The last file on my desk was the player contracts for the Harbor City Blades.

Forty-two pages of guaranteed salaries, trade clauses, and a goalie's no-movement provision that would cost somebody a lot of money if I missed a comma. It was almost nine at night, and Northstar Capital's twenty-third floor had gone quiet except for the hum of the air vents and the cleaning cart two offices down.

I was initialing page thirty-one when my phone lit up.

**Riverside U Championship Anniversary Week 🏒🏆**

I'd muted that group chat the day someone added me three weeks ago. Apparently, muting didn't stop videos from autoplaying when you swiped a notification away with a tired thumb.

The screen filled with a concrete hallway I hadn't seen in five years.

And there I was.

Twenty-two, ponytail coming loose, lanyard still around my neck. I was hugging a navy away jersey against my chest like it was something precious. Number 17. His backup.

I remembered that jersey. I remembered what I'd been thinking that night, standing outside the locker room.

*He'll tell them now. We won. He promised he'd tell them after we won.*

On the video, the locker room door was cracked open. The guys were shouting, spraying something, somebody pounding on a locker. Then a voice rose over the noise.

"Come on, Mason, what's the deal with you and Tessa?"

Laughter. Whistles.

And then Mason's voice, easy and warm and amused, the voice he used when he knew everyone was listening.

"I only dated her because I felt sorry for her."

The twenty-two-year-old girl on my screen didn't move. The camera stayed on her face long enough for everyone in the group chat to watch it happen.

I set my pen down.

Five years, and my hand still wanted to shake.

---

That night, I'd been running on no sleep for three days.

I booked the hotel block after the original one fell through. I tracked down two missing skate bags at the airport. I called the steakhouse four times to confirm the private room for the celebration dinner, and I'd paid the deposit on my own card because the athletic office wouldn't process it until Monday.

Coach called me the team's secret weapon. The guys called me Water Girl.

I'd told myself it was affectionate.

When Mason finally came out of the locker room, hair damp, grin enormous, I stepped forward with his jersey. I was going to hang it back in his locker for him, the way I always did.

He walked right past me.

Sabrina was waiting by the exit doors in a white Riverside hoodie that I was pretty sure had been mine. She was the athletic director's daughter, the one who showed up to games in the second period and left before the handshake line.

Mason slung an arm around her shoulders.

"Guys," he announced, turning so everyone could see. "This is who I'm taking to dinner."

Then he kissed her. Right there, in front of the whole team, three feet from me.

Somebody said, "Oh, damn." Somebody else laughed so hard he had to lean on the wall.

Sabrina pulled back first. She looked over Mason's shoulder, straight at me, and gave me a small, sympathetic smile.

"Oh, Tessa," she said. "Were you holding that for him? That's so sweet."

I could have thrown the jersey at him. I could have told the whole hallway about the nights he'd called me from his car because he didn't want to go home, or the paper I wrote for him junior year so he wouldn't lose his eligibility.

I didn't say a word.

I held the jersey tighter, turned around, and walked out of the arena.

I didn't know anyone was filming. I didn't know that for the rest of their lives, the guys from that hallway would be able to pull up a clip of me crossing the parking lot, eyes red, clutching Number 17 like an idiot.

Now Sabrina had uploaded it again.

Her caption sat under the video in bubbly lowercase.

**Sabrina:** think our water girl still cries over mason? 😭😭

---

The chat woke up like someone had kicked a hornet's nest.

**Derek:** LMAOOO the jersey hug

**Kyle:** bro I forgot about this

**Jenna:** Sabrina you're evil 💀

**Derek:** Real question is whether she shows up Saturday

**Kyle:** she won't. $500 says she won't

**Derek:** $500 says she shows up and she's still carrying equipment for somebody lol

**Jenna:** omg what does she even do now??

**Kyle:** probably team manager for a rec league somewhere

Somebody made a poll. Then somebody made it a real pot, linked to a payment app, with a spreadsheet pinned to the top of the chat. Two columns: **Tessa Shows** and **Tessa Doesn't.**

The second column filled up fast.

Then Sabrina posted again.

