Page 67 of Writing Mr. Wrong

“Would you like a shot in it?”

Grandma Dot smiled. “Oh, that is tempting, but I’d better not. Just cream please.”

“I’ll take a beer, too,” Gemma said. “The same kind. And maybe an order of…” She skimmed the offerings. “Wings?”

The young man subtly shook his head.

“Nachos?” she said.

He lowered his voice. “That’s probably the best option. Anything else? Popcorn? Hot dog? Giant pretzel?”

Gemma smiled up at him. “We wouldn’t say no to giant pretzels.”

He smiled, relaxing. “Got it. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he left, opening music filled the arena and Gemma’s head shot up, her gaze going to the Growlers’ gate. A moment later, the team skated out, one at a time.

“That’s him,” Grandma Dot said, poking Gemma’s arm. “Number twelve.”

As Mason appeared, the scoreboards flashed his mace animation, and the home crowd roared. Whatever PR problems he was having, any jeers were drowned out by that roar of happy fans.

Gemma watched Mason skate to his position at left defense. Other things were happening, particularly at center ice, as the centers prepared for the puck drop, but she only saw Mason. Once he was in his spot, he looked her way. She thought he was just surveying the stands, but his eyes seemed to meet hers, and he lifted one gloved hand, smiling wide enough that she caught a flash of his mouth guard.

The young man hurried over with their food, delivering not two beers but four, along with two coffees, two orders of nachos, four pretzels, and a paper bag full of every necessary condiment and some extras—like pepper and vinegar—that he’d clearly just thrown in to cover all bases.

Gemma took the food and fished a twenty out of her pocket. “I know Mason is comping it, but this is for you.”

The young man backed away, hands raised like she was offering him a used tissue.

“It’s all covered,” he said. “That, too. Mr. Moretti wouldn’t want me taking more.”

“Then I’ll tell him you did an amazing job.”

The young man exhaled. “Thank you.”

Once the game started, Gemma forgot about the snacks. She couldn’t look away. Specifically, she couldn’t look away from a certain player with the number twelve on his back.

She knew Mason was good, but seeing him play live was another thing altogether. He wason. Really on. The guy didn’t shut down even while the action was elsewhere. He had his eye on everything, it seemed, watching for trouble.

If the other team’s goon even looked at Mason’s players, Mason was there. It wasn’t all defensive work. He also blocked one of the opposing players in a way that earned him a penalty. Gemma didn’t quite understand what Mason had done, but when it finished, he was back on the ice as if nothing happened, just part of the game.

By the end of the second period, he’d assisted in one of the Growlers’ two goals and kept the other team from scoring at least once.

“He’s so good,” Gemma said.

Grandma Dot only smiled.

“And he’sfast. I mean, I’ve seen him play on TV, but, wow.”

Mason skated past and did a quick turn in front of them as he had a few times, getting the crowd screaming.

“Someone is showing off,” Grandma Dot murmured.

Gemma shook her head. “It’s his signature move.” She motioned to the scoreboard, with a familiar graphic of a swinging mace.

“Mmm, maybe, but it’s odd that he’s choosing to do it right in front ofus. Like a peacock with his mating display.”

“Yes, he’s showing off, but he does that. The crowd loves it. Can’t fault him for winding them up.”

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