Page 13 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter eleven

TJ

B rady pressed a branded cap into my hands like it was a live grenade.

"Here. Wear this. You're less recognizable with accessories."

"I'm standing under a banner with my face on it."

"Then smile less."

"I thought we were leaning in."

He leveled me with a look. "Leaning in doesn't mean tongue."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Thought better of asking follow-up questions about what exactly was allowed in today's fake-but-technically-real boyfriend agenda.

Behind us, the shopping mall atrium was alive with noise—music bouncing off the skylights, kids shrieking in that pitch only preteens and malfunctioning air conditioners can reach.

Fans milling around in Forge jerseys and winter jackets.

There were handmade signs—laminated posters.

At least two plush goats with the team logo duct-taped to their sides.

I adjusted my hoodie and scanned the space for Mason.

He was across the atrium, talking to a woman who looked like someone's retired gym teacher. She had a thick braid down her back and held a laminated scorecard from one of our away games. Mason nodded as he spoke.

His posture was perfect. He'd zipped his jacket all the way up. His hair, as usual, had somehow settled into a soft wave even though it was snowing sideways outside.

He looked good.

Like… really good.

And worse—he was comfortable. Like he belonged in the sea of chaos, selfies, and fans who couldn't stop giggling whenever we were within ten feet of each other.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and muttered to Brady, "If he gets any more wholesome, I will need to bite through something."

Brady checked his clipboard. "Try a churro. There's a food cart near the photo booth."

I started pacing in a small loop near our table. I looked over the autograph Sharpies in a rainbow mug and team swag in piles we weren't technically allowed to give away without clearance.

I passed a stack of commemorative stickers three times before Brady caught my sleeve. "For god's sake, do not burn through all your social energy before we even hit the meet-and-greet."

"I'm fine," I lied.

"You're vibrating."

"Pre-warmup jitters."

"This isn't a playoff."

I mumbled. "No, it's worse. It's a playoff with glitter glue and unlicensed fan fiction."

Brady raised one eyebrow. "You're scared because people like you."

"I'm scared because people are discussing our hypothetical wedding color scheme."

Brady jumped on my snark. "Lavender and navy. Mason wears a tie. You forget yours and show up in a jersey."

"Unbelievable."

"You'd cry during the vows and pretend it was allergies."

I stared at him. "How long have you been thinking about this?"

He ignored the question. "Remember: smile, keep your answers short, and no declarations of eternal devotion unless it's about the Forge. Please, try to stay close to Mason."

"Does he get a leash?"

He didn't dignify that with a response.

I turned my attention back across the room. Mason was heading toward me, hands in his coat pockets. He caught my eye and nodded once. Nothing showy or romantic. Only a small, steady signal in my direction.

The butterflies in my stomach fluttered.

I should have worn a jersey. It'd be easier than admitting I had no idea what team I was playing for anymore.

"Um. Excuse me?"

I turned toward the voice—a kid, maybe thirteen, stood a few feet away. He had curly hair tucked under a Forge beanie, cheeks red from the cold outside. He held out a worn puck like it was something sacred.

"Could you sign this?"

I smiled automatically. "Of course. You want it on the logo?"

He nodded and handed it over with both hands.

I signed my name with a little loop at the end—habit—and passed it back. "You play?"

"Yeah. Center, like you."

"Nice." I grinned. "You fast?"

"I'm trying to be. My coach says I overthink."

"Thinking's not bad, but tuck the thoughts under your skates."

He smiled briefly. "Can I ask something?"

"Sure."

He glanced around and then looked back up at me. "Is it weird? Having people talk about you and Ryker like that?"

I blinked. "Like what?"

"Like… you know. The together stuff and the memes. My older brother says it's all made up, but you looked really happy in that photo. And if it is real—I think that's cool."

I crouched a little so we were eye-level. "You know what's cool? Getting to be yourself in front of a crowd and not feeling like you need to apologize for it."

He nodded. "That's what I thought."

"You keep playing center, and don't let anyone tell you that you have to move to defense because you're thoughtful."

A big smile flashed on his face. "Thanks."

He darted away toward the hot chocolate cart.

Right on cue, Mason stepped up beside me. He didn't say anything at first. He stood there, shoulder touching mine as he scanned the crowd.

"You're good with kids," he said softly.

"Only the ones who haven't figured out I'm emotionally stunted yet."

His mouth twitched. "You handled that well."

"Yeah, well, if you miss enough shots in the third period, you start looking for a different legacy."

The next thirty minutes were a blur of smiling until my face hurt, pretending I didn't hear the word "boyfriends" whispered every time Mason and I stood within two feet of each other. We fielded approximately forty-seven variations of, "So when's the wedding?"

We signed hats. Programs. Jerseys. A forehead. (Not mine.)

One fan brought a handmade sign that read "SKATES AND SOULMATES #RYKSON4EVER." Mason saw it first. He nudged me with his elbow and deadpanned, "Do we owe them royalties?"

I leaned in. "Only if we use it as our podcast name."

He didn't laugh, but he didn't roll his eyes either. For Mason, that was practically swooning.

The real danger started when Brady handed me his phone. "Cass from ForgeCast is filming a quick video montage. Nothing major. Only vibes. Look engaged. Maybe say something cute about teamwork. Or brunch."

"Why brunch?"

"People love brunch."

"That's homophobic."

Brady sighed. "You're wearing shimmer fabric. The brunch ship sailed."

I tried to focus on the camera, smiling like a normal person, but Mason was beside me, steady, real, and stupidly attractive in that coat that made him look like he had his life together.

I should've been thinking about PR while I was thinking about his mouth.

