Page 11 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter nine

TJ

W e lost.

Not a gut-punch loss. It wasn't an overtime heartbreak or a blown lead with twenty seconds left. Just a slow grind to defeat. Four to two.

There was nothing dramatic or particularly memorable. It was one of those games that ends with the scoreboard flickering and nobody wanting to look each other in the eye.

Coach didn't yell. That's how you knew he was mad.

He walked into the locker room with that clipped, military cadence, clapped once like a gunshot, and said, "Reset. You've got seventy-two hours to make this feel like a fluke."

Then he walked out. The door shut behind him, and a long, collective exhale followed.

Skates hit the floor. Sticks clattered. Someone muttered something about the refs being blind, which wasn't true but felt necessary to ease our guilt.

I sat at my stall, one elbow pad off, the other still clinging like it didn't want to be the last one standing. My jersey was half off, bunched at my waist.

My legs ached. My shoulder was screaming from where I'd taken a board hit, and inside my chest—

Well, that hurt for a different reason.

Mercier peeled off his pads with a grunt and gestured vaguely toward me. "TJ, are you planning to finish undressing or emotionally disintegrating in real time?"

"A little from column A, and a little from column B."

Monroe snorted. "He's fine. He needs to cue up his sad-boy playlist and stare at a wall for forty-five minutes."

Lambert chimed in from across the room, holding up his phone: "Got it. Spotify just suggested Songs for People Who Accidentally Fell for Their Fake Boyfriend ."

A few laughs echoed off the walls. It wasn't cruel, only acknowledgment.

I tried to grin, but it was a little crooked like a house with the foundation starting to slip.

Mercier watched me too closely. "You're usually funnier when we lose."

"Thanks," I muttered, finally yanking the other elbow pad free. "I'll add it to my performance review."

Monroe tossed a towel at me. "Go sweat it out. You've got gym-rat energy right now."

He wasn't wrong. I needed movement. I needed noise. I needed something that wasn't the echo of my thoughts replaying Mason's look when he stepped back.

I stood. "I forgot something in the weight room."

Nobody believed me, but they didn't call me on it either.

I walked out before anyone else could ask if I was okay.

They knew I wasn't. It wouldn't help to lie.

I kept my head down, towel slung around my neck, half-hoping someone would stop me and ask if I wanted company. Maybe they'd suggest I come out for post-game food, beers, or whatever else was a strategy for metabolizing failure.

I didn't need an invitation. The Icehouse was our home bar, but it would be nice to have someone ask.

No one did.

All the other guys usually avoided the weight room after a game. It was time to let go and fall into real life before our next practice session. My real life hurt more than muscles overworked on a weight machine.

I stepped inside. The cinderblock-lined room smelled of rubber mats. The lights overhead buzzed softly. A few of them flickered in that strobe-y way that could probably cause seizures if you stared too long.

Walking past the leg press machine, I stopped in front of the rack of free weights. I grabbed two dumbbells without looking at the numbers. They were heavy enough to hurt, but not enough to pull something.

I turned away from the mirror to avoid looking at my eyes. I did one set, and then another.

My arms burned, and it still wasn't the right kind of pain.

I switched to the bench press. No spotter, but I wasn't going heavy enough to need one. I wanted it to be enough to make my chest feel like it might crack open and spill out every unsaid thing I'd tried to bury since Mason stepped away from me in the snow.

He'd kissed me. He had. That part was real.

And he'd run.

I should've seen it coming. To be honest, I had seen it coming, but knowing the car's about to hit you doesn't make the impact any easier to walk away from.

I racked the bar. Sat up too fast and saw spots.

Sitting for a second, I rested my elbows on my knees. Sweat stung the corners of my eyes.

I wiped my face with the towel.

My voice said, "Well, this is pathetic."

The room didn't answer.

I was talking to myself, like a guy in a sad movie who hadn't realized yet that he was the punchline.

That's when I saw him.

He'd tucked himself in the corner behind the resistance bands and the squat cage—barely visible unless you knew where to look. He had a hoodie pulled halfway over his face. Knees up, feet planted on the bench. A sketchbook balanced across one thigh, pencil moving in tight, precise arcs.

Mason.

Two guys, one broken game, same stupid idea about where to lick our wounds.

My lungs forgot how to work for a second.

I froze mid-step, not because I meant to snoop or spy, but because… hell, I'd never seen him like this.

Not on the ice or in the locker room. Not even that day he kissed me and left me standing like someone who'd just leaned in for a high-five and gotten a punch to the chest instead. He was so quiet.

And still. Not calm. Like a lake before a storm—nothing moving on the surface, but you could feel the churn underneath.

His pencil scratched against the page, rhythmic and efficient. He didn't see me. Or maybe he did and didn't care.

Since when did he draw?

I shifted my weight to the other foot, and the sole of my sneaker squeaked against the rubber mat.

Mason's head snapped up. We had eye contact. Sharp and immediate.

"Didn't think anyone else would be here," he said.

