Page 1 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter one

TJ

W e'd barely made it to the locker room before Coach started grinning like we'd just handed him a vintage bottle of Scotch and a playoff seed.

"Hell of a win, boys," MacPherson called over the noise. His compliments always sounded vaguely threatening, with their military cadence, which might explain why we'd won in the first place.

I had my jersey off and my shoulder pads somewhere on the floor, but my skates were still on. I wasn't ready to come down from the high yet. Not with the game still buzzing in my blood and my hands shaking in a good way.

"Ryker," Coach added, sharp and quick, "those blocks in the third? Textbook."

A few stalls down, Mason Ryker didn't flinch. Just kept peeling off his gloves like he was defusing something sensitive and mechanical. He never looked up when Coach praised him—never smiled, either. Just... processed and moved on.

If MacPherson ever called anything I did "textbook," I'd engrave it on a plaque and hang it above my bed.

The locker room smelled like it always did—sweat, disinfectant that never fully won the war, and that damp rubber tang from the flooring.

Our goalie, Mercier, was still huffing like he'd just run stairs.

Someone's music thumped quietly from a corner, probably Monroe's playlist again—vaguely country and vaguely sad.

I might need to put my old-school boombox back into action.

I looked back at Mason. "Hey, Ryker—you realize you saved our asses out there, right?"

He looked up at me, eyes steady and a little too clear. He had that kind of gaze that made you feel like he was actually listening and not waiting for his turn to speak. Just... taking it in.

"Team effort," he said.

"Sure it was. And I'm six feet three."

That earned the smallest shift in his expression. Not quite a smile, but something.

He stood, tall and unbothered, and something about how he moved—fluid but cautious, like he knew exactly where his body ended and the rest of the world began—made me feel weirdly off-balance.

I reached out to clap him on the shoulder. Standard teammate gesture. No big deal.

Then, my hand stayed there.

And next, somehow, I was pulling him into a hug. TJ Jameson, veteran Forge center, and Mason Ryker, first season winger, squeezing each other tight.

He stiffened for a beat. Barely long enough for me to notice. He exhaled and eased into it. His shoulder pressed into mine. His chest moved with mine. I sniffed—a mix of clean laundry and winter air. It was the kind of scent that made me want to breathe it in again.

We laughed, caught up in the emotion of victory, riding the high—and—

CLICK.

"Got it!" Brady, our wet-behind-the-ears social media guy, announced. "Nice one, boys. That's great content."

Mason stepped back. Not fast or awkward. Like it hadn't been anything at all.

I let my arms fall to my side. The air had a distinctive chill without him.

"Social media gold." Brady stared at the viewfinder of his camera. "You guys photograph well together."

I should've said something. I usually did. Made a joke, tossed off a line, and laughed it off before anyone had time to get uncomfortable.

This time, I didn't.

Instead, I stood there in half-undone skates and a sweat-soaked base layer, watching Mason return to his stall and resume peeling off his gear like nothing had just happened.

Like something hadn't just shifted under my feet.

Like I wasn't still thinking about how he'd leaned in, just enough.

Like I wasn't already wondering what it would feel like to do it again.

By the time I made it home, my legs were aching and I'd forgotten to take my skates out of my bag. The whole thing would reek by morning. I dropped it, kicked off my sneakers, and collapsed onto the couch without bothering to change or shower.

There was leftover Chinese in the fridge—Kung Pao chicken, likely—but I didn't even nuke it. I pulled the container out, grabbed a plastic fork, and ate it cold while reruns of something I wasn't really watching played in the background.

As I settled in, my phone buzzed.

Instagram notification: lewistonforge just posted a photo.

I clicked without thinking, expecting the usual action shots—someone mid-check or Mercier in full goalie butterfly pose. Maybe it would be Lambert's too-serious face during the anthem lineup.

Instead: me.

Well, Mason and me.

The photo was from the hug—that exact second where I'd laughed at something. Mason had this soft smile that crept in at the corners like it wasn't sure it was allowed to be there. He'd tilted his head, and his eyes were on me.

I looked like I'd just realized what I was holding. And that it mattered.

Caption: Big win. Bigger feels. #ForgeFamily #RykerRising

I almost choked on a water chestnut.

There it was. Posted. Permanent. Public. Already liked by two of my teammates and one suspiciously eager fan account.

I scrolled.

And regretted it immediately.

"TJ's face. Someone please check on that man."

"Not to be dramatic, but this is the most romantic thing I've ever seen."

