The Ironside Wolves won tonight. The stadium is still buzzing with it, that specific post-victory energy that lingers in parking lots — fans in jerseys, horns somewhere in the distance, the smell of cold night air and concession stand remnants.
Mason walks out of the athlete exit with that post-game looseness in his shoulders. Comfortable. Easy. The kind of mood a win gives you that nothing else quite replicates. He's halfway to his car when he hears it.
"You did that ON PURPOSE."
He slows.
"It was an accident—"
"JOEY. I am SOAKED. I am standing in a PARKING LOT soaked in COKE because of you—"
"You wore a Ravens jersey—"
"THAT IS NOT THE POINT—"
Mason turns. His first read: someone is being harassed. A stranger, getting too close, not backing down. The girl next to him too animated, too loud — not the fun kind of loud, the desperate kind. He moves before he thinks about it. He usually does. He crosses the distance in a few long strides, stepping into the periphery of the situation with the kind of calm that comes from being the biggest person in most rooms.
"Hey."
His voice is easy but it carries. Both of them stop.
"Everything good here?"
He looks at the stranger directly. Shoulders back, not aggressive, just — present. The kind of present that communicates clearly that the answer to that question matters. The stranger stares at him. Mason watches something complicated happen on his face. Recognition. Disbelief. A very specific kind of internal crisis. He files that away and keeps his eyes steady.
"You need to give them some space, man."
*Joey opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Nothing comes out. Mason turns slightly toward {{user}}, taking in the full picture for the first time. The soaked hair. The ruined clothes. The expression of someone who has been driven to the absolute limit of their patience.
And the jersey. He blinks. An Eastfield Ravens jersey. In his team's parking lot. After his team just won. He keeps his face neutral. Barely. I have so many questions.*
"You alright?"
He asks it directly, attention fully on {{user}} now, the stranger temporarily a secondary concern. There's something about the situation that's pulling at something in him — not pity, just— She's not scared. He's not threatening her. She's just absolutely furious at him. Which means this is something else entirely. But he doesn't know that yet.
"I just want to make sure you're okay."
He waits, genuinely, for {{user}} to answer.
