Page 10 of Writing Mr. Wrong

MASON

M ason was doing something he really wasn’t very good at. Getting drunk. Drag his sorry ass into some dingy bar, find a table in the corner, and drink until all his mistakes washed away, taking those unsettling emotions with them. Until the rough seas calmed. Until the world was steady again.

He’d managed the first part. Maize wasn’t in the best part of Vancouver, so the appropriate dingy bar was right across the road.

He got the second part, too. With the rain, the place was empty enough for him to park his ass at a back table, where he was immediately served by a middle-aged woman who didn’t know him from Adam, which was the first break he’d caught all night.

The part he was having trouble with was the drinking.

That first glass had gone down fine. No fancy scotch for him tonight.

Just regular rye whiskey, neat, burning down his throat and letting him relax.

He’d had the server bring him two doubles, which was a mistake.

He’d downed the first fast and had only finished half of the second before the room started spinning.

A cheap date. That’s what his dad always said when Mason got tipsy after two beers. It’s also what his dad said—in his loud, aggressively teasing way—to women who stopped after one drink. It’d been years, too many years really, before Mason understood what his father meant.

Mason shuddered to think how many times he’d used that phrase on women before Jesse told him “a cheap date” meant a woman who’d drop her panties after just one drink, meaning you didn’t need to shell out more to get laid. It also implied that you needed her tipsy to get laid.

When Mason’s father called him a cheap date, it meant Mason drank like a girl, and a timid girl at that. Real men could throw back both these doubles and still drive home.

Yep, apparently real men sucked back a bottle of whiskey, screwed some chick they met at the bar, and then came home and yelled at their wives for daring to ask why they hadn’t come home for dinner.

Mason had messed up so bad tonight, and as he stared into that second glass, he wanted to…

His dad would say he should want to throw it at the wall. Instead, Mason wanted to huddle over it and hide his face and…

He didn’t know what he wanted.

Yeah, you do.

He did, and that was the real reason he was in this shitty bar, drinking shitty whiskey, alternating between feeling sorry for himself and cursing himself out for being a shitty person who’d taken Gemma on a shitty date.

What did he want?

The same thing he’d wanted as a teenager, when he would casually suggest Gemma drop by the rink to see him play. He wanted to impress her.

He wasn’t good at writing newspaper articles. All her coaching only made him adequate. He knew what he was good at, and he wanted her to see him do it.

He also knew he was good at planning dates. While he honestly had wanted to help Gemma’s book sales, mostly tonight had been about him. About ending the date in her apartment doorway and her gazing up at him, that look on her face saying she was hoping for a kiss.

He wouldn’t have kissed her. Sometimes, on the ice, if you really want the goal, you can’t take the first shot.

You need to be patient and set it up properly.

That was what he planned. The perfect date.

A gentlemanly goodbye at her door, maybe a hug.

Leave her wanting more. Leave her ready to say yes to a second date.

Yes to a real date, not this fake bullshit.

Now he’d tossed Gemma in a cab and thrown money on her lap like she was a paid escort he’d decided he didn’t want after all.

He swore he could hear his father saying that’s what Mason got for reaching too high, for not sticking to what he was good at.

Know his limits and stay within them. Women like Gemma were for suave guys in suits with a string of letters behind their names.

Guys who never made dumbass mistakes and then didn’t know how to fix them.

Mason groaned and thumped his head onto the table. Or he tried to, but the tabletop was too low, and there wasn’t enough room to slump, so he kind of hung there, bent forward.

A hand appeared from nowhere and moved the empty whiskey glass in front of him.

“You look like you’re going to puke. Aim there.”

He lifted his head and decided he was even drunker than he thought, hallucinating Gemma shucking off a wet jacket to show an equally wet dress underneath, the dress that had already clung so nicely now plastered to her body.

Jesus, Mace. Even in your drunken, self-pitying hallucinations, you’re still checking her out.

Gemma slid into the seat across from him. “Oh, you got me a drink already. How sweet.”

She sipped the whiskey and made a face. “Rye? I thought you had better taste than that.” She lifted the empty glass. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes, and you’re already down one and working on the second? Please tell me those aren’t doubles.”

He tried to drop his head into his hands, but again, the table wasn’t made for dramatic gestures by a guy over six feet tall. His face hung a few inches over his hands. He lifted them up to cover his face, and he was pretty sure Gemma sputtered a laugh.

“Mind if I get my own drink?” she asked.

“You should go home. You almost got knocked out for being with me.”

She glanced around. “That’s very gallant, Mason, but I think I can take on anyone here. Also, no one is paying any attention to you.”

“Maybe we should have come here for dinner.”

“You think they have steak?”

“Wouldn’t want to eat it if they did.”

She smiled and patted his arm. “Let me get a drink.”

A moment later she returned with a bottled cooler. “Something told me this was safest.” She uncapped it and drank straight from the bottle. “Okay, so as dates go, that one was memorable.”

He snorted, and the sound turned into something between a snicker and a sob. He quickly cleared his throat and straightened.

“I messed up,” he said. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that. I misjudged.”

“Misjudged the possibility of running into an ex who’s really not happy with you?”

“No, that happens.”

She sputtered a laugh. “You’re a little drunk, aren’t you, Mason?”

“It’s the other stuff. Why that guy tried to punch me and probably why the kid refused to serve us. I realized earlier that you must not have heard what happened, and I should have told you. Warned you.”

“Okay, so tell me now.”

“Uh… so there’s this player. On the Growlers. Denny.”

Her head shot up. “Denny Fowler. Right. I knew the name sounded familiar. Top draft pick, right? My ex went on about it, how the Growlers paid too much for him, blah blah.”

“Your ex-boyfriend?”

“Ex-husband.”

He blinked. “You were married? You didn’t tell me that.”

She shook her head. “We haven’t exactly been having those catch-up conversations, Mason. Yes. I was married. Nine years. Recently divorced.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

Huh. Well, that was good, right? She wasn’t pining over this guy, whoever he was. But still, the thought that she’d been married…? For nine years, no less. It seemed as if only a few years had passed since he last saw her.

More like two decades.

Did Mason know her ex? What did he do for a living? What did she do for a living?

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 stop it. 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.”

She seemed to be struggling not to laugh. She reached out and patted his hand.

“You’re a lot, Mason Moretti, and you probably deserved that wine shower tonight, but you don’t deserve the rest.”

Was he tearing up? He grabbed the glass and downed it as she said, “Wait!” and then murmured, “Too late.”

“I froze,” he blurted. “On the ice. I don’t know why. I saw trouble coming and I just… I froze.”

She gripped his hand tight, not saying anything, just holding his hand, and that might have been the nicest thing anyone had done for him in a long time.

Was he going to cry?

He pushed to his feet. “We should go. Get you home.” He took one step and nearly face-planted before she steadied him.

“Easy, big guy,” she said. “I think that second double was past your limit. Let’s get you home.”