Page 24 of Penalty Box

“Well, I’m better looking. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he said with a wink.

God, he was cute. Mason was making me swoon like it was my first freaking crush. I wanted to reach across the table, fist his jersey at the collar, and smash his mouth into mine.

Our drinks sat mostly untouched. The music shifted to something gritty and low-fi, a woman’s voice soaked in reverb and static. I didn’t catch the lyrics, but didn’t need to. The mood was set.

“This place is very you, by the way,” Mason said, glancing around at the mismatched chairs, string lights, and walls plastered with old band posters. “It smells like burnt coffee and rebellion.”

“Rebellion? I like that.”

There was something in his eyes when he looked at me then, quiet and unshaken, that made my pulse catch.

“You’re not like any girl I’ve met before.”

The words hit harder than I expected, especially coming from a rising NHL star who could get anyone he wanted.

“And how many girls have you said that to so far today?”

He leaned forward, arms braced on the table. “Just you.”

My heart skipped, betraying the shit out of me.

“Well, then I’m flattered,” I said, hiding the flush in my cheeks by taking a slow sip of my drink.

“You should be.”

God, he wasn’t even trying, and still everything in me felt off-balance. Like I was speeding down a hill with no brakes and also no interest in stopping.

“I’m not saying this is a date,” Mason said, a grin playing on his lips. “But if it were, I’d say it’s going pretty well.”

I raised a strategic eyebrow. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes steady on mine. “I’m sitting across from a girl who schools me in music, orders for me, and gives better pep talks than my captain. What’s not to like?”

The flutter in my chest went nuclear.

I made a show of rolling my eyes. “You’ve been practicing. Your game has definitely improved since last season.”

A shadow crossed his face. There for a split second, and gone again. I knew he was thinking about hockey, because how could he not?

I nudged his foot with mine under the table. “You’re doing fine. Despite what you think.”

He gave a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, except it’s not just me thinking it.”

I sat back, letting the weight of that settle. He wasn’t fishing for pity. He didn’t strike me as the type. But I could see the cracks. He carried them behind the confident smile and shoulder checks. The pressure, expectations, the need to prove he earned his spot on the ice. I recognized it because I was living it.

My eyes dropped to the table, to the curl of his fingers around the mason jar, knuckles pale. When I looked up again, he was staring at my arm.

“What happened here?” And without warning, he reached over and ran his fingertips along the Band-Aid just below my inner elbow.

I flinched, but not from the pain. “It’s nothing.”

His thumb stayed there, brushing the sensitive skin, making me totally forget how to breathe.

“Scratched myself while fixing a… thing,” I managed to say. It came out all strained and tight. “Occupational hazard.”

His smile was light. “If it makes you feel any better, I can’t hit the ice without half a roll of tape on my knees.”