Page 5 of Writing Mr. Wrong

MASON

M ason was spending the evening with Jesse Parnell, his best friend and former Growlers teammate. They were at their favorite pub while Mason drowned his discomfort in very expensive whiskey.

Okay, maybe he should be drowning his sorrows or drowning his pain . “Discomfort” didn’t seem like the right word. But it really was. He couldn’t stop thinking of what Gemma said and it made him feel…

Uncomfortable. Which felt worse than sorrow or pain.

Mason was never uncomfortable. He knew where he belonged and where he didn’t.

He knew what he was and what he wasn’t. He knew what he could accomplish and what he could not.

The trick in life was to live within your boundaries.

Find that sweet spot, where you can be fully confident and certain of your abilities and your right to be exactly where you are.

Knowing your place kept life smooth. It kept you from feeling stuff like pain or sadness or anger.

Yeah, he knew the irony of that. He was an NHL enforcer who hated real-life conflict.

Jesse teased him about it all the time. But to Mason, it made sense.

Compartmentalization, Dr. Colbourne would say.

If Mason had to fight on the rink, when he wasn’t really an angry guy, then it made sense that he wouldn’t like to fight off it.

Okay, so the doc didn’t say it made sense. She always wanted to talk about it, but she respected that Mason didn’t see the point. Or, at least, she respected it when pushing made him decide he was too busy for their monthly check-ins. Same thing, really.

What happened with Gemma twenty years ago had not been smooth and easy. It’d been… His gut twisted.

Don’t think about that. Focus on what happened with Gemma today.

Shit. That wasn’t much better, and a cowardly little part of him wanted to run away.

Like you did twenty years ago?

It hadn’t been like that. She’d said it was fine. Said it was just a kiss, no big deal, and if that had made him feel worse, feel like…

He stopped again. Changed direction.

He wasn’t running away from this. As uncomfortable as it was, being with Gemma otherwise made him feel the opposite of uncomfortable.

It reminded him what it was like to be with someone who didn’t need life to be smooth, who came out swinging and was always her authentic self.

Someone who’d always made him feel like he could be more, could be better, that anyone who expected less didn’t really know him.

Gemma had never expected anything of him but honesty. To be his real self. None of his bullshit.

And what she’d gotten, in the end, was his bullshit.

So he was drinking away his discomfort while confessing to Jesse. Mason and Jesse had met in the juniors, before both were drafted to the Growlers at eighteen. Back then, they’d had little contact. Between the endless work and the endless competition, there’d been no room for friendship.

Even after they were drafted to the same team, that sense of competition had lingered.

Soon Mason’s left defense position had begun drifting into enforcer territory.

Mason had seized the role with gusto. He liked mixing it up on the ice, and he liked it even better when he could mix it up in defense of his teammates.

That’s how Mason and Jesse ended up behind the arena, trying to beat the shit out of each other.

Jesse was a skilled forward with a wicked slap shot.

He was the kind of player who focused on his own performance and stayed out of the brawls and the backbiting and the grudge matches.

The problem was that some people weren’t content to let him do that.

Jesse was Indigenous, grew up in the islands off the coast of British Columbia as part of the Haida Nation.

There weren’t many Indigenous players in the NHL, and before Jesse, there’d been none on the Growlers, and some assholes had liked it that way.

Mason couldn’t do anything about the fans, but he could take care of the opposing players. That was his job, after all.

Jesse had told Mason to back off and let him handle it. Mason figured Jesse was just saying that. Turned out, Jesse was not just saying that, and he finally decided to communicate in a language he presumed Mason understood better: talking with his fists.

In the end, Mason understood that having a white guy come to Jesse’s rescue didn’t help.

So they compromised. Mason would signal when he sensed trouble, and Jesse needed to look up from the puck enough to catch those signals.

If one guy went after Jesse, Mason would skate closer—so it didn’t look as if he was making Jesse fend for himself—but he wouldn’t get involved unless the attack came from multiple sources.

With that misunderstanding out of the way, the two had become friends. They were both fully committed to the Growlers. That’d been their home team growing up, and they’d spent their careers turning down offers from other teams… while praying they weren’t traded.

