Page 12 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter ten

Mason

I always told myself I liked living alone.

The place stayed clean. I could find everything when I needed it. No surprise dishes in the sink. No unexpected noise.

But tonight, it was too static. Like it was hoping for something to happen, but I couldn't promise anything.

I tossed my keys into the tray by the door and slipped off my boots. The radiator clanged three times behind me, and then settled back into its usual low hum. I didn't bother turning on the overheads—just flicked on the floor lamp near the couch. Soft light, enough to see by.

I'd retrieved my latest sketchbook from where I forgot it in the arena weight room. It didn't look like anybody opened it, not even TJ.

Now, it rested by the TV, half-tucked under the mail I wasn't planning to open. Perhaps I could draw tonight. Or read. Or do anything that didn't involve thinking about TJ.

That plan lasted all of five minutes.

I filled the electric kettle and stared out the window while it heated. No snow tonight.

I should've been relaxed. The apartment was the space I'd built for calm. I needed it after getting called to Lewiston for the new season. Every drawer had its place. Every object earned its spot.

Tranquil was how I used to describe it. Now, it was just empty space full of things no one else ever touched.

The kettle clicked off. I grabbed a mug from the cabinet, tossed in a tea bag, poured, and forgot about it as soon as I set it down. My phone buzzed once—group chat ping. I ignored it.

I sat at the small table by the window and pulled my hoodie tighter. The air wasn't cold, but my body was restless. I needed to do something before I started overthinking.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through texts. Nothing new from TJ. Not since the weight room.

It was an opportunity to say more than I did. I blew it.

When I opened our thread, I saw the last message was a dumb joke from me about egg rolls. Jokes were TJ's expertise, not mine.

I decided to type something new. Simple, not clever.

Mason: You up?

Hit send and didn't move for a long moment after that. I watched the screen, hoping it might flicker to life and tell me what happened next.

The reply came faster than I expected.

TJ: Depends. Is this a late-night crisis text, or are you about to send me a meme?

I chuckled under my breath.

TJ. Still TJ. Still answering with a joke like it was armor and an invitation at the same time.

I stared at the blinking cursor. Tried to think of something smart or light, hiding the fact that I was sitting alone in my apartment, wondering if I'd already screwed everything up.

Instead, I got to the point.

Mason: Can we talk?

The typing bubble showed up. Paused. Came back again. I watched it like it was a signal flare.

TJ: Always.

Another pause.

TJ: You want me to come by?

I looked around. Everything was neat, but I wanted a different venue. I wasn't ready for us to be stuck together in my space.

Mason: No. Let's meet somewhere.

TJ: Name it.

I paused, thinking.

Mason: That all-night diner on 6th. With the terrible coffee.

TJ: You mean the one with the cracked Formica tables and the jukebox stuck on power ballads from the 90s?

Mason: That's the one.

TJ: I'll be there in 15.

I set the phone down and headed for the bedroom. I pulled on a clean button-down and checked the time.

10:42 PM. It was late enough that I could pretend we were keeping each other company when it was hard to sleep.

I paused at the door. One hand on the knob. For a second, I wondered what the hell I was doing.

It would've been easier to stay in. Safer. Still, safe hadn't gotten me much lately, only more nights of silence and unfinished thoughts.

I locked up behind me and stepped out into the cold.

The diner looked the same as it always did—like it had given up on impressing anyone sometime in the early 90s but decided to outlive everything else.

A flickering neon OPEN 24 HRS sign buzzed in the window, casting soft pink light over the sidewalk.

The front glass was fogged slightly at the edges, blurred by steam from the kitchen and the cold outside air pressing in.

Inside, the booths were mostly empty—one trucker nursed a plate of eggs, and two teenagers shared a milkshake.

TJ was already there.

He was in a corner booth near the window, hunched over a chipped coffee mug, elbows on the table. His hoodie was the shimmery one again, creased at the sleeves, loose at the collar. He looked like he'd come straight from a nap.

He looked up when I stepped inside, jingling the bell above the door.

