CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

TYLER

I leaned against the railing of the patio, counting my breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

Calm down.

It’s just Mason being Mason.

It doesn’t mean anything.

Except my pulse was still erratic, and my palms were damp like I’d just run laps.

I didn’t go back to dinner. Screw the cameras. Screw the questions. I cut through the hall, ignored the curious looks, and went straight to Room 24.

The room was dim, quiet, the bed on my side untouched. I stripped down to my joggers, slid under the covers, and closed my eyes.

Don’t think about his knee against yours.

Don’t think about his voice in your ear.

Don’t think about-

The door opened.

Of course.

“Skipping dessert, Reyes?” Mason’s voice was casual, like he hadn’t just spent an hour trying to drive me insane.

“I’m sleeping,” I muttered into my pillow.

“Mm.” He didn’t sound convinced. The bedsprings on his side creaked. “Couldn’t handle the heat at dinner?”

“I just didn’t feel like stabbing you in front of witnesses.”

“That’s sweet. You saving the stabbing for private?”

I rolled over to glare at him. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not when I’ve got ideas.”

“Dangerous sentence.”

Mason leaned on his elbow, looking infuriatingly relaxed. “Let’s make this interesting. Tomorrow’s scrimmage — you against me.”

“That’s every scrimmage.”

“This time with stakes.” His grin was slow, deliberate. “Loser does one thing the winner asks. Anything.”

My brows rose. “Anything?”

He didn’t blink. “Anything.”

I should’ve said no. I should’ve told him to shove his bet where the sun didn’t shine. But my pride wouldn’t let me.

“Fine. You’re on.”

“Good.” His grin sharpened. “Hope you sleep well, Reyes. You’re gonna need it.”

I woke before my alarm. The room was still dark, but I could hear Mason’s even breathing across from me.

I dressed quietly — base layer, practice jersey, skates slung over my shoulder — and slipped out before he could say anything.

The rink was empty, ice freshly cut, that faint smell of chill and resin hanging in the air. I laced up, stretching on autopilot.

Of course, he showed up five minutes later, hair a little messy, mouth curved in a smirk.

“You’re eager,” he said, stepping onto the ice.

“Just want to get this over with.”

We warmed up, passing the puck back and forth with a little more force than necessary.

“Feeling confident?” Mason asked.

“I’m feeling like I’m about to make you regret opening your mouth.”

“That so?”

The first whistle blew.

From the start, it was physical. We weren’t just playing; we were colliding — shoulder checks, shoves, body-to-body impacts that lasted a beat too long.

“That all you got?” he taunted after one near-miss, skating backward in front of me.

“Keep talking,” I said, pushing past him.

He hooked his stick around mine — technically a foul, but no ref meant no whistle.

I yanked free, darting left, then right, the puck gliding ahead of me. Mason’s shadow stayed glued to my side.

“You skate like you’re trying to impress me,” he murmured.

“I skate like I’m trying to crush you.”

By the halfway point, I was sweating under my gear. We were tied, neither of us giving an inch.

A cheer erupted from the stands — Malik, Liam, Avery, Damien, Caleb. Great. An audience.

“Don’t choke, Reyes!” Malik shouted.

“Shut up, Malik!” I yelled back, narrowly dodging Mason’s stick.

He laughed, low and smug. “Your friends have faith in you.”

“I don’t need faith. I need the win.”

Final stretch. My legs burned, lungs ached, but I was ahead — just a fraction of a second faster toward the goal.

Then Mason cut in from the side, hip checking me hard enough to knock me off balance.

The puck slid under his control, and in one smooth motion, he fired.

It hit the net.

Cheers exploded from the stands. Mason coasted to a stop, stick resting casually against his shoulder.

“Better luck next time, Reyes.”

I stood there, stunned, knees hitting the ice before I even realized I’d dropped.

I lost.