d had that answer figured out long in advance.
“Wish I could help you out.” I bent over, hands on my knees. Damn, that really took it out of me. “But you can’t have my number.”
“Why not?” That playful edge was gone from his voice. He was actually serious, all concerned. I would’ve laughed if I could actually breathe.
“Well, what would you save it under? Firestarter?”
I straightened then, and locked eyes with him. After a beat, his smile mirrored my own and Mason collapsed in a pointed groan.