It was a simple comment. Not annoyed, but not warm either. That hurt… a little.

I swallowed. "Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to—"

He didn't say anything.

I rubbed the back of my neck. My hands were still sweating. "I'll go."

Still nothing. Only the sound of his pencil moving on the page again, like he was finishing a thought he didn't want to lose.

I took a step back. My legs didn't want to, but my pride insisted.

Mason looked up. "You don't have to."

I didn't sit. Didn't move closer. Just stood there, hovering like the world's saddest motivational poster.

I spoke like Captain Obvious. "I didn't know you drew."

He didn't look up. "Not something I do for other people."

"You're good."

He raised one eyebrow without lifting his head. "You didn't look."

"I didn't need to."

He finally raised his head and stared at me. His eyes were guarded, an icy blue. "What does that mean?"

I shrugged. "I've seen the way you hold a stick. I know precision when I see it."

He didn't answer.

"I meant what I said," My voice softened. "About being sorry."

Mason continued drawing. "You didn't make me kiss you."

"I know."

"But you made it hard to regret."

His words knocked the wind out of me. He looked up again.

"I keep thinking about that night, like it was a movie someone else wrote. I keep trying to reframe it. Make it lighter. Safer."

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. I do that too."

His pencil hovered above the sketchpad. "You use jokes. I use distance. Neither one's very honest."

The room was too quiet. I heard my pulse in my ears.

Mason's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I kissed you because I wanted to. I walked away because I was scared."

I stepped closer slowly, as if getting too close might break the fragile thread between us.

"You don't have to explain, but I'm glad you did."

"I'm still scared."

"Me, too."

Neither of us said anything after that. He didn't move. Neither did I.

Mason still had the sketchpad open on his lap, but he'd stopped using the pencil.

I rubbed my chin. "I didn't mean to make it worse."

My voice was less funny and more me. It seemed the right moment for that.

Mason glanced at me. "You didn't."

"I did," I insisted. "I didn't mean to, but I did."

He let out a breath. "It's not that simple."

I sank onto the bench across from him, close enough that our knees could've touched if we leaned just a little, but we didn't.

"You ever say something that you thought was funny in the moment, but the second it came out, you knew you'd opened the wrong door?"

He didn't answer right away.

I tried again. "I was trying to shut Jen Walsh down. That was the whole point. One joke. That's all it was supposed to be."

He nodded. "Except now people think we're something."

"I know."

"And we're not."

I winced. I tried to smile to hide the pain. "Yeah. We're not."

Mason closed the sketchpad. Every edge lined up when he slid the elastic band over the cover.

I wanted to ask what he'd been drawing, but I resisted.

Mason sighed. "You didn't ask me."

"Ask you what?"

"If I were okay with any of it. The fake dating. The hug going viral. The interviews. The comments. You never asked."

I stared at the floor. "You're right. I didn't."

"Why?"

It wasn't an angry question. It was honest.

I swallowed. "Because if I asked, you might've said no. And I didn't want it to end."

Mason's expression didn't change. He set the sketchpad beside him on the bench. His thumb traced the edge of it absently.

"I don't like being seen," he said.

"I know."

"I like it even less when it feels like I didn't get to choose."

"I've made a lot of dumb choices. That one? That was the dumbest."

He looked at me again, but the edge in his eyes had softened this time. "You're not the only one who kissed back."

A beat of silence.

I tapped my toe on the rubber mat beneath me. "I don't regret it."

Mason flinched—not a lot. Only enough to tell me that honesty, even the kind he wanted, still had consequences.

He stood slowly. It wasn't a dramatic gesture. It merely communicated it was time to go.

I didn't stop him.

He walked toward the door and then paused with his hand on the handle.

Mason's voice was low. "For what it's worth, I didn't mean to run."

I wanted to tell him I understood, and he didn't have to explain, but all I could do was nod.

The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality that sounded too loud.

I stared at it for a second. Like maybe it would open again. Like perhaps he'd come back and say—

What? Something brave? Something real?

I didn't even know what I wanted to hear.

I let out a long breath through my nose. My palms were still damp, like my body hadn't gotten the message that the moment was over.

I overlooked the sketchbook at first.

It sat on the bench where Mason had left it. Closed now. The elastic band stretched tight across the cover, holding everything inside like it was afraid something might escape.

I stared at it. It wasn't big or flashy. It had a soft cover that was a little worn at the corners, like he'd shoved it into too many duffel bags. A pencil was tucked into the spiral, its tip dulled to a comfortable edge.

I picked it up. It was still warm from his touch, enough to feel the echo of his presence.

I turned it in my hands.

With one flick of the fingers, I could've opened it. I could have seen what he kept to himself, but I chose not to.

I desperately wanted to know what was in there, but I wanted him to show me. I wanted Mason to choose me. My curiosity wasn't enough.

I wanted to see his secrets, but I wanted his trust even more.

So, I didn't open it. I set it gently back on the bench where he'd left it.

Not because I didn't care. Because I did. Too much, probably.