Page 15 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter thirteen

TJ

T he ballroom had mirrors on every wall, fake chandeliers overhead, and hors d'oeuvres that looked like something you'd serve a Barbie doll on a first date.

I'd gone with the gray suit. It had seemed safe at the time—midnight blue felt too dramatic, and black made me look like a cocktail waiter. The problem wasn't the color. It was the fit. Slightly too snug in the shoulders, like someone tailored it for a more optimistic version of me.

We were in Lewiston's top event venue for the League's Community & Visibility Night—officially a feel-good mixer for players, sponsors, and fans. Unofficially, it was a chaos buffet. Every team had players in attendance.

There were cameras. There were social media managers. There were laminated press packets and themed drinks with pun names like Hat Trick Highball and The Enforcer .

Brady shoved a Forge-branded pin into my lapel as I walked in. "Try not to accidentally propose to anyone tonight."

"I make no promises."

I immediately spotted Lambert talking to a guy from Bangor. Monroe was flirting with someone from the caterers. I hadn't found Mason yet.

He came in through the side entrance, chatting with Brady and holding a glass of something fizzy. His suit was navy, crisp, and tailored to fit his vast shoulders. His tie was a deep gold that looked expensive. He wasn't even trying and looked like someone who'd inherited an estate.

My mouth went dry.

I wasn't the only one who noticed. The room shifted a little in his direction. Subtle but real.

I watched as two fans leaned in to whisper, one pointing—not at Mason's face, but at me.

Ah. The Rykson Effect. Still trending.

I turned to a guy I barely knew from Augusta and tried to focus on small talk. He was nice and rambled about coaching clinics, offseason plans, and something about opening a gym. I nodded in all the right places.

It was hard to listen because a new player had cornered Mason across the room. Big guy. Quebecois accent, if I remembered right, he was a defenseman from somewhere east of nowhere, with a jawline sharp enough to injure and an attitude that suggested he'd never heard the word "subtle."

He smiled too much and angled his body toward Mason. When he said something and Mason laughed, my jaw clenched.

Next came the touch. A hand on Mason's arm, quick and light, possibly harmless, but I knew that move. I'd used that move.

I took a long sip of my drink and pretended it didn't taste foul.

Beside me, Lambert raised an eyebrow. "You good, or are you imagining that guy slipping on a waxed floor and cracking his tailbone?"

"Both," I said. "Multitasking."

He followed my line of sight. "Ah. Yeah, he's a bit much."

"He's flirting."

"He's breathing. Your boyfriend happens to be hot."

"He's not—" I cut myself off. "It's complicated."

Lambert grinned. "You're adorable when you're spiraling."

I forced a smile and turned back to my drink. "Remind me to leave early."

"You're not gonna leave. You're gonna get jealous, make a scene, and then end up making out in the coatroom."

I rolled my eyes. "Do you mind not narrating my entire emotional arc in real time?"

Lambert laughed and patted my shoulder.

Across the room, the guy leaned closer to Mason, clearly playing the charm card. Mason didn't step away.

That was fine. I was fine. Totally, sort of. Fine.

I swallowed the last of my drink and muttered to no one in particular, "I need some air."

I didn't barrel into the guy, exactly, but I may have timed my exit to coincide with his step away from the bar. It resulted in a low-impact shoulder brush and a muttered "Watch it" that I didn't apologize for.

Mason saw me before I reached him. His expression flickered—mild surprise. I stopped a foot away.

I tried to sound casual and failed. "Can I grab you for a second?" I practically dragged him away by the elbow.

His brow furrowed. "Now?"

"Yeah. It won't take long."

He glanced at the guy behind him, still watching us, and then back at me. "Okay."

We stepped into the hallway past the coat check. It was quieter there, except for the hum of the soda machine and the faint clinking of ice from the bar on the other side of the wall. No cameras. No fans. No crowd.

Mason leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. "What's up?"

I stood in the middle of the space, half-lit by fluorescent track lighting, and tried to find words that didn't sound like I was having a meltdown.

"You were talking to that guy."

Mason blinked. "Is this an observation or an accusation?"

"He touched your arm."

Mason tilted his head. "You touch my arm all the time."

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because I—" I stopped. Swallowed. "Because I want to."

He didn't say anything. My palms started to sweat.

I pressed on. "Look, maybe I'm overreacting, but he was all over you. And you didn't exactly back away."

"I didn't lean in, either."

"Yeah, but you didn't stop him."

"I didn't know I was supposed to."

I stared at the floor, then back at him. "I don't like it."

"Don't like what?"

"When people flirt with you."

Mason. "Why?"

"Because…" My throat tightened. "Because you're mine."

The words were out there. No take-backs. No rewind.

"I am?"

I nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Not officially. Not out loud in public, but yeah."

Something in him softened. Or maybe it was me, cracking down the middle.