**Sabrina:** Boring. $10,000 says she doesn't come. And if she does, she's still somebody's assistant. 💅

The chat exploded. Fire emojis. Gifs of money raining down. Someone tagged Mason and wrote, **your ex is famous again, bro.**

Mason didn't reply in the group.

Thirty seconds later, a private message slid onto my screen.

**Mason:** Hey. Saw what Sabrina posted. She's just being Sabrina.

**Mason:** I know it's been a while and things ended kind of messy. If seeing everyone again is too much, no pressure. I can get the guys to drop it. Just say the word.

I read it twice.

Five years, and he still talked to me like I was a stray he was being generous to. Like he was offering me a favor, and all I had to do was admit I needed one.

*Just say the word.*

I thought about the girl in the parking lot. She would have typed *thank you.* She would have spent an hour wondering whether *no pressure* meant he still cared.

I didn't answer him.

I went back to the group chat, opened the spreadsheet, and put my name in the first column.

**Tessa Cole — Shows — $20,000.**

Then I typed one line in the chat.

**Tessa:** I'll be there.

For almost a full minute, nothing moved.

Then the typing bubbles started, stopped, and started again, three or four at once.

**Kyle:** wait is that actually her

**Derek:** 20K??? with what money lmao

**Jenna:** is this a fake account

Sabrina's bubble appeared and disappeared twice before she finally posted.

**Sabrina:** Wow. Can't wait to see you, babe. 😘

Mason's private message sat unanswered under the chat, the little *Read* marker glowing beneath it.

Good. Let him wonder.

---

I closed the app. My laptop chimed before I'd even put the phone down.

**From: Northstar Capital — Investment Committee**

**Subject: FINAL APPROVAL — Harbor City Blades Acquisition**

*The Committee has approved the acquisition of the Harbor City Blades in full. Tessa Cole will continue as Deal Lead, overseeing closing and all post-acquisition restructuring of team operations and personnel.*

Personnel.

I read that word longer than the rest of the email.

Riverside's championship roster had scattered after graduation, but not far. Half the alumni chat worked somewhere inside the Blades organization now. Scouting. Community relations. Front office. Mason had made the AHL affiliate and was fighting for a call-up.

They were celebrating a five-year-old victory on Saturday at the Blades' home arena, because the team had agreed to host.

The team I now owned the paperwork for.

My phone buzzed again. A text this time.

**Alexander:** Board approved it. See you at the anniversary, Ms. Cole.

Alexander ran Northstar. He also had a sense of humor that only showed up in text messages, usually at night, usually when he'd won something.

A second message followed.

**Alexander:** I'll send a car Saturday. VIP entrance, owner's suite. You shouldn't have to walk through the crowd.

I looked at the frozen thumbnail of the video, still sitting in my notifications. The girl with the jersey.

**Me:** No car. I'm going in through the alumni entrance with everyone else.

**Alexander:** You're sure? Once they know who you are, this gets a lot easier.

**Me:** That's the point. They don't know yet.

A pause. Then:

**Alexander:** Understood. Try not to enjoy it too much.

I almost smiled.

I pulled the Blades contracts back in front of me and initialed page thirty-one. Then thirty-two.

On Saturday, I'd walk through those doors as the Tessa they remembered. The water girl. The one who cried in a parking lot.

I wanted to see exactly how far they'd take the joke when they thought she'd come back.

And I wanted to see Mason's face when he found out who was signing his next contract.

I got to Riverside's old rink forty minutes early.

The alumni skate was the afternoon warm-up before the big reception at the Blades arena tonight, and I wanted to walk into the building before anyone was watching the door. The place smelled the same. Cold concrete, burnt popcorn, and the rubber matting that never fully dried.

A banner hung over the check-in table. **RIVERSIDE HOCKEY: FIVE YEARS CHAMPIONS.**

The girl behind the table looked about nineteen, with a student staff badge and a clipboard she clearly didn't want to be holding.

"Name?"

"Tessa Cole."

Her pen stopped. She glanced at a sticky note beside her list, then reached under the table and pulled out a folded jacket.

Navy. Gold trim. The exact student manager jacket I'd worn for three seasons.

She held it out with both hands like it might bite her. "Um. This is for you. Sabrina said everybody from the old staff gets one."

