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."