I nodded once and slid into the seat across from him. The vinyl squeaked under me. The air smelled like burned coffee, fryer oil, and old syrup. It made me a little hungry, to be honest.

TJ smiled. "For the record, I didn't order food yet. Figured you might judge me if I got the mozzarella sticks."

I picked up the menu. It was sticky. "Only if you don't share."

I got a full smile from TJ, crooked and tired but honest. He signaled the server with a tilt of his chin. She shuffled over.

I ordered tea and a slice of cherry pie. He asked for fries. When she left, we both reached for the napkin-wrapped silverware out of habit.

He took a sip of his coffee and winced. "It's still terrible."

After the server returned with my tea, we sat there, hands curled around warm mugs, steam rising between us. The world outside was far away.

No cameras. No teammates. No Brady. Only TJ and me and whatever was growing between us.

The fries arrived in a red plastic basket lined with paper that looked like fake newspaper. TJ nudged it toward me. I took one. He took three.

We didn't talk at first. My pie arrived. I dug into it, and we ate quietly.

Then, TJ wiped his fingers on a napkin, looked straight at me, and asked, "Why did you kiss me if you were planning to run?"

There was no judgment in it. It was slightly more than casual curiosity.

I sat there with a bite of pie halfway to my mouth, heartbeat pounding.

Setting my fork down, I leaned back in the booth, hands in my lap. The vinyl seat stuck to my jeans.

"I didn't plan to run. At least, not until I did."

He nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. I wasn't sure I wanted him to.

"You ever spend so long keeping something locked up that you forget what it feels like to say it out loud?"

TJ's expression didn't change. "Yeah, I do."

I stared down at the table. Someone had scratched a heart into the surface next to a ketchup stain.

Inhaling, I launched into what I'd never shared with anyone. "When I was a kid, queerness wasn't a problem exactly. Not in the way people always assume. It was more like something to manage. Like a bad haircut you were expected to outgrow."

I could almost hear TJ listening.

"My parents didn't say, 'Don't be that.' They said, 'Maybe wait to be sure. Maybe don't make things harder for yourself. Maybe don't tell Grandma until you're older. Maybe don't mention it on college apps. Maybe don't this or maybe don't that.'"

My throat was dry. I picked up my mug and sipped.

"It trains you, that kind of thing. You learn to anticipate discomfort and smooth the edges before anyone can trip over them. You keep the things that matter most hidden where nobody can use them against you."

When I looked up, TJ's gaze was steady on me.

"I didn't kiss you to start something I couldn't finish," I said. "I kissed you because in that moment, I wanted you more than I wanted control. And that scared the hell out of me."

The truth was out, sitting in the middle of our table, next to the squeeze mustard bottle.

TJ didn't speak right away. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers laced together.

"I don't need you to be fearless," he said. "Just honest."

I waited for the panic to rise up inside me. It didn't come.

I didn't know what I expected after saying all of that. Some kind of release, maybe. A rush of relief. Instead, I mostly felt raw. Like I'd scraped the inside of something that hadn't been touched in a long time.

TJ didn't try to smooth it over. He didn't reach across the table or toss out a joke to soften the air. He stayed with me and let the weight of my confession settle.

Nobody had ever done that for me. Sat in the mess without trying to mop it up.

He exhaled softly. "I used to think if I kept things funny enough, people wouldn't notice the moments when I started to fall apart."

I blinked. It was a completely unexpected comment.

He shrugged, eyes on the rim of his coffee mug. "I had this one teammate during my first year in juniors. Loud, kind of an ass, but he meant well. He used to say I was built for PR. Always smiling. Always the quote machine." TJ paused. "He thought it was a compliment."

I didn't interrupt. I listened.

"I remember this one night—I'd had a bad game.

Like, horrible bad. Two penalties, missed an open net, and a turnover in the third that led to the game-winner.

I was busy beating myself up in the locker room, but then the camera guy came in, and boom—TJ mode.

Big grin. 'We gave it our all,' and all the rest." He looked up at me.

