Across The Ice: Falling for my ex’s biggest rival

The first thing I noticed was that Mason wasn’t looking for me.

Not after winning the biggest game of the season. Not after scoring the goal that had an entire arena chanting his name. Not after promising he’d find me the second he got off the ice.

He was looking at her.

At first, I told myself it meant nothing. The arena was bedlam after Northbridge University’s championship win, packed with players, coaches, reporters, donors, alumni, and enough screaming fans to shake the rafters loose. Blue and silver confetti drifted through the air while cameras flashed from every direction. I stood near the barrier separating the ice from the media section, my press badge bouncing against my chest after hours spent chasing interviews for the university paper. None of the exhaustion mattered. Tonight was supposed to be ours. Mason and I had plans after the celebration—a late dinner somewhere quiet, a few hours where he wasn’t Northbridge’s hockey hero and I wasn’t working.

Across the rink, I spotted him immediately. That wasn’t surprising. Half the arena was looking at him. What caught my attention was that he wasn’t celebrating with teammates or getting cornered by reporters. He wasn’t searching the crowd for me, either. His focus was fixed on a woman standing a few feet away.

She had red hair, vivid even beneath the arena lights, and I didn’t recognize her. Normally, that wouldn’t have meant much. Hundreds of people had access to the postgame festivities. Family members, sponsors, donors, and former players. She could have belonged to any of those groups. Still, something about the scene snagged my attention hard enough that I started walking toward them.

The closer I got, the less convincing my explanations became. The woman laughed. Mason answered with a grin I hadn’t seen him give a reporter or a fan all season. It wasn’t the polished public version. It was personal. Familiar. The kind of smile that appeared when he forgot that anyone else was watching.

I slowed several yards away, suddenly unwilling to get any closer.

The woman touched his arm while they talked. It wasn’t dramatic or flirtatious. If anything, it was casual, and that made it worse. Around us, the championship celebration rolled on uninterrupted. Music blasted through the speakers. Fans leaned over railings for photos. Television crews chased players across the ice. Yet the longer I watched, the more the noise faded behind a growing certainty I didn’t want.

Mason leaned toward her to hear something she said. He laughed again. Then his hand settled at the back of her neck with an ease that made my stomach drop.

There had to be an explanation.

A misunderstanding.

Anything.

Because this was Mason. The man who told me he loved me. The man whose mother texted me recipes and whose little sister introduced me as family. The man I’d spent two years building a future around without ever consciously deciding to do it.

Then he kissed her.

The arena erupted at the same moment, another wave of cheers crashing through the building as confetti continued to rain from the ceiling. Cameras flashed. Players celebrated. Somewhere nearby, a broadcaster shouted excitedly into a microphone.

And in the middle of all of it, Mason kissed another woman.

There was nothing unclear about what I was seeing. Nothing accidental. Nothing that could be explained away later. The kiss was easy and familiar, the kind that belonged to people who had done it before.

I stood frozen while reality stubbornly refused to rearrange itself into something less devastating. The woman slipped her arms around his neck. Mason stayed exactly where he was, relaxed and happy.

That was the detail that hurt most.

Not guilt.

No hesitation.

Happiness.

The woman noticed me first. Her expression changed instantly, and she stepped back. Mason followed her gaze, confusion crossing his face before recognition hit. The color drained from him so fast it was almost startling.

“Iris…”

Around us, the celebration never missed a beat. Fans laughed and shouted. Teammates posed for photos with the trophy. A few phones had already turned in our direction, their cameras raised.

Of course, they had.

Northbridge’s star player getting caught kissing someone who wasn’t his girlfriend during a national championship celebration was exactly the kind of story people loved.

Mason started toward me.

“Iris, wait.”

I backed away before he could reach me. If I stayed there, I’d either cry, scream, or make a scene in front of half the university and every sports reporter in the building. None of those options appealed to me.

So I turned and pushed into the crowd.

Someone called my name. Someone else caught my arm for a second before I pulled free and kept moving. The bright arena lights blurred together as I threaded through celebrating fans, focusing on the simple task of putting distance between myself and the ice.

Behind me, Mason shouted again, louder this time.

I didn’t stop.

Whatever explanation he thought he had could wait. The image of him kissing that red-haired woman had already burned itself into my memory, and no conversation in the world was going to erase it.

I pushed through another wave of cheering strangers and headed for the exit.

I never looked back.