Page 19 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter sixteen

Mason

S ome games didn't feel like contests. They felt like bad karma wearing a jersey. We were in Augusta, the hockey city where optimism went to die.

The rink was colder than ours, but not in a crisp, energizing way—more like the heat had given up halfway through warmups and decided never to return.

The lights were harsh, the ice was bumpy, and the fans had that special kind of hometown bloodlust that meant they would boo us during the national anthem.

By the end of the first period, my ribs were screaming from two clean hits and a not-so-clean elbow that the refs somehow missed. By the middle of the second, the scoreboard read 3–0. And by the start of the third, we all resigned ourselves to the kind of night it was.

The hit came at center ice as I reached for a loose puck. I saw number 22 too late—he was built like an oversized refrigerator. I didn't fall, but I spun, tasted blood, and knew instantly my lip was split.

"Fuck," I muttered when I got to the bench, voice muffled by the towel TJ pressed against my mouth.

"That bad?" His brows pinched, like maybe he'd felt it, too.

"You should see the other guy," I lied, hoping TJ might relax.

He smirked. "Just say the word, and I'll skate over and insult his dog."

"Tempting."

The rest of the period ground on like a slow death. Our passes were sloppy, the sticks felt heavy, and every whistle seemed to come a second too late.

We didn't even pretend it was a good game when the final buzzer came. After a few stick taps in the handshake line, we quietly trudged to the locker room.

Coach MacPherson didn't yell. That's how we knew he was pissed. He walked in, hair a bit wild under his backward cap, and clapped once, loud and sharp.

He looked at us. "You know what? Forget the scoreboard. We got beat tonight, yeah, but I saw effort out there. I saw sacrifice. I saw Lambert block a slapshot with his shoulder and smile like a damn lunatic."

Lambert, icing said shoulder, gave a thumbs-up.

Coach pointed at him. "That's the attitude. That's heart. You've probably got a bruise shaped like the state of Maine."

He took a breath and narrowed his gaze. "Listen. You're not robots. You're not stats in a spreadsheet. You're my guys. And my guys? We bounce. Tomorrow, we reset. Tonight? We sulk, but we sulk together."

He paused, looked like he was about to say something else, and waved it off. "Whatever. I'm gonna go find a protein bar."

He left, and the door swung closed. No one spoke for a few seconds. Then Lambert said, "I think it does look like Maine," and somebody laughed.

I didn't. Not yet. I just sat there with blood on my jersey, a bruise forming under my ribs, and a silent, irrational wish that the hotel pillows weren't so damn flat.

The front desk clerk didn't blink when TJ and I asked for one keycard.

Apparently, the travel coordinator had already made the switch.

We weren't pretending anymore, which meant we didn't have to sleep in separate rooms—despite Coach Mac delivering his now-infamous "no teammate hookups during regular season" speech, which ended with something like: "No sex. No choking. No exceptions."

We entered the hotel room and let the door thunk shut behind us. It was nothing fancy—the usual third-floor, off-the-highway double with patterned carpet and a grinding heater sound.

TJ dropped his duffel by the foot of the far bed and turned toward me. "Which one do you want?" He gestured at the two identical mattresses—one under a humming light fixture.

I didn't hesitate. "The one with you."

His face twitched between a grin and a blink of disbelief, but he didn't ask if I was sure. He nodded. "This one's ours."

I sat carefully on the edge of the bed, ribs aching under my hoodie, lip throbbing in that steady heartbeat-pulse way that always made injuries feel worse at night.

TJ crouched beside his bag and pulled out the team-issued first aid kit.

The zipper was busted, and it rattled like it had coins or screws inside.

"Let's see the damage." He moved toward me.

"Are you medically licensed?" I asked.

"I passed Advanced Band-Aid Application with honors."

He stood in front of me and tilted my chin up with two fingers. His touch wasn't highly practiced, but he was careful. I tried not to flinch as he wiped away dried blood.

