Philly is cold in a way that feels personal. We flew in two days early, coach wanted us settled, rested, and practiced before the playoff game. The hotel is decent, the rink is fine, and the guys are buzzing with that pre‑game energy that’s half adrenaline, half boredom.
Mason is sprawled across the foot of my bed like he owns the place, scrolling through his phone with a smirk that tells me he’s about to start trouble.
“So,” he says without looking up, “how was your little date with Lena?”
I throw a rolled‑up sock at him. He dodges it without even trying.
“It wasn’t date,” I say.
“Right,” he says, finally glancing up. “You took her to a diner. Walked her to her door. Almost kissed her. Totally not a date.”
I glare. “You’re annoying.”
He grins. “And you’re in denial.”
I shake my h