"And I remember thinking, maybe if I said it convincingly enough, I could believe it, too. "

For the first time, I saw all of TJ. Not only the guy who made people laugh and sucked the attention out of the room, but I saw the structure of the armor and thought about how long it must've taken to build it, how heavy it was to wear.

"You're not doing that now."

He shook his head. "Trying not to."

I reached for another fry.

"I don't trust easily," I said.

"I noticed."

"But I trust this. Or I want to."

TJ didn't flinch. "That's enough."

We didn't say much after that. We sat there with the dregs of our drinks and the last fries, giving our comments room to breathe.

I wasn't performing silence. I was living in it.

And I wasn't alone.

The server came by to refill our mugs. Neither of us said yes, but she did it anyway. TJ grinned and thanked her. He meant it.

He wrapped both hands around his mug and leaned back against the booth like we were just two guys killing time, not two guys orbiting the possibility of something real.

I rubbed the rim of my mug with a fingertip. "I don't think I've ever seen you sit this still."

He smiled without looking up. "Don't get used to it. My leg's gonna start bouncing in about thirty seconds."

I waited.

At twenty-seven seconds, he started drumming one thumb against the side of his mug.

I raised an eyebrow. "That count as bouncing?"

"That's restraint. You should see me at the DMV."

TJ tipped his head toward me. "So, what happens now?"

"You're asking me?"

"You're the one who initiated the emotionally devastating midnight diner summit."

I looked down at the napkin I'd folded into uneven quarters. "I didn't plan that part."

"Same, but I don't want it to be the last one."

He didn't say date. Didn't say try again, but I heard it. Felt it. In the way his voice dropped half a notch, and how he let the words hang there.

I had another confession to deliver. "I don't know how to do this."

"I do. Badly, but with enthusiasm."

My laughter broke the tension. And I realized—he didn't want to fix me. He wanted to walk beside me, however slow I needed to go.

TJ went back to his coffee as if it were something worth savoring. It wasn't. We both knew that.

I watched him sip it anyway, slow and deliberate, cringing slightly.

"This thing we've been doing… fake dating, pretending to be comfortable, trying not to make it weird?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"I don't want to keep doing it like that."

He froze with his mug halfway to his mouth. "You mean—"

"I mean, if we're going to keep being a thing—whatever kind of thing this is—I want to choose it. Not keep tripping over it and calling it strategy."

He set the mug down gently, like he didn't want to break the moment. His voice was soft, almost cautious. "Are you saying we're not faking it anymore?"

I didn't answer right away.

I watched how the light caught in his hair, and his hoodie hung loose at the neckline, revealing just a sliver of collarbone. He was tired, but he was still here.

"This is the first time I've let myself be seen like this," I said quietly. "I didn't think I'd want to be."

"I see you, and I still want more."

The corners of my eyes itched, and I tried to blink it away, pretending I didn't know what it was.

We didn't reach for each other across the table. We didn't kiss, but we'd crossed a line, and neither of us wanted to go back.

Not to pretending or covering.

By the time we paid the check—cash, split without a word—the diner was quiet. The teenagers were gone. The trucker had his head down on the counter, coffee still steaming beside him.

TJ pulled up his hood as we stepped outside. "I forgot how much colder it gets after midnight."

"I didn't." I tugged my sleeves past my wrists, stuffing my hands in my coat pockets.

We stood on the sidewalk with the streetlight buzzing faintly above us. There was a crack in the sidewalk between our feet. One of those little gaps that frost turns into a canyon by March.

TJ rocked back on his heels. "Guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"You will."

He hesitated, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a wrapped mint from the diner. He held it out to me.

"This is a peace offering in case I screw up something tomorrow."

I took it. "You planning on it?"

He smiled. "Not on purpose."

I slipped the mint into my pocket. It felt dumb and perfectly TJ.

"Thanks for tonight," I said. "All of it."

"Anytime."

I watched him walk toward his car. He didn't rush. He glanced back once before opening the door.

That was it. No kiss. No moment you'd script in a movie.

This time, I didn't run. I wanted to stay.