He squinted at the cut. "You know, this isn't too bad." He pulled out his phone. "I'll add it to my collection. It's got gritty playoff run battle scar vibe."

"Hot?" I asked, half-teasing.

"Yeah. Kinda."

The heater chose that moment to kick off, leaving only the sound of our breathing. TJ's hand lingered on my jaw.

"You're not bad at this," I said.

"At what? Amateur medical cosplay?"

"At being here. With me."

TJ swallowed. His thumb brushed just below the cut. "I'm only good at it when it's you."

While we settled in, TJ found a terrible movie on the TV and got sucked in by the sheer audacity of the dialogue.

We barely watched it. We were lying shoulder-to-shoulder on the hotel bed, propped against the thin pillows.

The air in the room smelled faintly of leftover pizza and hotel soap. A heater kicked on with a rattle every ten minutes.

I pressed a finger gently to my lip. Still sore. The cut had stopped bleeding, but it throbbed whenever I smiled too hard or breathed funny.

Turning toward TJ, I said, "If I didn't look like I lost a fight with a blender, I'd kiss you right now."

He looked at me. "That's the only reason you're holding back?"

"Trying to protect your mouth from mine." That was part of it, but the truth? I didn't want to ruin the quiet.

Twenty minutes later, TJ declared, "Snack break."

I was about to suggest the vending machine when we heard footsteps pacing outside our door. TJ padded over and cracked it open.

"Monroe?" he called softly.

"Oh, hey." Monroe appeared and stepped into our room, still in his team-issued sweats, hair sticking up at odd angles. "You guys settling in okay?"

"Yeah, man. What's up?"

Monroe glanced over his shoulder, then back. "Look, this might be weird, but... Mercier's kind of having a moment. I don't know what to do with him."

I sat up straighter on the bed. Mercier, our goalie, was our rock. Steady, unflappable, the guy who'd talk you through a panic attack while making perfect saves. If he was struggling...

TJ crossed his arms over his chest. "What kind of moment?"

"I don't know. He's been staring at his phone for about an hour, won't eat, and keeps muttering about letting people down. I tried talking to him, but..." Monroe shrugged helplessly. "You know how he gets."

TJ didn't hesitate. "Send him down."

I blinked. Monroe blinked.

"Seriously?" Monroe asked.

"Yeah. Give us fifteen, then send him over."

Monroe nodded and disappeared back down the hall. TJ closed the door and turned back to me, expression shifting from decisive to slightly sheepish.

"Was that okay? I just figured—"

"That was..." I searched for words. I'd never seen TJ take charge like that. Not with authority and that brand of quiet confidence. "Yeah. That was good."

While we waited for Mercier, I asked, "Have I ever told you how I made the Traverse City roster?"

He shook his head. Not a big gesture—just enough to let me know he was listening.

"I wasn't supposed to. They had a guy lined up already—big name. Great stats. He pulled a groin in the last week of preseason. I got called up to fill in—emergency depth." I hesitated. "They said I had good effort. Coach liked my discipline."

TJ didn't say anything, and I didn't need him to.

"But the whole time, I knew I was the backup plan. Even after the guy came back, they kept me on. Probably because I didn't screw up too badly, but I wasn't who they wanted. I was what they could afford."

I paused, fingers absently brushing my lip again.

"That didn't start with hockey. It's kind of been the pattern for me." My voice sounded small in the dim room. "Group projects in school—last picked. I had a neighbor once, and we were in the same Sunday league. His mom told mine she felt bad for me, so she made him carpool with me."

I let out a quiet laugh. "I thought we were friends. Turns out, I was a pity ride."

A soft knock interrupted our conversation.

TJ glanced toward the door. "That'll be him."

I sat up slowly, ribs protesting. "You sure about this?"

"No, but he needs help, and we're here."

TJ opened the door to reveal Mercier, who looked like someone had dragged him through a playoff series backward. His usually neat hair was disheveled, and his shoulders hunched. He stepped inside hesitantly.

