CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

MASON

“Grant! You cocky bastard!” Avery yelled, throwing a towel straight at my face.

The locker room roared.

I ducked it, half-laughing as I slumped onto the bench. My chest was still heaving. Sweat still rolling down my back.

“That goal was filthy,” Caleb muttered, shaking his head as he peeled off his pads. “You could’ve passed.”

“I don’t pass in the final three seconds,” I said, smirking. “You want pretty? Watch ballet.”

“Or your sex tape,” Damien chimed in, winking as he tossed his gloves into his duffel.

The boys lost it.

“Ayeeee!” Avery whooped. “We got the national champ and certified slut!”

I rolled my eyes, but smiled anyway. They were loud, messy, and a little stupid.

Silverhollow Storm. My brothers. My team.

“Seriously,” Damien said, grinning as he sat beside me. “That goal was fucking evil. You see Reyes’s face?”

I paused.

I had seen his face.

Frozen. Shocked. Humiliated.

He looked like he’d swallowed glass.

“Guy looked like he saw Jesus,” Avery added, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. “You owned his ass.”

Mmm.

I didn’t answer.

Because the second the puck hit the net, I hadn’t been thinking about the score.

I’d been thinking about him.

Tyler Reyes.

It was ten years ago. We were sixteen. Tyler had laughed at everything back then. His hair was longer. Eyes brighter. Smile always crooked. Always real.

We snuck out after curfew. 

He kissed me first.

Or maybe I kissed him.

I don’t remember how it started.

But I remembered how it ended.

One second, his lips were on mine—hot and nervous and perfect—and the next, he was gone.

Avoided me for the rest of the day. Acted like it never happened. Like I never happened.

“You good?” Caleb asked, nudging me with his elbow.

“Yeah,” I said, shaking off the memory. “Just zoned out.”

“Thinking about your hat trick?” Damien teased.

I smirked. “Thinking about who I’m taking home tonight.”

Avery let out a whistle. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“Yo, we hitting the club or what?” Damien asked, tossing on a hoodie.

“Obviously,” Avery said. “Championship night? I’m not sleeping ‘til Tuesday.”

Coach popped his head in. “No drunk fights. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“You’d sell your soul for tequila,” Damien muttered.

Coach grinned. “Exactly.”

The locker room turned into a blur of towels, sweat, and trash talk. We hit the showers, still yelling over the sound of running water.

“Damien, that girl from last time said you cried during sex,” Caleb deadpanned.

Damien gasped. “She said that?”

“She told my cousin.”

“I did not cry! I groaned emotionally.”

Avery died laughing. “Nah, man, you’re done.”

I just shook my head, letting the hot water pour down my back.

None of it mattered.

The game. The trophy. The press.

All I could think about was the way Tyler looked tonight. The way he shoved me. The fire in his eyes. How damn close his mouth was when he said:

 “Get the fuck out, Grant.”

He still had that same heat. The same sharpness.

I hated it.

And I wanted it.

We pulled up to the club thirty minutes later in three different cars. VIP wristbands already arranged. Music pulsing like a heartbeat through the walls.

“Storm’s here!” someone yelled as we walked in.

Flashes. Phones. Bartenders shouting our names.

Avery threw his arms in the air like a WWE wrestler.

“National fucking champs!” he screamed.

Damien was already sliding onto the bar, girls grabbing at his thighs like he was Jesus in leather.

Caleb followed behind, quiet but hot enough that people still stared.

And me?

I was busy scanning the crowd.

It wasn’t until I reached the back wall — dark, less crowded — that I saw him.

Tyler Reyes.

Standing there like the universe was mocking me.

Tight black tee. Blonde-white hair glowing under the neon lights. Jaw tight. Lips set.

He looked like he’d rather die than be there.

So of course—

I smirked.

Avery was already dancing on someone’s table. Damien had two girls in his lap and a third feeding him tequila like a baby bird.

I couldn’t care less.

My eyes were on him.

Tyler stood near the bar, nursing a drink, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the shadows.

Too bad.

I wasn’t done.

Not even close.

I started walking toward him. Pushed past bodies, ignored hands grabbing at my arm, people calling my name.

He didn’t see me until I was right there.

I leaned in, voice low and smug.

 “Didn’t think you had the balls to show up, Reyes.”

He stiffened.

Turned. Slowly.

Our eyes locked.

Those brown eyes. The same ones I remembered from ten years ago. Now sharper. Colder.

 “Leave me alone,” he muttered.

I laughed. “After that performance on the ice? C’mon. You should be thanking me. You made it to the finals just to lose to me.”

“Fuck off.”

“Ouch.” I fake-clutched my chest. “Still bitter?”

“I said fuck off, Grant.”

“You know what your problem is?” I said, stepping closer, voice still low. “You fold every time I’m near. Just like always.”

“Don’t push me.”

I leaned in. Inches from his face. Could smell the sharp tang of gin on his breath. His throat moved like he was swallowing words.

 “Or what?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer.

So I took it a step further.

My hand slid behind him.

Lower.

Lower.

Grab.

His body jolted.

“Mason—” he hissed.

“What?” I said innocently, palm still full of his ass. “I thought you liked hands-on coaching.”

He gasped, grabbing my wrist. “Let. Me. Go.”

But he didn’t pull away immediately.

He stood frozen.

Maybe he hated it. Maybe he didn’t.

I didn’t care.

I leaned in again.

 “Same reaction as the first time,” I whispered, lips grazing his ear. “Except this time, there’s no where to run behind.”

That did it.

He shoved me.

Hard.

I staggered back a step, grinning like the devil himself.

Tyler’s chest was rising and falling fast. His fists clenched at his sides.

 “Touch me again and I’ll break your face.”

“You’ll try,” I said.

He lunged.

I braced, ready to meet him halfway, grinning—

And then—

“Hey!” a voice snapped.

“Back it up!”

Two massive bouncers were suddenly between us.

Hands on my chest. Hands on Tyler’s shoulders.

“Step. Back.”

“I didn’t start it,” I said, smirking.

“Both of you, chill,” one of the guards barked.

Tyler was still staring at me, breathing hard.

I winked at him.

He looked like he wanted to set me on fire.

The guards slowly relaxed once they saw we weren’t about to throw punches—yet.

“You good?” one of them asked Tyler.

He didn’t answer.

He just turned and stormed off through the crowd.

I stayed where I was, smiling.

Damien appeared beside me, drink in hand. “What the hell was that?”

“Just catching up with an old friend.”

“Pretty sure you almost punched him.”

“Pretty sure he almost punched me.”

Avery appeared, eyes wide. “Yo. That was hot.”

I snorted.

“It’s gonna be a fun week,” I said.

Later that night, back in my room, my phone buzzed nonstop.

Notifications. Tags. DMs.

I groaned, rolled over, picked it up.

One post caught my eye.

A photo.

Of me and Tyler.

Nose to nose.

His hand on my chest. Mine near his waist. Our eyes locked, fury crackling.

We looked like we were about to kiss or kill each other.

Caption:

>“Rivals?”

📸 @PuckFrenzy

#TylerReyes #MasonGrant #HockeyHeat #EnemiesOrMore?