I unfolded it. On the back, freshly heat-pressed in bright gold letters, it said **COLE.**

Right under that, smaller, in quotation marks: **"WATER GIRL."**

"Did anybody else from the staff get one?" I asked.

The girl's face went pink. "I think you're the only staff on the list."

"Tessa!"

Sabrina came across the lobby in a cream sweater and heeled boots that had no business being near ice. Her phone was already up, the little red dot glowing in the corner of the screen.

"You actually came." She pressed her cheek against mine without touching it. "Do you love it? It's the nostalgia segment. We're recreating championship night. Everybody's in their old roles."

"Everybody," I said.

"Well, the fun ones." She laughed and took my elbow. "Come on, your seat's all set up."

She steered me toward the front row by the glass, where a row of folding chairs had name cards taped to them. Mine was on the end, next to the equipment bin.

A jersey was draped over the back of my chair. Black and silver, the affiliate team's colors, with **CARTER 17** stitched across the shoulders.

"Mason's pro jersey," Sabrina said, as if I couldn't read. "We figured you'd want to hold onto it. Old habits."

A couple of guys from the team were already sitting down the row. Derek snorted into his coffee.

I looked at the jersey, then at the jacket still hanging over my arm. For five years, I'd wondered what they'd do if I ever came back. Now I knew. They'd built me a little museum, and I was the exhibit.

"Tess?"

I knew that voice before I turned around.

Mason looked good. Of course he did. Broader through the shoulders, jaw sharper, hair shorter than it had been in college. He wore a quarter-zip with the affiliate logo on the chest, like he was afraid someone might forget where he played.

He stopped a few feet away and looked at me. Really looked, from my coat to my face and back again. I watched him take in the tailored wool, the heels, the fact that I wasn't wearing a ponytail.

Something shifted in his expression. Interest, then confidence, then the look of a man who thinks the universe just handed him a second chance.

"Wow," he said. "Tess. You look great."

"Mason."

"Here, sit." He pulled out my folding chair with a little flourish, like we were at a restaurant instead of a rink. "I'm glad you came. Honestly. I wasn't sure you would after the chat."

"I said I'd be there."

"Yeah. Yeah, you did." He sat in the chair next to mine without asking, one arm draped across the back of it. His voice dropped, soft and private. "Look, I know the guys got a little out of hand. Back then, too. It was kind of a lot, the way everybody treated you. I should've said something."

*Should've said something.* As if he'd been a bystander that night instead of the man holding the microphone.

"That's one way to put it," I said.

He either didn't hear the edge or chose not to. He reached over, lifted the jersey off the back of my chair, and set it on my lap. Up close, I could see the black marker signature across the number.

"I signed it for you," he said, smiling like he'd brought me flowers. "You used to love keeping my stuff. Remember? You had that whole drawer."

Derek laughed out loud. Somebody down the row said, "Aww."

I did remember the drawer. Ticket stubs. A broken stick tape roll. A hoodie that still smelled like him for a month after he stopped calling.

I picked up the jersey, folded it once lengthwise, then again, neat and tight the way I used to fold forty of them after every road game. Then I stood, stepped to the equipment bin, and laid it on top of a pile of practice pinnies.

"Wrong seat," I said.

The row went quiet.

Mason's smile stayed, but it didn't reach his eyes anymore. "Okay," he said slowly. "Noted."

I put the manager jacket in the bin too, folded on top of his jersey, and sat back down.

"Oh my God, you guys." Sabrina had drifted closer, phone angled to catch all three of us. "Chat, this is Tessa. Say hi to Tessa. She was basically our mom back in the day."

Hearts floated up her screen. I caught a comment scrolling past. **omg is that the jersey girl??**

"So, Tessa," Sabrina said, sweet as syrup. "What are you doing these days? Someone said you're in operations?"

"Something like that."

"That's amazing." She turned the phone toward herself. "Guys, she went from washing jerseys to an actual office job. That's such a glow-up. I'm so proud of you, babe."

Derek laughed first. Then Kyle. Then the girl two chairs down, who I didn't even recognize.

Mason didn't laugh, but he didn't stop anyone either. He just watched me with that patient, sympathetic look, like he was waiting for me to crack so he could be the one to comfort me.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. **Priya — Northstar.**

"Excuse me," I said, and answered. "Go ahead."