A teenage girl in a homemade Forge hoodie stepped up next with a phone in her hand and stars in her eyes. "Can I get a picture of you two?"

"Sure thing." I started to pose.

"Can you—" she hesitated, looking down, then back up, "can you, like… kiss? Just for the photo?"

"Oh."

"It's okay if not. I just—I think you're my favorite couple ever. You don't have to. I thought—sorry, that was weird."

Mason's voice was calm and level. "It's not weird."

I turned, ready to make a joke and deflect.

I didn't get the chance. Mason's hand slid to the back of my neck, and then—he kissed me.

Right there. In front of the table and the banner with our faces on it. In front of the girl with the phone, and in front of half the atrium.

It wasn't long, but it was real.

Soft, not showy. Lips on lips. Enough pressure to raise goosebumps, not enough to be inappropriate.

He kissed me like we'd done it a dozen times before, and it wasn't for the crowd at all.

When he pulled back, I blinked at him. I couldn't even pretend to move.

Somewhere behind us, someone gasped. Next was the sound of a camera shutter and a chorus of delighted squeals. The girl whispered, "Oh my god, they are in love."

Mason turned toward her, perfectly calm. "Did you get the shot?"

She nodded, trembling, and I somehow remembered to smile.

I delivered the canned response. "Cool. Thanks for supporting the team."

She wandered off in a daze, and I immediately bent down to grab a water bottle from under the table like hydration might restore my dignity.

My ears rang. My lips tingled. My knees were halfway to jelly. If I hadn't already bent down, I might've fainted and blamed low blood sugar.

Mason stepped back beside me like nothing had happened. His arm brushed mine.

I took a sip of water. "You ambushed me."

He didn't look at me. "You froze."

"That's not the same as consent."

"You didn't complain."

"Didn't have time to form a coherent thought."

Brady popped in from the side like a jump-scare. "I need you both to know that was pure digital magic. We are up 800 followers and counting."

I glared at him weakly. "Didn't realize today included public mouth contact."

"Neither did I," Mason added.

I turned and stared at him.

He met my gaze calmly.

It wasn't only a kiss. And I knew, right then, we absolutely weren't pretending anymore.

Not even a little.

When we left the floor, Brady handed me a Forge-branded towel and water bottle like I'd just finished a triathlon. "You crushed it. The whole team's proud. Fandom's feral. Go hydrate before you cry."

"I'm not gonna cry."

I drifted toward the staging hallway behind the atrium, a weird half-corridor with vending machines and a fake potted plant that hadn't been dusted since 2005.

It was quiet there, at least. Dim. Normal. Not full of camera flashes and people gasping like they'd just seen Cinderella accept a proposal from Prince Charming.

I leaned against the wall and pressed the cold water bottle to my cheek.

It helped. Barely.

He'd kissed me. Mason Ryker kissed me in front of everyone like it was nothing.

Supposedly, it was fake and for show, but it didn't feel like that. My breath hitched, and the part of me always waiting for the other shoe to drop shut up for a second.

A door creaked behind me. Footsteps. I knew who it was.

It was Mason. "You good?"

"Define 'good.'"

He leaned against the opposite wall, a few feet away. Close enough that I smelled a hint of woodsy cologne he wore for the occasion.

"You looked like you needed a minute, so I gave you one."

I wove my fingers together at my waist. "By kissing me?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

I didn't answer. Finally, I asked another question. "Did it feel like anything to you?"

Mason didn't flinch. "Yeah."

"Cool. Same."

His mouth twitched. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I say that like someone who just got fake-kissed so well he might need to call his therapist."

He pushed off the wall and stepped a little closer. Not a lot. Enough to push out most of the air between us.

"You ever think maybe we're not faking it as well as we think?"

My throat went dry.

He didn't wait for an answer. Just nudged the water bottle still in my hand.

"You should finish that," he said. "You're flushed."

He walked away, and I stared after him. Flushed wasn't the right word—more like scorched. And I didn't want to cool down.

For a moment, I pictured the Rykson movie. I'd stare at my reflection in a rain-streaked window like a melting soft pretzel. Brady interrupted.

He rounded the corner like a man on a mission and barely paused before launching in.

"You have a death wish."

"I have a water bottle."

"You have a boyfriend."

"Fake boyfriend."

"Fake boyfriend who just kissed you like it was opening night on Broadway. And by the way?" He held up his phone. "The internet is foaming at the mouth. You two just doubled our engagement rate. Triple if you count TikTok."

I groaned and leaned my head against the wall. "Tell me there's no new merch."

"There's a poll."

I raised an eyebrow. "A poll?"

"Caption options for the next post. Top contenders: 'He kissed me like he meant it,' and 'This is totally normal teammate behavior.' They're calling you the 'gay Ted Lasso of hockey.'"

"I am so tired."

Brady pocketed the phone and tilted his head. "Okay, jokes aside. Are you okay?"

"No."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"God, no."

"Do you want to pretend you're fine until you die of repression and/or a mid-game panic attack?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Cool. I speak that language."

"You're not gonna say I told you so?"

"Oh, I am, just not today. Today, you get snacks and silence."

The silence part sounded great.

I pulled out my phone. Twenty-seven new notifications. Two texts from Peggy. One suspicious meme from Mercier involving kissing booths and penalty minutes.

I shoved it back in my pocket and started to pace. It wasn't about the kiss. Okay, it was about the kiss, but it was also about the fact that he kissed me in front of everyone, and for a second, I let myself believe it was only for me.

I closed my eyes and stopped moving.

This thing between us had started as a joke.

Now I'd lost the punchline and couldn't figure out whether I wanted one.