Page 43 of Love Me (Charlotte Monarchs Hockey #1)
Bree
“ T hat was your boyfriend?” Mason asks, entering the living room and throwing his phone onto the couch.
“Yeah,” I say. I’m bummed that Luke has a trip tonight. I could use his strength right now.
“Do you even know who he is, Bree?” Mason glares at me. “Has he admitted what he did yet?”
“What does that mean?” My stomach flips and spins as I wonder what Luke could possibly have done. And how would Mason know about it?
“Your boyfriend is the cocksucker who took me out of the game.”
Mason’s language should offend me, but I’m used to it from him. He’s never been one to keep the locker-room talk in the locker room.
“What?”
“He’s the one who hit me, Bree. Did you know that?”
“How would I know that?” I pause, confused because he’s never named the guy who hit him before. He’s never even cared. “How do you know that?”
“I recognize his face, Bree. It’s ingrained in my memory. That guy is the one who hit me in that last game I played.”
“You can’t be sure of that.” I shake my head in disbelief. My brother is such an asshole.
“Yeah, I am. I know his face so well I could pick it out of a criminal lineup.” Mason raises his voice. “His hit ruined my career.”
I’m shocked at how the hell Mason could jump to such a ridiculous conclusion.
I think he’s full of shit. Even if it was Luke who delivered that final hit, we both know it wasn’t one hit that took him out.
It was multiple thrashings that brought on a series of concussions.
The final hit wasn’t the sole episode that ended his career.
“There had to be a last hit, Mason, or you’d still be playing. You’ve said time and time again that it wasn’t a dirty hit. What’s with trying to pin the blame now?”
“You don’t get it, Bree.” Mason bats a coffee mug from the counter with a swift, hard slap. It crashes against the stainless-steel sink and cracks into three large pieces.
“I don’t, Mason! I don’t get it. I never have.
I mean, at first, I understood how horrible it was when you were told you’d never play again, but after all this time, I don’t understand why you can’t move on.
Why are you accusing Luke of being the one who took you out when you’ve never even cared about who it was before? ”
“Because he got the career I wanted, Bree!” Mason yells.
I grab the countertop with both hands and take a deep breath. He’s not pissed because he finally has someone to blame. He’s jealous.
“He didn’t have the career you wanted, Mason. He got hurt and had to leave the game just like you did.”
“He went further. He got drafted. He signed a huge contract. He actually got to play in the NHL.”
“So did thousands of other hockey players. And countless other guys didn’t even make it to the level you played in.
Jesus, Mason, you need help. If that is what this is all about, you need a psychiatrist. There’s always going to be someone better than you, that makes more than you, and so on. That’s life.”
I don’t have the patience to sympathize with him anymore. Not after seeing how well Luke has handled his injury and subsequent departure from the game. And especially not after this outburst of pure jealousy.
“For such a good nurse, you sure are a heartless bitch, Bree,” Mason mutters before stalking back into the guest room and slamming the door.
His words sting, but I can’t find it in my heart to apologize. At some point, he needs to end the pity party and get on with this life.
I finally figured out the difference between Luke and Mason. Luke didn’t have a cushy life growing up. He didn’t have parents who gave him everything he desired. He worked his ass off for everything he has.
Mason is drowning in his own privilege. Sure, he worked his ass off to become a talented hockey player, too, but once he left the game, he had no drive to pursue anything else.
And there was no pressure to. He knew he could go back home and live off our parents.
We grew up in an environment where we didn’t have to worry.
Luke, on the other hand, knew that when his playing career ended, he’d have nothing.
I’m sure he mourned the loss of hockey, but he didn’t have time to mope.
He had to pick his life up and get another job.
He’s always had to have tenacity and drive, an internal hunger to keep going and make something of himself. He had no other choice.
I’m not saying everyone who grew up wealthy or privileged has no drive and vice versa. But the difference in background speaks volumes about character in this case, where the two men’s stories seem so similar but led to such different results.
The fractured glass in the sink catches my eye. I pick up each piece of the broken mug carefully and carry them to the trash can. “Luke. Mason. Me,” I say as I drop each piece in.
Two of the most important men in my life were broken by the loss of their hockey careers. I know Mason wants to blame Luke for all his problems, but instead of Luke being the cause, maybe he could be the person that brings us back together.