"RYKER'S SMILE OMG"

"That's not a bromance. That's a soft launch."

Soft launch?

What even was a soft launch? I'd heard people say it about relationships, like when someone posted a shadowy picture of a second drink at brunch and everyone pretended not to notice it meant they were in love. This wasn't that.

It was a hug.

A really, really good hug, to be honest, but a hug.

I set my phone down. Picked it up again. Locked the screen. Unlocked it.

Refreshed.

More likes. More comments. Someone had added it to their story with a sticker that said "REPRESENT," complete with a rainbow and tagged me, the team, and Mason. I stared at the notification for a solid thirty seconds, trying to figure out how I'd ended up in a meme.

I mean, sure—we had a bit of a rep. The LGBTQ+ friendliest team in the league.

That was thanks to Dane and Leo, then Pike and Carver.

I was cool with that. Proud, even, but I didn't expect to be the next headline.

Especially not when I mostly dated women, or tried to.

Or at least didn't not date them. You get the idea.

All I'd done was hug a teammate.

We did that all the time. Monroe hugged people like it was his job. Mercier once picked me up off the ice after an overtime win and carried me back to the bench like a bride over the threshold.

That wasn't Mason and me.

Except I remembered how he'd leaned in. How he'd smelled—clean and fresh. How he hadn't rushed away.

I hadn't wanted to let go.

And now… people had noticed.

A lot of people.

They were the kind who zoomed in on photos, looked for hand placement, and analyzed facial expressions.

I dropped my phone on the coffee table and pulled a throw pillow over my face.

This would blow over.

It had to because if it didn't, people might start thinking I was serious. I'd built a whole career on not being taken too seriously. That way, if they laughed, it was on my terms.

By tomorrow, someone else would say something dumb in a post-game interview, a fight would break out in the next game, or Lambert would post another gym thirst trap and give the fans something new to lose their minds over.

The following morning, I was almost to the door of the Colisée, our home arena, when I heard heels behind me, clacking on the asphalt.

That was the first sign I was in trouble—nobody at the arena wore heels unless they were there to ask questions you didn't want to answer, particularly on a practice day.

"TJ! Quick second?"

Jennifer Walsh. Local reporter. Pop culture blogger. Unholy combination of caffeine and journalistic tenacity.

I slowed, but only because my mom raised me polite, and my gear bag weighed about as much as a medium-sized bear.

"Morning, Jen. If this is about my skincare routine, I can't legally share trade secrets."

She didn't laugh—another bad sign.

"That photo the team posted last night—of you and Ryker?"

I reached for the door handle.

"What about it?"

"It's going viral. Fans are speculating. Some are thinking it's a relationship soft launch."

"Soft what?"

"You know. Quiet announcement. Low-key romantic reveal. You and Ryker… intimate."

"It was a hug."

"A hug that makes us all a little envious."

I turned. "Jen, it was a post-win moment. We were excited. There were feelings. It's not a story."

"But the fans—"

And that's when I said it.

That's when I opened my dumb mouth and let the words fall out, hoping to end the conversation with one well-timed joke.

"Yeah," I said, flashing her my best nothing-to-see-here smile. "We're totally dating. He's gonna make an honest man out of me."

Silence.

Only for a second. Long enough for me to realize I'd stepped off the curb into heavy traffic, metaphorically speaking.

"Really?"

I shrugged like it was all old news. "What can I say? The man's got great instincts and perfect posture. Who wouldn't fall in love?"

Fuck, I even uttered the four-letter word. I stepped into the Colisée, thinking the door couldn't close behind me fast enough.

Fortunately, she didn't follow me inside. As I trudged down the hall to the locker room, my eyes suddenly opened wide. What did you do? I had just told a reporter—on record—that Mason Ryker and I were dating.

It was a joke. Except nothing online ever stays a joke. Not for long. Not when it has a slow-mo hug, a smile, and a caption with a heart emoji already out in the world.

And Mason... Mason hadn't even seen the photo yet. At least as far as I knew.

Practice was uneventful, but as soon as I returned home, it began. The tide was pulling out and slowly building into a tsunami.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzzbuzz. Pause. Buzz. Buzzbuzzbuzz.

My phone was face down on the coffee table, vibrating its way to the edge. I paused the old Parks and Rec episode—never enough young Chris Pratt.

I reached for the phone, mostly to make it stop, and stared at the screen.

Forty-two text messages. Six missed calls. Instagram notifications climbing by the second.