Not toward Mason.
Toward the family section.
His eyes search.
They find me.
It isn't dramatic. He doesn't smile widely. He doesn't wave.
He just looks at me.
And I know.
I know he's looking for me.
We make our way down toward the family lounge outside the locker room. It’s crowded. Loud. Controlled chaos. Players' families and partners gathered in small clusters. Phones out. People checking watches while they wait for the guys to come out.
Mason comes out first, already showered and dressed in a team tracksuit.
He runs a hand through his damp hair.
“You look pale,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.
“You got hit,” I counter.
“I’m fine.”
“So did he.”
Mason’s mouth twitches.
“He always does,” he says. “He’ll ice it and pretend he doesn’t need stitches.”
“That’s reassuring.”
He studies me for a second longer than necessary.
Then he bumps my shoulder lightly and moves down the hall.
Gabriel steps out a minute later, also showered and changed into team sweats.
His hair is still damp. A faint red mark already blooming along his jaw. His knuckles look worse up close.
He scans the crowd again.
When his gaze lands on me, something in his shoulders drops.
He walks straight toward me.
Not toward Mason.
Not toward the coaches.
Me.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
I blink. “You’re asking me?”