Part of not being traded was to make themselves irreplaceable—mostly with the fans.

Because being good on the ice was one thing; putting butts in seats was another.

They’d partnered in achieving that. Then Jesse suffered a concussion playing off-season overseas, followed by a second one shortly after his return.

Three years ago, Jesse decided he was done.

He’d made his money and invested it well, and he wanted to preserve his health and expand his work supporting Indigenous youth in hockey.

Jesse was happy, and Mason was happy for him. Some guys blossomed after retirement, while others just dried up and…

Mason shook it off. That wasn’t anything he needed to worry about yet. For now, he was talking about a much happier subject: Gemma.

He had explained the romance-novel thing and how he knew Gemma and then confessed to what he’d done to her in high school.

When he finished, Jesse stared across the table at him. “You let your friends tell everyone you only kissed her on a dare?”

“I didn’t let them.”

A hard look from Jesse. “You know what I mean. You didn’t undo the damage.”

Mason slumped. “I know.”

Jesse shook his head. “You have done some spectacularly shitty things in your life, Mace, but…” He reached out to clap Mason on the shoulder. “You’ve outdone yourself. Congratulations.”

Mason took a hit of whiskey, noted that the glass was down to the dregs, and considered ordering a second. He wouldn’t, but tonight he seriously considered it.

“I talked to her afterward, and she said it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Of course she did, and I’m going to bet, even then, you realized she was just trying to save face, pretend it didn’t hurt like hell.”

Mason lifted the glass and drained the last dribble. “But it couldn’t have been too bad, right? She based her romance hero on me.”

“And serious congrats on that, Mace. It really is awesome, and I can’t think of a guy who deserves it more, except me… and maybe ninety percent of the male population.”

Mason lifted his middle finger.

Jesse met his gaze. “If you’re looking for someone to say that what you did wasn’t so bad, you came to the wrong person.”

Mason slumped and pushed away his empty glass. “I know. So how do I make it up to her?”

Jesse sipped his own drink, his gaze going distant. Then he mused, “This fake dating thing might work, as long as she knows it’s fake.”

“She does.”

“And as long as you really are trying to help her career and not just fix your own. It’s fine if it also benefits you, but it needs to be mutually advantageous.”

“It will be.”

“Then offer something she can’t resist. Not just a date but an experience .”

The corners of Mason’s mouth twitched.

Jesse shook his head. “Not that . How about dinner at Nonna Jean’s?”

“Take her to my own restaurant? That’s a cheap-ass move.”

Growing up, Mason’s paternal grandmother had lived in the next apartment complex, and that’s where he’d taken shelter, in the kitchen where she ran her catering service.

Mason had always sworn he’d use his first NHL paycheck to buy Nonna Jean her own restaurant. She hadn’t mocked him, like his dad would have. She hadn’t cried, like his mom would have. Nonna Jean just kissed him on the forehead and said nothing.

As Mason would discover, NHL starting paychecks didn’t cover a restaurant purchase.

But he’d saved up, and that was the first thing he bought: a little café where his grandmother could cook the Jewish Italian cuisine from her childhood, from before his great-grandfather decided being an Italian Jew in the forties was a damn fine reason to immigrate to Canada.

Nonna Jean was now eighty-two and, while she still kept a firm grip on the business, she’d ceded the cooking to others, though she still commandeered the kitchen now and again.

He was there himself a few times a week. When he had the time and needed to relax, he came in and cooked. That part was a secret. Patrons didn’t come for Mason Moretti’s cooking. They came for the food and NHL memorabilia and, maybe, to catch a glimpse of “the Mace” himself.

As proud as Mason was of Nonna Jean’s, it wasn’t fancy. Mason didn’t even know if Gemma liked that sort of food. The last two times he’d mentioned it on dates, the women had looked at him with horror, as if he’d suggested they dine on baby seals. Italian food? All those carbs? Absolutely not.

Jesse’s voice pulled Mason back. “Do it on a Monday, when the restaurant is closed. A special opening just for her. Invite media to take shots as you arrive, but then have a private meal. Show her what you’ve built there. Talk about your grandmother. Cook for her—”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re a good cook.”

“I’m a decent cook. Not good. Decent.”

