Chapter 2 2

MASON pov

There's nothing quite like capping off a championship win by watching a teammate crash and burn in front of half the pub. And not just any crash this one came complete with a ring, a bent knee, and an audience. I'd warned Roman beforehand, more than once, that tonight of all nights was the wrong moment for this stunt. Somehow I ended up cast as the villain of that conversation anyway.

Six years. That's how long Roman and his girlfriend had been an item, dating back to high school. Everybody on campus had them pegged as the couple the ones who'd inevitably end up married the second commencement wrapped up. So when we took the title tonight, Roman apparently decided the moment called for something bigger than champagne and bragging rights.

His logic ran something like: win the game, celebrate hard, drop to one knee, cue happy ending. Neat little formula. Didn't account for the fact that real life doesn't follow scripts.

"Wait what?" The color's gone from his face entirely. He's frozen mid-kneel, that Tiffany box trembling slightly between his fingers. "But I thought"

Under the bar lights, that diamond throws off a shine that seems almost cruel given the circumstances. Something that expensive would take most people weeks to afford. Roman's never had that problem not when your family built an empire out of luxury watches. He could've bought a handful of rings like that one and never felt it. This particular purMason probably came out of pocket change, relatively speaking.

"I already told you," she says, arms crossed, tone flat and final. "We're done."

"I just I don't get it."

Rough night for the guy.

I stay leaned against the wall, working through my beer at an unhurried pace, watching things unfold exactly the way I called it earlier.

"What'd I miss?" Josh materializes at my side, straightening his collar in a way that fools absolutely nobody about where he's been for the last twenty minutes off in his Jeep with Natalie, presumably. Those two are stuck in an endless loop: together, sick of each other, hooking up anyway, calling it off, repeat. Riveting stuff.

Real inconspicuous, that guy.

Natalie strolls by toward the dance floor a second later, doing her best impression of someone who's never met him in her life.

Nice try.

"Roman's single again," I tell him.

He nearly loses his drink. "Seriously?"

"Dead serious."

A shaky breath escapes Roman's now-ex.

"You don't understand?" Something between a laugh and disbelief colors her voice. "There was a time we actually worked, Roman. Before this sport swallowed you whole."

That one landed hard.

"You used to prioritize me. These days it's nothing but practice, training footage, road games, team functions." Her expression shifts to something closer to grief than anger. "At some point I stopped feeling like your girlfriend and started feeling like an afterthought."

He starts to respond. She's not finished yet.

"I became something you trot out when people are watching. The rest of the time, I might as well not exist."

That one landed harder.

"So." Her voice stays steady even as her eyes well up. "This is me saying we're finished."

She doesn't stick around for a rebuttal just turns and melts into the crowd. Roman remains exactly where he was dropped, ring box still open, staring at the empty space where his girlfriend used to be standing.

I can already predict how tomorrow's rumor mill is going to run with this.

Championship night ends with the star defenseman getting rejected on one knee.

The student gossip pages are going to have a field day. Hockey drama always gets the most traffic.

"Yikes," Josh says, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "Rough way to go out."

"Tell me about it." He tips back the last of his drink and glances around the room. "Hey, actually where's my sister tonight? I owe her a happy birthday before she writes me out of the will."

I nod toward a booth on the far side of the club.

"Right there."

His eyes track over to where I'm pointing, and I'm about ready to turn my attention back to Roman's disaster when something about Chloe's posture catches my attention and holds it. Something's wrong with the picture. She's sitting motionless, gaze fixed on her drink, not actually drinking it just watching the liquid catch the light. Her two friends are off dancing, cracking up about something, completely unaware. The third one's already got a text from me. The birthday cake in front of her hasn't been touched.

Austin's got an arm looped around her shoulders, mid-conversation with a teammate, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his girlfriend hasn't smiled once this whole time. Could be none of my business.

Is definitely none of my business.

Most of what passes between Chloe and me involves some form of verbal combat. She's hard-headed, I'm worse, she's convinced I'm insufferable, I'm convinced she's exhausting. Somehow it works, in its own dysfunctional way.

Even so the way she's sitting there is setting off alarms. Two years she's been with Austin, and I still haven't warmed up to the guy. He's talented between the pipes, no argument there. But something about him has never sat right with me.

Before I can Mason that thought any further, Chloe reaches for the whiskey bottle sitting on the table already half-drained and takes a long pull straight from it. The whole table goes quiet. Myself included.

Because whiskey and Chloe do not mix. Ever.

I know this firsthand freshman year, somebody dared her into three shots at a party, and she spent the rest of the night praying to the porcelain gods, swearing through the hangover that she'd choose gasoline over liquor from that point forward. That particular oath about drinking in general lasted maybe a month. But whiskey specifically? She's kept that promise ever since, no exceptions.

Which tells me whatever's happening in her head right now is serious enough to break years of resolve.

For the first time tonight, Roman's meltdown stops being the main event. Every ounce of my focus locks onto the birthday girl across the room instead.

What's going on with you, Chloe?