Page 16 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter fourteen

Mason

W ith just under three minutes left, we were down by one, and my lungs burned like I'd swallowed fire.

Coach didn't need to yell. The bench knew. We felt it in the shift patterns, the shorter rotations, and how Mercier stood a little taller in the net. No one said "this matters," but it was in every pass, every pivot, and every glance toward the clock.

We were facing a top-ranked team. Regional media covered the game, and we'd packed the arena. TJ, skating two lines over from me, had his game face on—a kind of controlled chaos that meant he was one play away from doing something spectacular or getting a minor penalty for being overexcited.

We cycled back into the zone with enough time for one clean push. I passed it up the boards and cut across center, dodging a guy who looked like he could bench-press a Zamboni.

Then, the moment.

TJ picked the puck up on the far side, toe-dragged like a magician, and dished it back through traffic. It deflected once—Lambert got a stick on it—and then bounced off a skate. It was coming toward me. Fast. Wide.

I didn't think. I pivoted, caught it on my backhand, and chipped it past the goalie's shoulder, right into the upper left corner.

Goal light. Horn. Noise shaking the Colisée's foundation.

TJ tackled me at center ice. We slid over and hit the glass, helmets clacking. He yelled something I couldn't hear over the crowd, grabbed my face cage with both hands and shook it, then pressed his forehead against mine like we'd just won the whole damn championship.

"You're a wizard," he shouted, eyes bright. "A sexy, emotionally distant wizard!"

I laughed. We went into overtime. No goals.

It was down to the shootout. Three shooters in, we were still tied.

TJ skated out. He didn't look at the goalie or glance back at the bench. I saw his smirk from across the ice.

He scored. We won, and the crowd erupted.

TJ skated toward me, fast. I didn't brace in time. He leaped into my arms, legs off the ground. He was a human cannonball of joy, and I was his landing pad.

We crashed backward onto the ice and stayed there for a second, laughing. Our teammates piled around us in celebration.

Someone yelled, "Damn, Ryker—taking this couple goals thing literally?"

Monroe, probably. I didn't care. I didn't let go of TJ, and he didn't let go of me either.

The locker room was pure bedlam. Someone cranked the speakers the second the door shut behind us, and the bass thumped like a second heartbeat.

Lambert was shirtless, swinging his jersey like a victory flag.

Mercier was in full goalie gear and somehow still dancing.

Brady—who had no business hobnobbing with the players in the aftermath—stood on the bench with a phone in one hand and a foam Forge hat in the other, filming everything like we were a rock band at the end of our encore.

In the middle of it all was TJ. He had his helmet off, hair flying in multiple directions. He grinned like a man who'd just pulled off a magic trick and still wasn't sure how he'd done it.

He found me, crossed the room in four strides, and launched himself into my arms again. We staggered back into the lockers, laughing.

"Okay," I wheezed. "That's enough tackle for one night."

He climbed down and looked at me. His eyes were still wild with post-win energy. "Never," he said, dramatic as hell. "You're my good-luck charm. You scored the tying goal, and I finished the shootout. This is fate."

I rolled my eyes, but I didn't push him away. Not even when he shifted enough for his knee to slide between mine.

From across the room, Monroe shouted, "You two wanna cool it before someone sues for whiplash?"

Lambert offered support. "Let 'em have their moment. They're the face of the franchise now."

Brady asked, "Can we get a quote? Something spicy for the caption?"

TJ tilted his head like he was posing for a magazine cover. "Fine. Here it is: he passed me the puck, and I passed him my heart."

The room groaned. I shoved at his shoulder, but he barely moved.

"This is your fault," I muttered.

"What is?"

"You. Us. The sparkly hoodie. The memes. The public kissing. All of it."

He grinned. "Yeah, but you're the one who keeps leaning in."

That shut me up. He was right. I did. I leaned in every time.

By the time we got to my place, it was almost midnight. TJ had half a bag of gummy bears in his hand.

"You sure you're cool with me crashing here?" he asked, kicking off his sneakers by the door.

"I've got a whole couch just sitting there, feeling unloved."

He snorted. "You're not actually gonna make me sleep on the couch, right? After I single-handedly secured us a win with my charm and elite-level hand-eye coordination?"

I locked the door behind us and turned. "You shot the puck once."

"Precisely. Perfect accuracy."