“She won’t care. It’s not about the food, Mace, it’s about—”

“Gemma deserves better. I should take her to Maize.”

Maize was the hottest place in town, with a wait list so long you couldn’t even join it… unless you were Mason Moretti.

“Mmm. Maize is fine,” Jesse said. “But I think Nonna—”

“I’ll go all out.” Mason reached for the peanuts and cracked one open. “Give her an experience, like you said. A dream date with everything she could want. And me.”

Jesse clapped Mason’s shoulder. “Make it memorable enough, and she’ll overlook that part.”

Mason flicked a peanut at him.

“All jokes aside,” Jesse said. “You gotta promise me something, buddy.” He leaned over the table, his expression somber. “If she says she doesn’t want to go out with you, you need to stop asking.”

Mason cracked open another peanut.

“Mace… I also know you’ve never met a challenge you can’t barrel through headfirst. But this isn’t like that. She’s said no already. More than once.”

“I know. I’ll take one last shot. Then I need to take no for an answer.”

“You really do.”

GEMMA

Gemma walked into the restaurant and immediately spotted her brother and sister-in-law. They were at the bar waiting for a celebratory cocktail with her before the rest of the family joined for her release-day dinner.

Chris and Daphne were deep in conversation, untouched drinks forgotten as they leaned together and talked.

Gemma smiled at the sight, even if she also felt a pang suspiciously close to envy.

Wasn’t this what she’d always envisioned in a marriage?

Two people, partners in life and best friends, endlessly lost in one another.

She could be envious, but more than that, she was happy for her little brother. There was a reason Gemma gravitated to nice guys in romance. Because all the men in her family were ridiculously nice and had made ridiculously happy marriages.

In Daphne, Gemma had also found a friend…

and a writing mentor. Daphne was a Mason Moretti–level author, the sort whose debut novel sold for mid–six figures and then went on to outperform even those high expectations.

Despite that fame, Daphne was as down-to-earth as Chris, generous, and, yes, nice, if in a reserved way that could come across as intimidating, especially when she was nearly six feet tall and built like an Amazon warrior.

Daphne was laughing at something Chris said when he spotted Gemma. His eyes narrowed, and her steps slowed.

“Mason Moretti?” Chris said. “ Mason Moretti? ”

Gemma sighed and pushed onto a bar stool so she could be at eye level with them.

After the Mason high school incident, Chris had devised an adorable plan to waylay Mason after hockey and call him out on his bad behavior.

That might have worked these days, but at twelve, Chris had been so skinny that Mason probably would have walked past without seeing him.

“Seriously, Gem? Mason Moretti?”

“I needed to write an asshole lead character, so I chose the one I knew best.”

Chris eyed her. Then he took a gulp of his beer. “At least it wasn’t Alan.”

“Gemma’s waiting until she writes a murder mystery for that,” Daphne said. “Or horror.”

Gemma grinned. “Definitely horror.”

“He’ll be that corporate guy who strides around giving orders, until he’s attacked by the monsters and ripped into tiny pieces as everyone cheers.”

Chris picked up his beer. “I… think I’ll go drink over there.”

“I write about zombies,” Daphne said. “You know I can do gruesome.” She looked at Gemma. “You ever want Alan to play a cameo, just let me know.”

“And Mason Moretti?” Chris’s voice dropped, going serious. “He hurt you, Gem.”

“Okay,” Daphne said carefully. “I have to ask. When Chris says this guy hurt you… I know he plays an enforcer…”

“The only thing Mason hurt was my feelings,” Gemma said. “We kissed behind the school. His friends said he did it on a dare, and he corrected them, but not enough to stop the story.”

“See?” Chris said. “Asshole.”

“Was it a good kiss?” Daphne asked.

Gemma leaned in. “Amazing.”

Chris threw up his hands.

“Hey,” Gemma said. “A guy can be an asshole and a good kisser. That’s what makes him romance-hero material.” She glanced at Daphne. “And don’t give me that look.”

“What look?”

“You wanted me to be patient and not change what I write to suit the market.”

“You did what was right for you, Gem. And it worked.” Daphne lifted her glass. “You are officially a published author. Now, let’s forget Mason Moretti and get you a drink.”