Page 23 of Penalty Box

My heart stuttered at the sound of my name coming from his lips.

I cleared my throat and when the waiter came, I ordered two dirty chais with an extra shot.

“I may not know coffee, but I know that chai is tea,” he said once we were alone again. “I thought this was supposed to be a coffee date.”

I fixed him with a pointed look. “This isn’t a date, and the tea’s dirty. Which means it has coffee in it…”

Realization dawned and Mason settled back with a soft laugh. “The hits keep on coming.”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head, avoiding eye contact as he picked at the dog-eared corner of the menu. “The trash game where I made a fool of myself, now I’m making a fool of myself again.”

“Hey,” I said, snapping my fingers so he’d look at me. “This is a celebration, remember? There’ll be no licking of wounds at my table, Calder.”

“What if it’s a wound that gets me benched?”

His voice dropped just enough to catch the tender place under my ribs. I blinked, lips parted, unsure whether he was joking or not.

One look at his face told me he wasn’t.

The waiter came with our drinks and I threaded my fingers around the warm jar, letting the steam hit my face before I said anything. Mason gingerly sniffed his, and then took a small sip.

“You won’t get benched,” I said then. “It was a mistake. Could’ve happened to anyone.”

“Not Grayson,” he scoffed. “He doesn’t make stupid mistakes like that.”

Of course I respected the game, loved it even. But one of the big reasons I never gave my dad his greatest wish was shown in Mason as he sat across from me. In his face, and the droop of his shoulders.

“You’re not a rookie anymore,” I said. “That’s the first thing you need to get your head around. Stop acting like you just got here.”

His eyes flicked up to mine, searching.

“And the second thing… You’re not Grayson Steele, and you don’t have to be. Sure, he’s a great player, but so are you.” He was about to protest, but I cut him off by holding up a hand. When his mouth snapped shut, I went on, “NHL teams don’t hand out jerseys to just anyone. You didn’t get drafted for the hell of it.”

He blinked once. Then again. Like he hadn’t expected me to say that, or maybe like he needed to hear it more than he realized.

“Thanks,” he murmured eventually. His voice wasn’t loud, but it landed.

I reached for my cup, mostly to give my hands something to do. “Now can we stop talking about you, please? This is my moment. I’m up two-zero in the music department, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He laughed softly, letting out a sigh as he relaxed into the warmth of the place and his drink. Under the table, his leg brushed against mine as he shifted.

God help me, I didn’t move away.

“I’ve got this voice in my head telling me to prove myself,” he said. “Be faster. Hit harder. Score more. Somehow I end up doing the opposite.”

“Because you're overthinking.”

He nearly choked on his chai, and said, “Apparently it’s obvious to everyone but me.”

“Only because I’m guilty of the same thing.”

“Oh yeah?” He inched his knee just a little closer to mine, kicking my pulse up a notch.

“I overcorrect. Overprepare. Over… everything,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.

His smile was small but real. “Maybe we’re more alike than I first thought.”