Page 53 of Puck Fest
Masterson’s pained gaze locks on my face. “Is that what you want?”
No. “It’s what has to happen.”
“Right.” He gets off the ice, drops onto a bench, and pulls off his skates. “Professional distance. Got it.”
I want to say something else, to tell him I’m sorry, that I hate this, that if things were different?—
But I stop myself. I can’t. Because saying any of that would make it worse.
He leaves the facility without looking back, and I’m alone in the rink with the uncomfortable awareness that Alex Naylor being in Oakland will make everything infinitely more complicated.
And the fact that seeing him watch Masterson made me want to pummel his ass into the ground says everything about how badly I’m failing at maintaining professional distance.
Masterson sends me a text later that night.
I get why you’re scared. But running from this isn’t going to make it go away.
I stare at the message.
He’s right. I know he’s right.
But I don’t know what else to do. For once, I’m smart enough not to respond.
On Sunday, I avoid the arena completely. I work from home, handle emails, and prep for the week ahead. Anything to keep from running into Masterson.
There’s a mandatory meeting on Monday morning that I can’t skip. I show up early, take a seat in the back, and keep my head down.
The players file in. I see Masterson immediately. He’s hard to miss, with those gorgeously rugged features and thick muscles that keep X-rated fantasies on a permanent loop in my mind. Hesees me too, and our eyes meet for half a second before I tear my eyes away.
The meeting’s standard stuff. Dad goes over the upcoming schedule, reviewing systems, and making adjustments. I take notes, maintaining my professional role since I’m technically still keeping an eye on the Masterson situation.
Masterson shows up next to me once the meeting is over.
“Can I talk to you?”
“I’m busy.”
“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Masterson, I really can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You’re not that busy, and I’ve been really good.”
His half-smirk gets me. “Fine. My office. Five minutes.”
In my office, I close the door and lean against my desk.
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Alex digging, about the risks, about everything you’d lose.”
“Good. Then you understand why we can’t?—”
“Let me finish.” He steps closer. “I get it. I do. But I also think you’re using that as an excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse. It’s reality.”
“Part of it is. But the other part is that you’re terrified of actually letting someone in. Of trusting someone enough to be vulnerable with them.”
