Shit. He didn’t even know that. She used to talk about getting a PhD. He’d remembered that, because it’d driven home how smart she was.
College? You can barely read.
“So Denny…” she prompted.
“He got hurt during a game. A couple of weeks ago. He had to be hospitalized.”
“Damn.” She sat back. Then her gaze shot to him, and when she spoke, he could tell she was picking her words with care. “Did something, uh, happen? On the ice? Between you two?”
“What? No. I didn’t do it.”
She frowned. “Then what does this have to do with you?”
He took a gulp of his whiskey. “I didn’t protect him.”
Her frown grew.
“Remember what we were talking about earlier?” he said. “It’s my job to protect players from the goons.”
“Goons. Right. I once made the mistake of confusing enforcers and goons, and Alan set me straight.”
Alan. Her ex? Did he know any Alans from high school?
She continued, “So a goon went after Denny, and you failed to get to him in time. Tough break for the kid, but I still don’t see how it’s your fault if you didn’t notice what was happening.”
“I did notice. I always do. That’s part of the job.”
“Okay, but you were too far away to stop it.”
He took another hit even as Gemma lifted a hand, as if to slow him down. The whiskey burned, setting his head spinning.
“I was right there.” The words slurred out. “Close enough to stopit. I didn’t, and now everyone thinks I did it on purpose. He’s the hot young player, and I’m…” Mason shrugged. “An old-timer.”
She laughed. “You’re thirty-six, Mason. That is far from…” She trailed off, as if realizing something.
“It’s old for hockey,” he said. “There are only two players over forty in the NHL right now. Only a handful over thirty-five. Oldest guy ever was fifty-two.”
“Gordie Howe,” she murmured.
“Mr. Hockey himself. I’m good, but I’m no Gordie Howe. People are asking when I’ll be hanging up my skates, and I can get a little… sensitive about it. So when Denny got hurt, and I just stood there?”
“It looked like you let him get hurt. Like you were being an asshole.”
He waited for her to ask the next question. Because she had to ask.
Is that why you did it? Are you jealous?
“So what really happened?” she asked.
His gaze shot to hers.
She rolled her eyes. “You are your own special brand of asshole, Mason. You’re never intentionally cruel, and you’re definitely not vindictive.”
He met her gaze, or tried to, though her eyes seemed to be rocking from side to side. “That… that means a lot.”
“Saying you’re not the kind of asshole who’d let a kid get clobbered on the rink because you’re jealous of him? If you were that guy, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I wouldn’t have agreed to fake date you even if you could guarantee me a bestselling book.”
“You’re so nice, Gemma,” he slurred. “You’re always nice. Even when I don’t deserve it.”