"I didn't think it would hit me like that," I said. "Seeing someone else look at you like they wanted a shot."

He stepped forward. "And what would you have done if I'd flirted back?"

"Left early and broken a chair. Set fire to the building. I don't know."

He exhaled slowly. "You could've just said you didn't want to share."

I looked up. "I don't want to share. You, this… whatever we are—I want it to be mine."

Mason stepped forward again until we were almost chest to chest. Well, height difference, so chest to abs. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"Then stop pretending it's fake."

I froze.

The soda machine buzzed. I heard the laughter and clinking glasses in the distance, but none of that mattered.

Not when Mason looked at me like that and stood so close.

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

We suspended ourselves in the gap between pretending and whatever came next. I wanted to be done pretending.

I stepped into his space. Mason didn't move or blink. He stood there like he was bracing for impact, hoping I wouldn't pull back.

I didn't.

"Say it's not just me who wants to stop pretending."

"It's not just you."

I kissed him.

There was no build-up, lead-in banter, or music swelling in the background. Only his breath against mine and his jacket lapel clenched in my right fist as I pulled him closer.

He kissed me back hard. His hands reached out for my hips, grounding me. One pressed just above my waistband—possessive, steady.

I backed him into the wall, shoulder-first. We pushed our bodies close, our mouths open and messy, as if we were still arguing, without words.

His teeth grazed my bottom lip, and I groaned—too loud for the event, but it was real. I didn't care.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, "You always kiss like you're about to apologize."

"I'm not sorry."

"Good," he whispered, and kissed me again.

I didn't know how long it lasted. It was probably only thirty seconds, but it felt like months.

When we finally broke apart, he was breathing hard, and so was I.

I couldn't stop looking at his mouth.

I managed to say, "You realize this complicates the narrative."

"We didn't have a narrative. We had denial and merch."

That made me laugh. It was genuine, the kind that startled its way out of my chest and shook something loose inside me.

We stood there for another beat. Then, Mason straightened and smoothed his suit jacket like nothing happened—except his mouth was still kiss-bitten, and I knew he wasn't any steadier than I was.

"We should go back in," he said.

"We really, really shouldn't."

He was already walking away, and I watched him go.

I tried to remember how breathing worked without him in arm's reach. When I caught my breath, I followed.

The ballroom looked the same.

It was a room full of mirrors, chandeliers, and other vaguely expensive lighting. Everyone laughed, sipped cocktails with pun names, and pretended they didn't notice a few of the players checking each other out across the dance floor.

Nothing had changed, except I couldn't feel my mouth.

I could still taste Mason. I remembered how the kiss had started like an answer and ended like a promise.

He was already across the room, and he didn't look back. He didn't need to.

We'd already said it out loud. Just not where people could hear. Not where it could be posted, clipped, quoted, misread, or turned into merch.

Brady materialized beside me, clutching a clipboard. "Everything okay, Romeo?"

"Fine. I'm not the one who vanished for ten minutes to flirt with the dessert guy."

"First of all, his name is Josh, and he's a trained pastry chef. Second—don't deflect. You look like a man who just realized something inconvenient about his future."

I didn't answer because he was right. It wasn't an understanding that it was real between us. It was about knowing it was going to get out .

Maybe not tonight. Maybe not with a kiss in a hallway or the next fan post that swooned over how I looked at him, but soon.

Neither of us could keep pretending. Not in public and not with a straight face. Not when standing next to him made me want to confess things I hadn't even admitted to myself three months ago.

I moved through the rest of the night in a half-daze. Shook hands. Smiled. Took photos. Signed a poster of us mid-game with the caption Skates and Soulmates scribbled in glitter pen.

Mason didn't come near me until the buffet line. He stepped up beside me like it was nothing. Like we weren't on the edge of becoming something people would talk about in the past tense someday.

Our hands brushed once. Barely. Pinky to knuckle, and then his thumb tapped mine.

I glanced over. He didn't say a word, but he smiled.

It was just for me. Small. Certain. Steady.

And that's when I knew we were going to get caught, not by accident or due to a mistake.

Because neither of us was going to stop it.

After the last speech and the final round of photos, we slipped out through the side exit, quiet as ghosts. The valet line was chaos, so I stood with my hands shoved deep in my pockets, staring out at the line of headlights inching toward the curb.

Mason was beside me, not touching or talking. He was close enough that our coats brushed when the wind shifted. Close enough that I could still feel the echo of his hand on my back from when he'd guided me out the door like we were already a thing.

Someone had seen us disappear. Someone always did. Someone would mention how we came back a little rumpled and a little too pink in the cheeks.

As the valet pulled up with his car, I leaned in close and whispered, "It's gonna be public."

He nodded. Not a maybe. Not a someday. A fact, and I wasn't scared, as I thought I would be. Not anymore.