Page 22 of Writing Mr. Wrong
GEMMA
G emma woke to a text, and for a second, she thought Mason had returned. Then she noticed the time. After seven.
She picked up her phone.
Mason: Just letting you know I made it to pregame practice
Already? Damn, that was early. He did say he had a full day.
She sent back a thumbs-up and added Hope you aren’t too tired.
Mason: I’m fine. I go home after lunch and nap
Mason: Just wanted to let you know, if you’d like to see the game, I can get tickets. I know a guy ;)
Mason: I realize you’re writing, so no pressure
Mason: Also, not a photo op. Just an invite. You and a guest or two
Gemma bit her lip. She really did plan to write all day, but he was being considerate, which made it hard to outright refuse.
Mason: I can promise great seats and priority parking
Mason: Also watered-down hot chocolate and stale popcorn
Gemma smiled. Her fingers hovered over the keys before she ducked both options and went down the middle again.
Gemma: When would I need to decide?
Mason: Anytime before the game. Just let me know
MASON
Game day started with a practice, which was partly about warming up and partly about providing photo ops for whichever members of the media were currently favored enough to get this “exclusive” invitation.
Lately, after the practice drills, the coach had been sending Mason to skate around the far end of the rink.
That provided photo opportunities but not interviews.
Today, though, when Mason started for his media-doghouse end of the rink, the coach called him back.
“You can stick around if you like,” he said. “Test the waters with the friendlies.”
“You sure?”
The coach considered, tilting his head as he peered at Mason. “Up to you, but you don’t need to take off.”
Mason settled for somewhere between the two.
He didn’t exile himself to the far end, but he didn’t hang out at the boards either.
He skated fast, turning sharp, and it might look like showing off, but mostly he was just enjoying himself.
He stayed close enough to the side boards that he could field questions.
Once the journalists realized Mason wasn’t making for deep water, it was like enjoying the harbor seals and sea lions until an orca swam past. The crowd surged his way.
“Mason!” someone called.
He lifted a hand in greeting. Friendlier than usual, but not skating over for interviews either.
“Mason!” another called. “How does it feel to be the star of a romance novel?”
Good thing he wasn’t facing them. He recovered his game face fast, though, and slow-skated past them. “If Gemma was even slightly influenced by me, it’s very flattering. But writers pull from a lot of sources. Mostly, I’m just glad it gave Gemma and me the chance to reconnect.”
A moment of silence, as if that wasn’t the answer they expected. Mason Moretti should be grabbing the credit in his teeth and shaking it for everyone to see.
Hell, yeah, I’m a romance hero. Was there ever any doubt?
He skated out and did a quick turn to power back past them.
“Have you read the book?” one called as he went past.
“Finished it last night.”
“What did you think of Ms. Stanton’s decision to have Laird Argyle’s castle burn down?”
He stopped sharp, ice shaving up. “You read the same book I did? It was the neighbor’s house that burned down, and the guy tried to blame Edin, who’d been with Argyle all night but they couldn’t admit to that, so it was a problem.”
The journalist’s mouth opened and shut. Mason fixed her with a look.
“Yeah, I read books,” he said. “Shocking, right?”
“Did you like it?” another called.
“How could I not?” Mason said. “It’s about a guy who looks like me.”
“Is Ms. Stanton coming to the game tonight?”
He was about to say he’d invited her, when he stopped. He’d promised this wouldn’t be a photo op. “She’s got a deadline,” he said as he skated backward. “Maybe when we’re in the playoffs.”
That got them off and running, asking about his thoughts on their chances, and he dove into that for the rest of the session.
GEMMA
The words weren’t flying as fast as they had last night, but by noon she’d written just as much. Which meant, if she kept going, she’d be tapped out by three.
Writing was like teaching that way. She couldn’t stand in front of a class and talk for eight hours, no more than she could write for eight hours a day. She’d be mentally wiped out.
So she had no excuse for rejecting Mason’s offer.
She remembered when he used to invite her to games.
In elementary school, it’d felt like just Mason being Mason, the popular guy charitably inviting the less popular kids.
Then in high school, it felt like a reward.
She was helping him, and he’d repay her with first-rate seats to his games. Yeah, no thanks.
No thanks because she wasn’t interested in hockey? Or because she’d tried so hard to block out that Mason and focus on the one she saw in private, as if the hockey-star Mason didn’t exist.
When her phone rang, she tensed, hoping it wasn’t Mason pestering for a response. Then she saw the number.
“Hey, Grams,” she said when she answered.
“Do you have time to talk, dear? You seem very busy, getting all over the society pages with your new beau.”
Gemma sighed. “Yeah, yeah. He’s not my beau, Grams.”
“Sure looks like it in those photos. You two are adorable.”
“Are you and Mom running tag team to check on me? Making sure I don’t do anything stupid with Mason Moretti?”
“Certainly not. I am on your side, dear, cheering for you to do something stupid with Mr. Moretti. If you do, feel free to confess to me. All the details.”
Gemma could fairly hear Grandma Dot’s eyebrows waggling.
Her grandmother continued, going serious now, “I’m calling in case you want to talk to someone who isn’t your mother.” She quickly added, “I know you have plenty of girlfriends, but it’s the weekend and they might all be busy.”
Gemma slumped into her chair. Nice save, Grams. Apparently everyone knew the sad state of her postdivorce social life.
“Tell me about Mason,” Grandma Dot said. “I’ve heard some from your mother, and I’ve read plenty of chatter online, but I’d like your version, dear.”
