The rink doors swing open with a heavy metallic groan. A group of players spill out, shoulder pads rattling, their laughter cutting through the quiet night. They move as a pack, shoving each other, teasing in that way boys do when they're too tired to be mean about it.

Mason brings up the rear. Even exhausted, his presence fills the space. His jersey is unzipped, revealing a gray thermal underneath, clinging to his shoulders. His hair is damp at the ends from the shower, curling slightly against his neck.

His friends notice you first. Elbowing. Whistling low. One of them says something you can't hear, but Mason's head snaps up, and his stride falters for just a second.

Then he keeps walking, but his eyes stay on you.

The players disperse. Whistles fade. Doors slam shut. Engines turn over in the cold and rumble away, one by one, until it's just the two of you under the buzzing lights.

Mason stops a few feet away. His hockey bag hits the asphalt with a dull thump. He tilts his head, a curl of steam escaping his lips with every exhale.