He wandered toward the living room while I flipped on the lamp over the kitchen counter. The soft yellow glow spilled across the floor. I grabbed two waters from the fridge and followed him.

TJ had already taken over the couch. He'd pulled off his socks, flung himself into the corner cushions like he lived there, and queued up a YouTube playlist on my TV.

"Best NHL shootouts of all time." He patted the cushion beside him. "For educational purposes."

I handed him a water and sat. He cracked the bottle, took one sip, and leaned sideways until his head bumped my shoulder.

His voice was soft. "Hey, that goal tonight?"

"Yeah?"

"I heard you on the bench. Right before I skated out. You said something."

I blinked. "I said, 'Don't trip on the blue line.'"

He laughed. "You're the worst."

I smiled. On screen, a replay of some NHL legend faked out a goalie so hard the poor guy spun in a circle. We watched three more shootouts in silence. Somewhere in the middle of the fourth, TJ slid sideways until his head rested in my lap.

"I'll move if this is weird."

"It's not weird." Honestly, it was, a little, but not in a bad way.

He stretched an arm across my thighs. His hoodie rode up a bit, exposing tight abs, and his hair was still damp from the post-game shower. I let my fingers brush the edge of his temple, slow and careful.

TJ grunted. "Okay. This is nice."

I don't know who moved first. Maybe we both did.

One minute, TJ's head was still in my lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles against my thigh. The next, we were under the blanket on my bed, jeans lost somewhere between the couch and the hallway.

We'd turned the TV off. TJ curled into me like it was instinct. Chest to chest, one leg slung across mine, his breath warm against my neck. My hand drifted up under the hem of his hoodie and found the soft skin at his waist.

"Still not weird?" he asked.

"Less weird by the second."

He shifted, just slightly, and our hips brushed.

He leaned back enough to look at me. "Okay if I kiss you?"

I nodded.

TJ kissed like he played: relentless, improvisational, shameless. His tongue flicked with the same confidence as his trash talk, but a weird tenderness was hiding underneath, like he cared if I liked it. Maybe more than he'd ever admit out loud.

His entire body was all jumpy energy—a coiled spring, buzzing under the restraint. I didn't know if it was nerves or anticipation, but it made me want to match him, move with him, and see where we could go.

He slid his hand under my T-shirt, palm splaying wide against my ribs, then higher to my chest. The touch was tentative at first, like he was waiting for me to flinch or shut it down.

I didn't. I let him take the lead. I was too busy rediscovering how good it felt to be wanted and let someone else set the pace.

TJ whimpered when my hand found the small of his back. He pulled away just enough to look at me, eyes searching, mouth swollen and red. "You're good at this," he said, a little breathless.

"I could say the same." I tucked a stray curl behind his ear.

He kissed me again, not as slow this time, and the momentum pulled us right off the edge of the bed. We landed tangled on the floor, both laughing. He shoved at my shoulder, mock-aggressive, until I rolled back and brought him with me.

He straddled my hips and pinned my wrists, like we were grappling for a faceoff. "You ever had a boyfriend who could bench press you?" he asked, grinning.

"No boyfriends," I said, half a truth. "But I've definitely been benched."

He let go of my wrists and braced himself on either side of my head. Then, he leaned in and kissed my jaw, cheek, and the soft spot behind my ear. There was a smile on his lips.

He hesitated long enough for me to notice, then ducked his head. "Okay if I…?"

He didn't finish, but his hands slid down to the waistband of my boxers. I nodded, and that was enough.

He fumbled a little, more eager than coordinated, but eventually got us both out of our underwear.

TJ gripped both our cocks in his fist. The skin-on-skin sensation was like stepping into the path of a live wire, sharper than even the hardest check. He started slow, like he was figuring out the mechanics, a little shy and a lot curious.

His hand was warm, clumsy, and eager, squeezing us together, his thumb sliding up the veins with just enough pressure to make my lungs seize. I watched his face. His expression was wide-eyed like he'd discovered a new sport and was determined to win gold.

"God, you're hot," he said, and he meant it. Scientifically, as a statement of fact.

I reached for the hollow above his hip bones and held on. He started moving faster, the rhythm erratic at first, then steadier and more confident.

His breath hitched every time I arched up into his fist, and mine did the same when he leaned down to graze his teeth along my neck. I wasn't sure whether he wanted to jerk me off or eat me alive. Maybe both.

"Yeah?" he whispered. It was both a statement and a question.