Chapter 10: Only When He Said I Could

I closed the gym door behind me with more care than it deserved, like if I eased it shut slow enough, it wouldn’t echo down the hallway and announce the state I was in.

The lights were still off in the dorm when I got back. Mason’s side of the room glowed faintly with the blue of his laptop, casting that weird underwater light over his bare chest as he scrolled with one hand and scratched his stomach with the other. He looked up as I walked in.

“Practice go late?”

I let my bag fall and nudged it out of the way with my foot. “Sort of.”

Mason didn’t say anything at first. He just watched me a second too long, his expression unreadable in the half-light. Then he clicked his trackpad, closed the screen, and leaned back in his chair.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

I was halfway to the bathroom before I turned. “What thing?”

He tilted his head. “That thing you do when you come back from these early morning sessions with Coach Casper.”

I flushed hot. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Mason stood and stretched, arms overhead, ribs visible under his smooth skin. He always stretched like that, like he wanted to remind the room how much space he could occupy. “You’ve been weird all week. Kind of jumpy. Kinda quiet. Not your usual twitchy, like ... off.”

I tried to keep my face blank. “I’m just tired.”

“Then let’s blow it off.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Friday. Drinks. You and me. Let’s go out somewhere. Clear your head.”

I almost laughed. “With what fake ID?”

Mason grinned, already walking to his dresser. He opened a drawer, dug around, and pulled out two pieces of plastic. “You think I didn’t plan ahead?”

He tossed mine across the room. I caught it, barely.

The photo was awful. The name wasn’t mine. BUT ... the birth year put me squarely in legal territory.

“Could be fun,” Mason said, flopping down on his bed. “Or at least more fun than sitting around acting all haunted.”

I hesitated.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I said finally, voice thin. “Okay. Let’s go out.”

Mason nodded like he’d known I’d say yes all along. He reached for his phone and started texting someone. Probably scouting where to go, who to meet, who to charm.

I turned toward the bathroom, locking the door behind me with a quiet click.

I didn’t turn on the light right away.

I just stood there, hands braced on the edge of the sink, letting the darkness press in for a second.

Then I looked up and met my own reflection.

I didn’t look different, which was almost worse. Same hair falling over my forehead, same soft jaw, same too-pale skin. I looked tired, maybe. But not like someone who had done what I’d done.

Nothing about my face gave it away. Not the way my knees had dug into rubber matting, not the heat that had stayed in my cheeks all day after.

I ran the tap and let the water run cold before splashing it over my face. It didn’t help much. Everything still felt tight. Like my body was holding something I hadn’t gotten out.

There was a knock on the door. Mason’s voice came through, casual. “You good in there?”

“Yeah,” I called back, too fast.

He didn’t press.

I stayed a moment longer, hands braced on the edge of the sink, watching the water bead along my jaw before it fell. My mouth still tasted like nothing. But my brain wouldn’t stop inventing things—what it would taste like if I—

I cut the thought off and grabbed my toothbrush.

Friday night came fast.

The fake ID was primed in my pocket the whole way there, like a soldier ready for duty. We caught a ride with one of Mason’s friends from the team, a guy I barely knew, who kept talking about how “dead” the scene had been last weekend but swore this place would be different. Mason played along, tossing out names, asking who was working the bar, who might show. I kept my mouth shut and stared out the window.

The place looked older than I expected. Not a club, more like a lounge someone tried to make cool again with LED lights and loud playlists. We handed over our IDs and the bouncer didn’t blink. Just unhooked the velvet rope and let us through.

Inside was packed. Music too loud, bass thudding deep in the floor, the smell of old beer and new cologne mixing in a way that made my stomach twitch. Mason moved through it as though he wasn’t an underage college student who had no business being there. He ordered drinks without asking what I wanted. Rum and Coke, two of them. Passed me one with a grin.

“Try to enjoy yourself,” he shouted over the music. “That’s kind of the point.”

I nodded and took a sip. It was sweet and strong and exactly what I needed.

We found a table near the back, half-shadowed, with a view of the dance floor. Mason leaned against the railing, already scanning. He didn’t need to wait long.

A girl in a leather crop top made a beeline straight for him, barely said anything before she was touching his arm, laughing too loudly. Another followed, then another. They hovered, tilted their heads, reached for his biceps like it was an open bar. Mason let them. He smiled, joked, let them touch. But every few minutes he looked back at me, like he was checking that I was still okay.

I wasn’t sure what my face was doing. I smiled when it felt right. Laughed when something was probably meant to be funny. I even caught a glance or two from across the room, but no one came over. And I didn’t try to close the distance.

Maybe I didn’t want to.

Mason brought me another rum and coke.

The drink hit me slow. I didn’t feel drunk exactly, just soft. Like the edges of things had gone a little fuzzy. Time stopped behaving right. The lights looked warmer. My shirt stuck to my back from the heat of the crowd, but I didn’t mind it.

I must’ve zoned out because the next thing I knew, Mason was back at our table, pressing another glass into my hand. “You good?”