"Sorry to bug you on a Saturday." Priya's voice was brisk, keyboard clicking behind her. "Quick flag. The affiliate side sent over a long-term extension proposal for Mason Carter. Their GM is pushing hard to get it folded into the restructuring package before close. He wants it fast-tracked. How do you want it handled?"

I kept my eyes on the ice. The Zamboni was making slow laps, leaving a wet shine behind it.

Beside me, Mason was close enough to hear my side of the conversation and nothing else.

"Keep his extension in the normal review pile," I said. "No special treatment."

A pause on the line. "Got it. Standard timeline, standard evaluation."

"Same as everyone."

"Understood."

I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket.

Mason was smiling again, but gentler now, almost fond. "Busy day at the office?"

"It's always a busy day."

"Tess." He leaned in. "You don't have to do that. The phone thing. Nobody here's keeping score."

Across the rink, the spreadsheet with twenty thousand of my dollars on it said otherwise.

"I'm serious," he went on. "If you're trying to get into the sports side of things, tonight's the place. The Blades front office will be at the reception. Scouts, agents, a couple of the new ownership people, probably. I can introduce you. Put in a word." He tapped my knee once, lightly. "People who actually work in the industry."

It was almost impressive. He'd found a way to offer me charity and make it sound like a favor to me.

Before I could answer, my phone lit up in my hand.

**Alexander:** Five minutes from the Blades arena.

My pulse jumped, and I hated that it did. I angled the screen away from Mason and typed with my thumb.

**Me:** Don't make it public yet. Nobody knows who I am.

The reply came almost instantly.

**Alexander:** One hour. Then I'm done pretending I don't know you.

I read it once and turned off the screen.

"So?" Mason said, still leaning toward me. "Want me to set something up?"

Across town, a car would be pulling up to the Blades arena in five minutes.

"Let's see how tonight goes," I said.

The Blades arena had a private level above the concourse, all dark carpet and glass railings, where season-ticket holders paid a small fortune to never smell a hot dog.

The alumni reception was at the far end. I was halfway down the hallway, looking for the coat check, when I heard my name through a half-open door.

"Tessa flew in for this. Flew. From wherever she lives now."

Mason.

The sign on the door said **PLAYERS' LOUNGE — AUTHORIZED ONLY.** Through the gap, I could see a slice of leather couch, a bar cart, and Derek's elbow.

"You don't book a flight for a reunion with people who made fun of you," Mason went on. "You book a flight because there's somebody you still want to see."

"Or because she put twenty grand on it," Kyle said.

"That's my point. Who bets twenty grand on showing up to a party? That's not about money. That's about proving something." A pause, glass clinking. "So, seriously, guys. Tonight, lay off the old stuff. No jersey jokes. She's clearly still raw about it."

"Says the guy who signed a jersey for her this afternoon," Derek said.

"That was a gesture."

Laughter. Then a voice I didn't recognize, one of the current Blades players probably. "Wait, so are you trying to get her back or what?"

Through the gap, I watched Mason stand, check himself in the mirror behind the bar, and straighten the knot of his tie with two fingers.

"I don't need to chase her," he said, smiling at his reflection. "She'll always have a thing for me."

The room whooped.

I waited for it. The tight feeling under my ribs, the heat in my face, the old urge to disappear. Five years ago, one sentence from him could knock the air out of me for a week.

Nothing happened.

It was like pressing on a bruise and finding the skin had healed over. I noticed his tie was a little too wide for his collar, and that was about all I felt.

I kept walking.

---

The reception hall had round tables with white cloths and little place cards in silver holders. Mine was at a table near the back, beside the service station.

Mason's black-and-silver jersey was draped over my chair. Again.

Same signature across the number. Someone had pulled it out of the equipment bin at the rink, carried it across town, and set it up here like a punchline that needed a second take.

I lifted it off the chair and folded it the same way I had that afternoon. A server in a black vest was restocking napkins at the station.

"Excuse me. Is there someone collecting team items tonight?"

He glanced at the jersey. "Uh, yeah. Merch table's by the entrance. I can take it."