"Monroe said you guys... might have a minute?"

"Always." TJ gestured to the chair by the window. "What's going on?"

Mercier sat heavily, hands clasped between his knees. For a long moment, he stared at the floor.

"It's stupid," he finally said.

"Try us," I offered.

Another pause. "Things at home aren't... working like they used to."

TJ settled on the edge of the other bed, giving Mercier space but staying engaged. "Work stuff? Travel getting to her?"

"No, it's..." Mercier's face flushed red. "It's more like... performance issues in the bedroom. I can't—" He winced. "I'm letting her down there, too."

The room was silent. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but charged with the weight of something deeply personal.

TJ leaned forward slightly. "How long's this been going on?"

A few weeks. Maybe more." Mercier's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "She says it's fine and doesn't care, but I know she's frustrated. And the more I think about it, the worse it gets."

I spoke before I'd fully formed my thoughts. "The same thing that makes you great in net is probably working against you here."

Both of them looked at me.

"What? I'm just saying you're always thinking three plays ahead. You analyze and prepare for every possible scenario. Unfortunately, this isn't hockey. You can't strategize your way through it."

TJ nodded, picking up the thread. "Yeah, and the pressure you put on yourself—man, that's like trying to score a goal while someone's screaming the shot percentage in your ear."

"But what do I do?" Mercier sounded a little desperate

TJ was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice had lost all traces of his usual humor. "Talk to her. Really talk. Not about fixing it or making it better. Just about how you're feeling."

"She already knows—"

"No," TJ interrupted gently. "She knows you're struggling with performance. Does she know you're terrified of disappointing her? Does she know you lie awake thinking about it?"

Mercier's face crumpled slightly. "I don't want her to think I don't want her."

I spoke up. "Then tell her that. Tell her exactly that."

TJ stood and moved to the window, looking out at the parking lot. "You know what helped me when I was overthinking everything? Remember that rookie year when I couldn't buy a goal for six games straight?"

Mercier nodded.

"Coach Mac told me to stop trying to be perfect and just be present. The same principle applies." TJ turned back to face him. "Stop performing. Start connecting."

"Maybe take the pressure off completely for a while," I added. "Focus on everything else first. Touch that doesn't have to lead anywhere."

Mercier sat up straighter. "Like... dating again?"

TJ smiled. "Yes, like that. Remember what it was like before you were trying to impress her? Before there were expectations?"

We talked for another ten minutes—about communication, emotional pressure, and the weird ways hockey brain could invade every part of your life. By the time Mercier stood to leave, his shoulders had straightened, and some of the tension had left his face.

"Thanks, guys. I mean it. I didn't know who else to..."

"Anytime," TJ said. "Seriously. Door's always open."

After Mercier left, TJ turned back to me, and I saw something I'd never seen before. He wasn't only the funny guy or the team cheerleader. He was a leader. Someone the team could lean on when it mattered.

"That was impressive."

He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious again. "Just seemed like he needed to hear he wasn't broken."

"You know exactly what to say to people."

"Not always." He settled back beside me on the bed, closer than before. "Usually I make jokes until the moment passes."

"But not tonight."

"No," he said quietly. "Not tonight."

I turned my head slightly, cheek brushing the fabric of his hoodie. I felt the steady beat of his heart.

The TV clicked softly into a new movie. It was something equally ridiculous and equally eager to please. I didn't open my eyes.

TJ was watching me.

"I don't think I've ever fallen asleep next to someone and felt like…" I didn't finish the sentence.

TJ brushed his thumb gently over the fabric at my elbow. "You don't have to explain it. I feel it, too."

We didn't kiss. We stayed where we were.

Two tired bodies on an ugly hotel comforter, and entirely—finally—letting go.

That was the night I realized:

There were worse ways to fall in love than head-first into someone's shoulder, discovering that the person who made you laugh could also hold people together when everything else fell apart.