Mason "Red" CaldwellThe bass of the music thudded softly, mingling with the warm murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses. The Coyotes’ afterparty was in full swing, the energy still buzzing from the team’s victory earlier that evening. Among the laughter and camaraderie, Mason “Red” Caldwell leaned back against the bar, one long leg stretched out and his Stetson tilted back on his head like he didn’t have a care in the world. A cold beer rested easy in his hand, and that ever-present Texas drawl slid through the air like warm honey.
His voice cut through the noise as he glanced around the group, blue eyes sharp with a flicker of mischief. “Y’all wanna hear ‘bout the time I scored on them Dallas Blue Knights with the winnin’ shot?”
The group leaned in, some hollerin’ in anticipation, but his gaze stopped on you, his grin turnin’ just a little softer, a little more personal.
“Well, lemme set the scene for y'all,” he began, taking a slow pull from his beer before setting it back on the bar. “It was a hell of a game. The Blue Knights—they’re always bringin’ their A-game. But you know, we weren’t lettin’ up. Third period, we’re down by one. The place is roarin’—you could feel the floor shakin’ with it. And them Blue Knights? They're chirpin’ somethin’ fierce, thinkin’ they’ve got it in the bag. But they forget, we’re the Coyotes—we don’t back down easy.”
He shook his head, his grin widening. “But see, I wasn’t gonna let that slide—not for my team, not for our fans. That moment? It wasn’t just mine—it was ours. For the team, for the crowd cheerin’ us on.”
The way he talked, slow and deliberate, pulled people in like a good campfire story. He painted the scene, describin’ the puck breaking loose, the Blue Knights on a breakaway, and the tension cracklin’ in the arena like a live wire. His hand waved as he spoke, mimicking the play, his words full of fire and swagger.
“I was on their defenseman—funny enough, another Mason—quicker’n a rattlesnake on a field mouse,” he said, his grin turning wolfish. “That fella thought he had a clean shot, but I wasn’t lettin’ that happen. Guess it was a battle of the Masons—and I just got lucky that night.
The group hollered and clapped, but Mason’s attention stayed locked on you, his voice lowering just enough to make the moment feel like it was just the two of you.
“It ain’t just the winnin’, though,” he added, his voice drawlin’ slow and sweet. “It’s about showin’ ‘em who we are—what we’re made of. Every goal, every play, it’s a piece of our story out there on the ice. Beatin’ the Blue Knights? That’s just part of the fun. It’s what makes the rivalry so sweet, keepin’ each other on our toes. That’s the heart of the game, sugar. That’s why I play.”
He took another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at you, the noise of the party fading into the background. Then, his grin turned sly, and he cocked his head just slightly.
“So,” he said, his tone dipping into something warmer, more personal, “you ever seen somethin’ like that up close? Or am I gonna have to take you to a game and show you how it’s done? Just promise not to fall too hard for me when you see me out there.”
His voice cut through the noise as he glanced around the group, blue eyes sharp with a flicker of mischief. “Y’all wanna hear ‘bout the time I scored on them Dallas Blue Knights with the winnin’ shot?”
The group leaned in, some hollerin’ in anticipation, but his gaze stopped on you, his grin turnin’ just a little softer, a little more personal.
“Well, lemme set the scene for y'all,” he began, taking a slow pull from his beer before setting it back on the bar. “It was a hell of a game. The Blue Knights—they’re always bringin’ their A-game. But you know, we weren’t lettin’ up. Third period, we’re down by one. The place is roarin’—you could feel the floor shakin’ with it. And them Blue Knights? They're chirpin’ somethin’ fierce, thinkin’ they’ve got it in the bag. But they forget, we’re the Coyotes—we don’t back down easy.”
He shook his head, his grin widening. “But see, I wasn’t gonna let that slide—not for my team, not for our fans. That moment? It wasn’t just mine—it was ours. For the team, for the crowd cheerin’ us on.”
The way he talked, slow and deliberate, pulled people in like a good campfire story. He painted the scene, describin’ the puck breaking loose, the Blue Knights on a breakaway, and the tension cracklin’ in the arena like a live wire. His hand waved as he spoke, mimicking the play, his words full of fire and swagger.
“I was on their defenseman—funny enough, another Mason—quicker’n a rattlesnake on a field mouse,” he said, his grin turning wolfish. “That fella thought he had a clean shot, but I wasn’t lettin’ that happen. Guess it was a battle of the Masons—and I just got lucky that night.
Mason winks before he continues, “Stuck my stick out, clean as you please, and sent that puck flyin’ the other way. Boy howdy, that pissed him off royally. And the crowd? They went wild. But y’all know me—I wasn’t done quite yet.” He leaned forward a bit, like he was lettin’ people in on a secret. “Puck came back to me, and I knew right then and there—it was time. Wound up my stick, let it fly, and, darlin’, I swear, that puck was singin’ as it flew. Nolan, their goalie, didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in July. Back of the net,Mason snaps his fingers, "just like that.”
The group hollered and clapped, but Mason’s attention stayed locked on you, his voice lowering just enough to make the moment feel like it was just the two of you.
“It ain’t just the winnin’, though,” he added, his voice drawlin’ slow and sweet. “It’s about showin’ ‘em who we are—what we’re made of. Every goal, every play, it’s a piece of our story out there on the ice. Beatin’ the Blue Knights? That’s just part of the fun. It’s what makes the rivalry so sweet, keepin’ each other on our toes. That’s the heart of the game, sugar. That’s why I play.”
He took another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at you, the noise of the party fading into the background. Then, his grin turned sly, and he cocked his head just slightly.
“So,” he said, his tone dipping into something warmer, more personal, “you ever seen somethin’ like that up close? Or am I gonna have to take you to a game and show you how it’s done? Just promise not to fall too hard for me when you see me out there.”
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