Page 63 of Penalty Box
She glanced in the direction of the door, and I immediately guessed what she was on about because so did everyone else. The shift in the room said enough. Mason carried his own atmosphere when he entered a space, and tonight’s flashy play doubled that effect. He had the kind of presence you noticed whether you wanted to or not.
Teammates called out to him, a few clapped him on the back. I caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and something fluttered in my chest.
The moment he clocked me at the table, there was the slightest hitch in his step, the smallest flicker of confusion behind his eyes. Then he slipped back into his role again. It was all easy smiles from the dashing star of the night. Everyone, regular patrons included, called him to come sit at their table. But it was ours he made a beeline for.
Grayson greeted him with a full-bodied slap on the back. “Took you long enough.”
“Sorry,” Mason said, sliding into the open seat next to me. “Couldn’t find my pants.”
I nearly choked on my drink. The rest of them burst out laughing.
“Stardom already working out for you,” Hunter said proudly. “That’s our guy.”
His gaze lingered on me for a beat too long, then he added, “No offense. Josie’ll tell you all about the groupies.”
“You need nerves of steel with this bunch,” she said.
It felt like the spotlight landed right on us, and while I was still stammering through the right thing to say, Mason came to the rescue.
“You’re not offending anyone,” he said, cool as anything. “Cass and I are just friends.”
The others laughed, but Grayson shifted in his seat, watching us a little too closely. My brain went into overdrive, calculating the distance I was sitting from Mason, whether my body language supported his story or not, and if the dim lighting would hide the flush in my cheeks.
“Instead of hockey,” Hunter said, taking another sip of his beer. “I should’ve made a career out of having friends who bullshit me. Would’ve made a killing.”
“You’re making a killing now, even as the backup goalie,” Josie chided.
His face lit up. “Oh, right. Best of both worlds, I guess.”
They laughed again, and this time Grayson joined. When I saw that, I forced myself to relax and do the same. There was no point in hiding if I wasn’t going to sell the act. I shared a lookwith Mason who seemed to be on the same track, and that made it all feel a little better. We were back in character. Teammates, coworkers, puck-heads in arms.
But Mason’s knee brushed mine under the table. A light contact. Deliberate. My breath caught, but I didn’t move away.
Grayson raised his glass. “To making the Kraken cry on home ice.”
“To making them regret existing,” Hunter added.
“To goals that make headlines,” Mason said with a smirk. “Finally.”
Everyone clinked glasses and despite myself, I started enjoying the camaraderie.
The conversation drifted between stories from the road, inside jokes I didn’t quite get, and Hunter’s terrible impersonations of opposing team coaches. I found myself laughing until my cheeks hurt and my shoulders weren’t sitting up by my ears anymore.
Mason let the others carry the weight, offering a well-timed quip or anecdote here and there. I could tell our earlier rendezvous was front of mind. It was there every time our eyes met by accident. But he was careful. Distant enough, without being cold or obviously avoidant. He made space for me as one of the gang, without demanding anything.
I hated how much I wanted to lean into it. Into him. To have his arm around me the way Grayson’s lazily rested on Josie’s shoulders. Not giving a fuck about what anyone thought.
It felt sounfairthat they could do whatever they wanted, but I couldn’t.
“Cool of you to come,” Mason said quietly, catching me off guard. The others were joking about something Hunter had done in the locker room, not paying attention to us.
“I almost didn’t,” I replied, staring at him a little too hard. A little too long.
“Well, I’m glad you did. This is fun.”
I was about to say something about having lost touch with all things fun lately, when a tall blonde came up to the table and chimed in.
“Hey, Mason.” She was all legs in a short skirt and crop top that looked like it lived a previous life as a sample piece of fabric no bigger than a washcloth. Not a breath older than twenty-two, full of unearned confidence and college-girl charm. “Sick game tonight. You were out of this world.”
