Page 2 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

"Jesus," I muttered, rubbing one eye with the back of my hand. "Did someone die?"

Then I saw the first DM.

Brady: Bro. What. Did. You. Do.

And below that:

Peggy: OMG

She was my sister. And next:

Mercier: Nice knowing you, Romeo.

Monroe: YOU SAID WHAT TO A REPORTER?

I unlocked the phone with the slow dread of a man checking his own obituary.

There, front and center, was a post from ForgeUpdates , an unofficial fan account following the team. It was the photo from last night—me and Mason, mid-hug—but now someone had edited it. There were sparkles and a pastel filter. Someone had added tiny floating hearts.

Across the bottom, in looping cursive: "He's gonna make an honest man out of me." – TJ Jameson.

I nearly dropped the phone.

"Fuck."

I opened Instagram. The original team post had tripled in likes. There were fan edits, reels with romantic piano covers, and an actual infographic titled "A Timeline of Rykson."

#Rykson was trending.

One fan posted a slideshow: "They were teammates… until they weren't."

It was a joke. One line. Offhand. Harmless.

Except now, it wasn't.

Now, it was a headline.

I had to fix it, right after I figured out how to breathe.

I tossed the phone aside, stumbled into the kitchen, and hit the coffee maker button like I was defibrillating it.

It sputtered in protest. Of course, I'd forgotten to clean it again.

I didn't even check the pot before pouring—just chugged half a cup of lukewarm bitterness and stood there, eyes wide, willing myself to be fine.

It would blow over.

It had to.

Right?

My phone buzzed again.

I didn't look.

Instead, I stared out my kitchen window at the gray-blue afternoon sky and wondered, not for the first time, what the hell I was doing.

My phone buzzed again.

Then again.

And again.

Then it rang, loud and sudden.

I looked at the screen. Brady.

That one could go to voicemail.

Immediately, it rang again.

Same name.

I picked up on the fourth buzz.

"Hey." I raked the fingers of my free hand through my disheveled hair, doing my best to appear nonchalant… for no one.

"Do you have any idea what's happening right now?" Brady forgot to say hi. "TJ. Tell me you didn't actually tell Jennifer Walsh you and Mason are dating."

I rubbed a hand over my face. "I mean… not technically."

"Technically?"

"It was a joke."

"What the hell?"

"Like a harmless one. Off the cuff. You know, funny."

"You told a reporter that your teammate will make an honest man out of you. That's not off the cuff. That's halfway to wedding vows."

"I didn't know she was recording."

"She didn't have to be. You said it in public. She wrote it down. Then, she published it. Then, it got picked up by three fan accounts, an LGBTQ+ sports blog, and the Portland Sentinel . Do you want me to keep going?"

My voice dropped to a whisper. "Not really."

There was a pause, long enough that I could hear Brady clicking on something. Probably scanning the latest Instagram numbers like they were stock prices.

"You're trending," he said.

"Oh."

"Not only locally. TJ, you and Mason Ryker are trending nationally under a couple name we didn't even invent."

I sat down slowly, gravity claiming me. My couch creaked.

"I was trying to get her to leave me alone."

"You thought inventing a relationship with a rookie winger would make her ignore you?"

"He's not a rookie—it's just his first year with us."

"Okay, semantics, but I need to know something. Are you two actually dating?"

"No!"

Brady made a strangled noise. "We need to fix this. Today. Before the work day ends. A denial, a clarification, a lighthearted reel where you say, 'Ha ha, just kidding, I was delirious from endorphins and Gatorade.' I don't care—pick something."

I didn't answer right away.

Now that it was out there—now that the world had decided Mason and I were a thing—I couldn't stop thinking about the photo.

The hug.

How I'd looked at him.

How he'd looked back.

"TJ?" Brady's voice softened. "What's going on?"

I blinked hard and stood. "I don't know. I just… I thought it'd be funny. I guess now it's not. Now it's—people are making it real. And Mason hasn't even said anything. What if he hates me for this?"

A pause from Brady. "I think you need to talk to him."

I opened my mouth to argue, but someone knocked on my apartment door.

Not a polite knock. It was a solid one. Steady.

"Brady, I… uh… gotta go." I hung up before he could reply.

I walked to the door with my heart crawling into my throat.

Another knock.

Then, from the other side:

"TJ? It's Mason."

Another knock.

Softer this time. More patient.

"TJ? I know you're in there. Your car's out front."

I glanced around my apartment, wondering if there might be a way to disguise the disaster.

Couch: unmade. Coffee table: Kung Pao container, chopsticks, soy sauce packets.

Socks: I'd peeled them off yesterday, and one hung out from under a cushion while the other lay on top of the TV.

Me: day-old jeans, hoodie that might've once been blue, and hair doing something indescribable.

I cracked the door.

Mason stood there in a Forge hoodie and jeans, damp hair curling at the ends, like he'd just come from a shower or a storm. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't scowling either.

He looked tired like someone who'd spent too many hours staring at his phone screen.

"Hey." I offered a weak grin.

"Can I come in?"

I nodded and stepped back, holding the door open.

He walked in without hesitation.

"I saw it," he said, not sitting. He stood in the middle of my living room, phone in hand like a prop.

"Right, the post."

"The post quoting you. The comments. The article. The fan video with—was that Sufjan Stevens?"

I winced. "Yeah."

He exhaled, slow and even. "So."

"So."

I scratched at the back of my neck. "Okay. First off, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"You told a reporter we were dating."

"I was joking. You know me," I waved my hands in the air, "funny TJ. She ambushed me outside the arena and started asking questions about the photo, and I panicked. It just came out."

Mason tilted his head slightly. "Your version of panic is inventing a romantic relationship with me?"

I scratched my head. "Yes?"

He nodded once, like a human resources officer adding a comment to my file..

"I was gonna say something sooner, like at practice, but… well, next thing I knew I was home. Then, everything blew up, and I figured I should talk to you before we figured out damage control."

He walked to the window and looked out like he needed a minute to decide whether my actions would ever be forgivable.

"I'm not mad," he said finally.

My jaw dropped. "You're not?"

He turned back toward me. "No. I mean, I'm not thrilled that my mom texted me a heart emoji and a rainbow flag an hour ago, but… no. I'm not mad."

I laughed. "Well, that's good, because I think I'm dying."

His mouth twitched.

"Did you know they came up with a name for us?" I tried to keep things light. "Rykson. It's not even bad. Kinda sounds like a Scandinavian furniture brand."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You really didn't mean for this to happen?"

"I swear. I didn't plan any of it. I joked because joking's easier than feeling things. Than saying the real stuff. Which—" I cut myself off, realizing Mason wasn't a priest, and it wasn't time for confessions.

He watched me a second longer before sitting on the edge of my couch. "Okay, so now what?"

I blinked. "Now?"

He shrugged. "You said it. People think it's true. Do we correct them, or let it ride?"

"Let it ride?" I repeated it to make sure I'd heard that it was an option.

"I mean… we could fake it."

Silence. It was a long, heavy silence, broken only by the soft, distant ping of another Instagram notification. "Do you want to pretend we're dating?"

"I'm not saying it's smart." Mason's expression was flat, unreadable. "But it might be easier than untangling it in public."

"You're serious?"

He nodded. "You already started the story. We might as well make sure we write the next chapter ourselves."

I had no idea what to say, but my mouth ran on autopilot, like it did half the time.

"Okay."

He looked at me, and then he smiled. It wasn't a big or loud one, but it was enough to make my stomach flutter.

"Guess we're dating now," he said.