"Thanks. It belongs to Mason Carter. He'll want it back."

He took it without a second look. That was the whole ceremony.

"Tessa!"

Sabrina caught me before I'd made it three steps, phone down for once, which meant this conversation wasn't for her followers.

"You're not going in the lounge? Everybody's in there."

"I'm fine out here."

She tilted her head. "Babe. It's okay to be nervous. You don't have to pretend. Are you scared to walk in and see Mason?"

She said it gently, like a nurse. Her eyes were bright with something else.

"No," I said. "I've already seen everything I needed to see five years ago."

For a second, she didn't have a comeback ready. Her mouth opened, then closed into a smile that didn't quite fit.

"Well," she said. "That's very mature."

She walked away fast, heading straight for the lounge.

---

I was on my way to the elevators when the hallway filled up.

Six people in suits came around the corner at once. Rick Donnelly, the Blades' general manager, was in front, jacket buttoned, phone pressed to his ear. I recognized him from a hundred pages of due diligence. Behind him came the team president, the head of operations, and two people from legal I'd been on calls with all month. None of them had ever seen my face. Northstar ran its early negotiations through outside counsel and a data room.

Donnelly shoved the lounge door all the way open.

"Glasses down. Anyone who's had more than two, go drink water," he said. "Northstar's lead on the acquisition is here tonight. I want everybody standing up straight and saying intelligent things."

The laughter in the room died so fast it was almost funny.

I stepped into the alcove by the elevator bank, out of the way.

A minute later, Mason came out of the lounge with his phone already at his ear. He stopped ten feet from me, facing the window, and didn't look around.

"Brent. It's me. Yeah, they just told us. The Northstar person's here, tonight." He rubbed the back of his neck. "No, I don't know who. Donnelly didn't say."

"I don't know, some finance woman from the city. Doesn't matter. Listen, my extension is sitting on her desk, right? So she's the one I have to impress." He laughed, a little too loud. "Relax. I'm good with this kind of thing. Give me ten minutes with her, and she'll see what I'm worth. Social numbers, community stuff, the fan base. I'm the face of the affiliate, Brent. I'm marketable."

He listened, nodding.

"Yeah. Tonight. She walks out of here knowing my name."

He hung up, fixed his tie again, and walked back into the lounge without ever turning his head my way.

My phone buzzed.

**Alexander:** Downstairs. Service lobby.

I pressed the elevator button.

---

He was waiting by the loading dock doors in a charcoal coat, hands in his pockets.

"You look like you've been having fun," Alexander said.

"Mason just told his agent he's going to charm Ms. Cole tonight."

His eyebrows went up. "Does he know?"

"He said my name out loud and didn't connect it to anything."

Alexander studied me for a moment. "You okay?"

"Honestly? Yes." That surprised me more than anything else tonight. "Let's go up."

The elevator was small and mirrored. Alexander stood close enough that his sleeve brushed mine.

"Donnelly's going to want to shake your hand before you even get out of the car," he said quietly.

"Let him."

"And Carter?"

"He wanted ten minutes with me." I watched the floor numbers climb. "He can have them."

"You're enjoying this."

"You told me not to."

"I told you to try." The corner of his mouth moved. "You're not trying very hard."

The car slowed. As the doors started to slide open, I heard laughter spilling from the lounge down the hall, Mason's laugh right in the middle of it.

Then a door banged against a wall.

"The woman deciding our acquisition just arrived downstairs," someone announced, loud enough to carry. "She's on her way up. Now."

The laughter stopped.

The doors opened all the way. Alexander stepped out first. I was right beside him, his head bent toward mine, still finishing what he'd been saying under his breath.

Down the hallway, the whole lounge had spilled out. Derek with his drink halfway to his mouth. Kyle frozen by the doorframe. Sabrina, phone raised on instinct.

And Mason, at the front, tie perfect, his practiced smile ready for a stranger.

It stayed on his face for exactly one second after he saw me. Then his eyes jumped to Alexander, back to me, and his smile didn't know what to do.

Rick Donnelly didn't hesitate. He walked straight past his players, past Mason, past everyone, and stopped in front of me with his hand out.

"Ms. Cole," he said. "We've been waiting for you."