“Yeah, right. You’ll be begging to creep in next to me by nightfall. Mark my words.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. But as we stood there, surrounded by gear and noise and the easy friction of men who trusted each other, I had a feeling this trip was going to matter more than any of us were saying out loud.
Mason was a menace before sunrise.
He unzipped the tent like it owed him money, and cold morning air rushed in, followed by his voice at full, unnecessary volume. “Rise and shine, ladies. Time and fish wait for no man.”
I groaned into my sleeping bag. Hunter made a noise that sounded like a dying engine, and Tucker told Mason to go fuck himself. Loud and clear all the way from their tent.
“I resign,” Grayson called from his. “This is diabolical.”
Mason just grinned, teeth bright in the half-light. “Five minutes, and we’re heading out. Don’t want to miss all the good fish.”
“Where are they going?” I muttered. “They’re fish. They’re just… there. All the time.”
He slapped my butt through the sleeping bag. “Less talk, more action, rookie.”
“But it’s not even light out.”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “Prime time.”
That seemed to be his answer for everything.
We stumbled into clothes with the coordination of drunk toddlers. Boots unlaced, hoodies pulled on backward and fixed again, coffee replaced with the vague promise of caffeine later. The world was still quiet in that suspended way it gets right before morning commits. Pale sky. Damp air. The river murmured like it hadn’t noticed us yet.
Mason herded us up a short scramble of rocks overlooking the water, the spot opening up into a wide bend where the current slowed and the surface glassed over. It was pretty. I hated how awake he looked standing there, hands on hips, fishing rods propped against a boulder like this was his natural habitat.
“Okay,” he said. “Ground rules.”
Tucker leaned on his rod. “I already hate this.”
“We’re fishing as a unit,” Mason continued, ignoring him. “One line in the water at a time.”
Hunter frowned. “That’s inefficient.”
“Listen,” Mason said. “Each guy gets one cast. If you catch something, you pass the rod to the next guy. If you don’t, you pass it anyway. Goal is to land five fish total before the sun clears the ridge.”
Grayson crossed his arms. “And if we don’t?”
“Then you all listen to me say I told you so for the rest of the day.”
“That’s not a punishment,” Tucker said. “That’s already happening.”
I eyed the river, then Mason. “What’s the point?”
“The point,” Mason said, too cheerfully, “is communication. Timing. Paying attention. Same shit we need on the ice.”
I huffed a laugh. “You turned fishing into a drill.”
“Everything is a drill,” Mason said. “First cast’s yours, rookie.”
Of course it was.
I took the rod, feeling the familiar weight settle into my hands. Skepticism sat heavy in my gut. It was too early. This was corny. Forced bonding in the wilderness wasn’t exactly my thing. I’dspent most of my career keeping my head down, doing my job, trusting talent to carry me.
I cast anyway.
The line arced out clean, the lure kissing the surface and disappearing. We waited. The river slid by, unbothered.
