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She would actually be his type.
Something dark brews inside me, turning my stomach sour. Mason has been texting me about his boring, early nights. Hitting lights out at nine o’clock, not going out to any clubs or bars ...
I widen my eyes and pretend to look fascinated and a little jealous. “Really. Wow, aren’t you lucky. Tell me more.” I’m asking for strictly professional reasons, of course.
“Well, we were together just last night. At my apartment. He comes there to avoid the paparazzi.” She smirks. “We did it on my couch and in the shower and on the kitchen table. He can’t get enough of me.” She coyly toys with a strand of hair. “He wants to marry me, but we need to wait until the season’s over, of course.”
Last night? Okay, now I know she’s lying.
“What time?” I snap.
“What ... time?” Her gloating expression fades and she looks at me, puzzled.
“What time did you guys do it?”
Now she looks alarmed. It is a weird question. “Uh ... eight o’clock?”
Well, that’s funny, because last night Mason sent me a panicked text because Puck had ingested a single coffee bean and he wanted to know if Puck was going to die. I found him an all-hours vet emergency hotline. At 7:45 p.m. Which made it unlikely that he was at Blondie’s house bending her over the furniture at eight.
“See these excellent seats my friend and I have?” I turn my voice sharp as a knife. “I got them because I am his attorney. And you just committed slander. He was discussing legal contracts with me last night via Zoom, at 8 p.m. You could be sued for ruining his reputation. Watch what you say about him in the future.”
She glares at me, mutters something that rhymes with “mucking rich,” and huffily scooches as far away from me as she can get without leaving her seat.
Have I just been a little harsh? Maybe, but I want to discourage any reputation-harming rumors. And honestly, this makes me wonder exactly how much of his man-whore reputation is accurate and how much of it is wildly exaggerated.
“He’s got a breakaway.” Cece shouts, leaping to her feet.
Oops. I wasn’t watching.
I leap to my feet too and cheer along with her. I am flabbergasted watching my dignified society lady boss scream her throat raw along with the rest of the crowd.
Staring at the ice, I watch as Mason slices his way across the ice with brutal efficiency, with the Megs right on his heels. With a mighty swing of his stick, the puck sails across the ice and into the net.
As cheers of triumph ring through the arena, I watch Mason glide gracefully away. My heart is thundering in my chest. I have to admit, he’s poetry on ice.
16
MASON
Jase Donovan,the asshole from the Megs, cross-checks me with his stick, slamming into my back.
Again.
And again, the ref misses it.
The ref needs a damned seeing-eye dog. Where they hell did they get this guy from? Picked his name out of a hat?
Well, I’m not in the mood. The crowd energy is great, but my energy is all off. And I didn’t come out on the ice to take shit from anybody, especially not somebody who wants to provoke me.
I spin around and shove 43 hard, sending him staggering back on the ice. Of course, this time the ref is looking.
The whistle blows and I curse to myself. My teammates groan and curse out loud. “What the fuck.” Dylan growls.
I skate over to the ref, scowling.
“He cross-checked me twice,” I yell in protest, like it will do any good.
“Two minutes for fighting.” His face is impassive.
