My public rebellion came with consequences.
Jace spent the next practice watching me from the bench like I was a live grenade he had personally forgotten to secure. He had been cleared for limited contact while managing soreness in his reconstructed right knee, but instead of focusing on rehab, he tracked every conversation I had with the roster.
I ignored him.
At the end of practice, I was collecting resistance bands when Mason Reed stopped hard at the boards in front of me.
He flipped a black puck over the glass.
I caught it against my chest.
"First puck of the scrimmage," Mason said. "Welcome gift."
"I'm staff. Not a fan."
"Student staff," he corrected, enjoying himself. "Which means you're still allowed to appreciate priceless memorabilia."
I turned the scuffed puck over in my hand. "This has a skate cut through the logo."
"Exactly. Character."
"Trash."
"You wound me, Doc."
He leaned his forearms on the boards.
"Saved you the back row on the bus Friday."
Jace straightened from the treatment table behind me.
"She sits with staff."
Mason looked past me. "She can sit wherever she wants."
"She is not hanging around the roster."
"I'm standing right here," I said.
Before Jace could answer, a woman walked through the tunnel carrying two coffees and a stack of laminated travel sheets.
She wore no visitor badge because the security guard greeted her by name.
"Left skate first, Cole."
Cole sat on the bench with his right boot half laced.
He stopped, sighed, and switched feet.
The woman smiled.
"You always mess up the tension when you rush."
"Good morning to you too, Avery."
Avery Sinclair had been Westlake's student team-operations manager since freshman year. I knew the name from travel emails. I did not know she could walk into the hockey corridor like she had a key to everyone's brain.
She spotted Mason.
"Still collecting penalty minutes, Crash?"
Mason laughed. "Only the useful ones."
Then Avery reached over the bench, grabbed Luca's abandoned practice jersey, and pulled it over her own sweater.
"He left this out again?"
Luca skated over and groaned.
"You steal more gear than equipment staff."
"Then stop leaving it where I can reach it."
She knew Cole's skate ritual, Mason's old nickname, and Luca's habits.
I stood beside the tunnel holding a battered puck and suddenly felt like the newest person in a conversation that had started years before me.
Cole rose.
"You coming to the away game?"
"Wouldn't miss it. I wrote half the travel schedule."
Avery handed him one coffee.
I turned toward the equipment room.
Jace followed.
"Don't."
I stopped. "Don't what?"
"Get that look over Avery."
"What look?"
"Cole and Avery dated freshman year. It ended last spring, but she's still part of the team."
I stared at him.
"Why are you giving me Cole's dating history?"
"Because I know how guys like him operate."
"No. You know how you operate when you think I'm interested in someone."
"Are you?"
"Go ice your knee."
Two hours later, practice ended.
The parking lot was dark and bitterly cold. I walked toward my car with my duffel over one shoulder, keys already in my hand.
A man stepped between two SUVs.
He wore an old Westlake jersey and smelled like beer.
"Hey. You're Mercer's sister, right?"
I shifted around him.
"Excuse me."
He blocked me again.
"Just want to know if he's starting Friday. I got money on the opener."
"You'll have to wait for the official roster."
I tried to pass.
His hand closed around my left wrist.
Hard.
"Take your hand off me."
"Hey, back up."
Mason's duffel hit the asphalt behind him.
He came around the bus cargo door with his hands open at his sides.
The fan looked him over.
"Mind your business, Reed."
"You're holding her," Mason said. "Let go. Walk to your car. That's your last easy option."
The man's fingers tightened until pain shot up my forearm.
"Or what? You gonna get suspended again?"
Mason's jaw flexed.
He did not move.
"I'm telling you to let her go."
The fan released my wrist just long enough to shove Mason in the chest.
Mason took one step back.
Still no punch.
The man reached for me again.
His fingers caught the front of my jacket.
Mason moved.
One punch.
The man's head snapped sideways. He stumbled into the SUV and dropped to the pavement.
Mason immediately stepped back.
"Security!" he shouted.
I rubbed my wrist, pulse hammering.
Two arena guards ran from the service entrance. Cole and Jace came around the bus at the same time.
Jace saw the man on the ground and Mason's split knuckle.
"Are you insane?"
He shoved Mason once in the chest.
"He grabbed me," I said.
Jace barely looked at me.
"Mason is already on conduct probation. One more incident and Coach can suspend him."
"He grabbed me," I repeated.
"And why were you walking out here alone? I told you to wait in the lobby."
For one second, I thought I had misheard him.
"Do not blame me for this."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"By blaming me because a drunk fan put his hands on me?"
The guard nearest us crouched beside the man. The second pulled out his radio.
Cole stepped between Jace and Mason.
"Enough. Security cameras cover this row. Let them review it."
Jace pointed at Mason. "He still threw the punch."
"After the guy grabbed her twice," Cole said.
My brother's face went red.
"Stay out of family business."
"This stopped being family business when you blamed her in a parking lot full of witnesses."
The words landed.
Jace turned toward me.
I held up my bruising wrist.
"The only person who crossed my boundary tonight was the guy on the ground. If you want to protect me, start by believing me."
Campus police arrived. They separated everyone, took statements, and pulled the security video before Mason was allowed to leave.
The athletic department suspended him from one game pending conduct review because of his prior record. It was procedural, Dr. Harper explained, not a finding that he had attacked anyone without cause.
Jace still called it proof that I had brought chaos into the team.
I stopped listening.
When the police finally released us, Mason stood beside the bus with ice wrapped around his right hand.
The arrogant smile was gone.
"You saw me," he said.
I looked at him.
"You saw me try not to hit him, right?"
He was not asking for a defense to give the conduct board. The cameras had already captured the sequence.
He wanted to know whether I had seen the restraint before the violence.
"I saw," I said.
His shoulders dropped half an inch.
That tiny reaction told me more about Mason Reed than every rumor on campus.
