“Since we’re stuck here,” she said. “Can I… ask about Denny?”
That calm evaporated, his breath quickening. He thought he hid his reaction, but she rested her hands on his leg.
“We don’t have to,” she said. “But I’d really like to understand. I’m not a pro athlete. Not even much of a sports fan. So I’m missing nuances here, and I want to understand what you’re going through.”
He managed a shaky “Okay,” even as his brain screamed it was not okay, that he didn’t want to talk about this. He’d made her talk about her writing, hadn’t he? He’d pushed and pushed, wanting to understand an issue with her career. He couldn’t deny her the same.
She continued, “Denny got hurt because you weren’t there to defend him, and that it’s your job to defend him, especially because he’s young and playing center. Right?”
Mason nodded.
“Some fans think you refused to help him. That you’re jealous of a young player whose star is rising as…” She swallowed sharply, as if to avoid finishing that, but he knew what she’d been going to say, and his heart picked up speed again.
“But that’s not true,” she said firmly. “And no one wants people spreading lies that make them look bad.”
Like letting his friends say he’d kissed her only on a dare.
Maybe she didn’t think that. But he did.
She shifted, her hand moving to rest on his thigh. “But… you must be used to that, Mason. You’ve spent your career as an enforcer. To be blunt, you’re a professional asshole, and you’ve always seemed okay with it. Fans love you for it or they love hating you for it. Am I wrong that you’re okay with that?”
He relaxed. This was easy territory. “I’m fine with it. I’ve been dealing with the hate part since…” He shrugged. “Forever. I don’t know what you remember from when we were kids. Maybe itseemed as if I was some kind of golden boy, and I was, don’t get me wrong. People spoiled me, and I loved it. Still do. Can’t deny that. But there have always been those who hated me. It wasn’t even other kids as much as their parents.”
“Parents?” Gemma bristled. Then she said, “Okay, no, that makes sense. I’ve had friends with kids in sports, and I know parents are the worst. I’m sorry you had to put up with that.”
He shrugged again. “It came with the territory. I’ve always had thick skin. Coaches and my shrink told me to tune out the negativity, so I did. And then I started to embrace it. Those parents were angry because I was better than their kids. Let them be angry. It confirmed I was better. As an enforcer, I know what I’m doing: helping my team win. If I need to be an asshole, I will be an asshole, and if I’m jeered by fans, then it’s because I’m a threat totheirteam’s chances. As I should be. Do I get jeered by Growler fans? No, but they do grumble sometimes, if I take attention from their favorite player—like parents jeering at me for taking attention from their kids. I know what I’m doing, and I know it’s for my team, not for me, so fuck them.”
He glanced at her. “That’s the very long way of saying I’m fine with it.”
She smiled and squeezed his knee. “Good. You’re right, on all of it. Your job is being an asshole on the ice.”
“I just need to carry less of that off the ice.”
“A little, yes.” The smile faded, her brow furrowing. “But if it’s not the negative press that’s bothering you, what is it? Do you feel bad because the kid got hurt? That’s understandable.”
His gut clenched, and he scanned the horizon, reaching for the binoculars.
“Mason?” She gently pulled the binoculars from his reach. “Can you tell me how it happened?”
His heart hammered, and he shook his head.
“Is it like with what happened between us?” she said. “You don’t know how it happened? Or why?”
He nodded.
She exhaled. “Okay. Can we walk through it? People think you’re jealous, which you aren’t—”
“Envious,” he blurted. Then he pulled back, rolling his shoulders. “To me, envy means you want what someone has. Jealousy means you want what someone hasandyou don’t think they should have it.”
He pushed past the urge to duck and dodge.Be honest with her.“Do I wish I had the body of a twenty-one-year-old again? Fuck, yeah. Do I wish I had fifteen years in the NHL ahead of me? Yeah, I do, but I…” His breathing quickened. “I don’t.”
She slid closer, right up against him now.
He kept going, knowing if he paused, he’d stop. “I’m only thirty-six. I feel as if I’ve just gotten started, and now the end is right in front of me, and I… I don’t… I don’t know what to do with that.”
She hugged him, tight and fierce.
“I’m not an old horse ready to be put out to pasture, Gem,” he said. “For a player my age, I’m in really good shape. For an enforcer my age? Just stillbeingan enforcer at my age is an accomplishment. I work my ass off to stay healthy. I’m careful in my fights, and I take the recovery time I need. But all that means shit, because all people see is a number. My age. My advanced fucking age at thirty-six.”
