Then he stands, walks past my stall, and stops. He nods once. “Not all on you, Cap.”
And then he’s gone, and it’s just me sitting at my locker, with Mason still in the shower. He’s been in there a while, and I’ve been waiting for it to stop, because I’m tired of him being a problem I can’t solve.
The water cuts off, and Mason comes around the corner.
“Tough loss.” He doesn’t look at me as he heads to his stall, towel around his waist.
I don’t answer, but my hands turn into fists.
“But that speech.” He mimics a chef’s kiss. “Inspiring stuff. RealMighty Ducksenergy.”
“Don’t,” I say, my voice quiet.
He feigns innocence. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t do this right now.”
“Do what?” He’s pulling on boxer briefs now. “I’m just talking.”
I don’t respond, because I’m hoping he’ll shut the fuck up now.
“You know what your problem is, Hale?”
“Mason.”
“You think the C makes you right.” He’s at the mirror now, doing his hair. “It doesn’t. It just means you were picked.”
“Mason.”
“So don’t take your shit out on me, okay?” He scoffs. “You took the penalty. You lost the game. You’re the one with the C. That’s the gig.”
I stand up, and the words come out of my mouth before I think about them. “Mason, shut the fuck up.”
Mason turns from the mirror. He’s smiling, but it’s different now, predatory and cold. “There he is. The guy under the polish.”
I want to hit him.
I have never, in three years, wanted to hit a guy on my own team, but I’m feeling it now, and my hands are already balled into fists. Worse, I’m feeling the same way they did when I leveled that defenseman and cost my team the game.
But the thought passes, and I open my hand.
He sees it — of course he sees it — and he scoffs and looks away.
I’m about to leave, but Mason’s at his locker, looking at the photo of his father again. He does it when he thinks no one’s watching, and I know the ghost in it as well as I know my own: a father who set a bar and stood back to watch you chase it.
For half a second, standing here, it almost moves me.
But then he opens his mouth.
“Here’s the thing, Rowan.” He keeps his eyes on the photo, his back to me. “You embarrassed me in front of the room tonight, so now it’s my turn.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it means.” He steps into his jeans, pulls them up, and tugs the zipper. “I wanted the C, but you got it. And the girl?”
My stomach drops. “What about her?”
He shrugs, grabs his bag from the shelf, and slings it over one shoulder. When he looks back at me, he’s almost pleasant now. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that one.”