Gemma hesitated. Then she took a deep breath and told her grandmother the whole sordid tale.
“Now he’s invited me to his game tonight,” she said as she wrapped up. “And I don’t know what to do about that either. I can’t figure out why he’s asking.”
Silence. Then: “Because he wants you to see him play hockey, Gemma.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s good at it. Very good at it. And he wants you to see that.”
Gemma sighed. “He wants to show off.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does, but it’s more than that. This is his life. His passion. The thing he excels at. He wants you to see him play. He wants to look into the stands and see you.”
“So what do I do?”
“Take your old Grams to a hockey game. Consider it a good deed. Helping the elderly.”
“Do you actually want to go?”
Grandma Dot huffed. “What kind of question is that? Don’t you remember all the games we went to? It’s your damned grandfather who insists on watching from the comfort of his living room.”
Grandma Dot mimicked Grandpa Thomas. “ Arenas are cold. The seats are uncomfortable. The food is expensive. The bathrooms have a line. ” She reverted to her normal voice. “I don’t know how I ended up married to such an old man.”
Gemma smiled. “Good luck, I guess.”
Grandma Dot snorted. “Fine. He’s a perfectly decent example of the species, but I would very much like to go to a hockey game, especially if the seats are comped. Mason gets to see you in the stands. I get to see a live game without paying for it. Win-win.”
“And what do I get?”
Again, Gemma swore she could hear her grandmother’s reaction, this time in a knowing grin. “Oh, you’ll get something from it, dear. I have no doubt about that.”
MASON
After the media skate, it was time for the pregame meeting, where the team discussed strategy and watched game tapes.
Mason noticed a bit of an ache in his right knee, but he blamed the rain and yesterday’s motorcycle ride.
He just needed stretches, an ice pack, and a hot bath, in that order.
The stretches came when the coach exempted him from the press conference.
Mason grabbed his skates and headed out to enjoy an empty rink.
He was goofing around, certain he was alone, when he noticed a figure near the opposition team bench. The guy raised one gloved hand in greeting, and Mason skated closer, ready to tell him this was a closed rink. Then he saw the face of the other team’s enforcer.
“Hey,” Mason said, raising his own glove in a high five. Yeah, Topher was technically his opposition, but he’d known the guy for years. They’d both come into the league young and stayed there, big dogs guarding their turf, now approaching their golden years together.
Topher high-fived him back. “Looking good out there, Mace. Still fast as a fucking bullet, you bastard.”
“Not just fast.” Mason sped off and shredded ice with his turn.
“Don’t let them see you doing that to the ice before the game.”
“Just giving the Zamboni guys something to do. You checking out the battlefield?”
“I’ve played here so often I know it by heart. I swung by to see if you were around.” He leaned over the boards. “About what happened with that kid…”
Mason made a face. “It’s fine. My rep’s bouncing back.”
“Of course it is. You’re the Mace. They freaking love you. The problem is that when they love you, they turn on you faster than if you’re just another goon in skates.”
“They expect better of me.”
“Fuck ’em. I just wanted to say…” Topher looked around and lowered his voice. “You did the right thing. I wasn’t sure you had it in you.”
Mason thumped into the boards, stopping inches from Topher. “Huh?”
“I know how you can be.” Topher rolled his blue eyes. “All about the team. Loyalty is great, buddy, but you overdo it. You gotta put yourself first. The team stuff is good for the cameras—and the locker room—but in the end, it’s all about you.”
“Uh-huh.” Mason fought the urge to skate backward and disengage from the conversation.
“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Topher said. “High-sticking anyone who even suggests we’re ready to be put out to pasture.”
“Yeah, fuck that.”
“Right? And sometimes…” Topher looked around again. “Sometimes you gotta let the hotshot kids get knocked down a peg or two. Show them what real hockey is. They’re too soft these days. Not like us old-timers.”
“Don’t pull that back-in-my-day crap,” Mason said. “Back before our day, you and I would’ve been on the permanent injury list by thirty.”
“But you know what I’m saying, because you’ve finally figured out who you need to worry about. Not your team. The guys up there.” Topher jabbed a finger toward the box where the owners sat. “You need their attention, and you got it.”
Mason grunted. He had no idea what Topher was saying, but he’d learned that noncommittal noises were usually enough.
Topher continued, “You showed them who’s the real MVP. Not some kid barely old enough to vote. It’s the guy who protects their shiny new toy from getting broken, and if you don’t? The kid’s on the sidelines for a few games.”
Was Topher implying he’d let Denny get hurt on purpose?
“And you made your point,” Topher said. “Their new toy got broke, and the game went on. You guys are still winning, and you’re personally playing better than you have in years because you’ve got some breathing room now, not playing bodyguard to some kid who’ll crumple under a hard stick.”
“Hold on,” Mason said. “I wouldn’t—”
Topher socked him in the shoulder. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re a team player.” He winked at Mason. “Your secret’s safe with me. I’ve been telling everyone it was all a mistake. I know Mace, and he wouldn’t let a kid get hurt on purpose.”
“Thanks…”
Topher’s eyes met Mason’s. “You’d do the same for me, right?”
“Mace!” someone called. “Lunch!”
Mason glanced over. His teammate tapped his watch. “Reservation at one. Unless you’re planning on skating there, you’d better move.”
Mason waved that he was coming. Then he looked at Topher, but the other guy was already walking away.
If Topher thought Mason could do that, how many other players were quietly thinking the same thing?
Was Denny thinking it?