Page 21 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)
Chapter eighteen
Mason
T he puck slid past the goalie's glove like it was heading home, and for one suspended second, the arena held its breath.
Then the world exploded.
Sound crashed into me from every direction. My skates barely touched the ice as I glided backward, stick raised, watching the goal light blaze red behind the net.
Hat trick.
My first hat trick in a Forge jersey, and the crowd had lost its collective mind.
Bodies slammed into me from all sides. Lambert appeared first, grabbing my stick and thrusting it skyward like we'd just won the league championship.
His mouth was moving—probably something about destiny or teamwork or how I owed him dinner—but I couldn't hear anything over the thunder rolling down from the stands.
Someone's glove smacked the side of my helmet, rattling my cage. Mercier had somehow made it all the way from the net, still in full goalie gear, skating awkwardly but with purpose. He crashed into our pile with zero grace, arms spread like he was trying to gather all of us into one massive hug.
Monroe appeared next, shouting words that got swallowed by the noise, his face split in a grin so wide it looked painful.
It wasn't familiar territory. I'd scored goals before, plenty of them, but never like this. Never with an entire building on its feet and my name echoing off the rafters in a chant.
"Ry-ker! Ry-ker! Ry-ker!"
Through the chaos of bodies and noise, I located the bench. Found him.
TJ leaned against the boards, helmet tipped back, that crooked smile spreading across his face like he couldn't contain it. It was his first game back from sick leave, and Coach took it easy on him.
He wasn't celebrating with the exaggerated gestures of our teammates—no fist pumps or stick waving. Only that smile, aimed directly at me, and somehow more electric than the entire arena's worth of cheering.
For a second, everything else faded. The crowd, the teammates still pummeling my shoulders, and the ache in my legs from thirty-seven minutes of ice time. There was only TJ, watching me like I'd done something worth remembering.
It wasn't a smile he wore for the cameras or the crowd. It was mine.
The ref's whistle cut through the celebration, signaling the face-off reset. Reality crashed back—teammates peeling away, the crowd settling into their seats, and the game clock still ticking down the final minutes of the second period.
As I skated toward center ice, TJ's smile stayed with me, carved into the space behind my ribs where all the essential things lived.
The gap between periods buzzed with controlled chaos. Equipment scattered across benches, steam rising from sweaty jerseys, and the distant roar of the crowd still vibrated through the cinderblock walls.
Coach MacPherson emerged from the direction of his office, clipboard in one hand and what looked like a gas station energy drink in the other. He spotted me pulling off my helmet, and his face lit up.
"Ryker!" He marched with military precision over to me. "Son, that was beautiful. Like violent poetry."
He paused, taking a long gulp of his energy drink, then gestured wildly with his clipboard. "You know what this reminds me of? That motivational quote I read this morning. 'Success is like a bicycle—you have to keep pedaling or you'll fall into a volcano.'"
Lambert, passing by with his water bottle, raised an eyebrow. "Coach, I think that might be two different quotes."
"The best quotes are mashups, Lambert. Like your defensive zone coverage—beautiful chaos." Coach Mac turned back to me, beaming. "Point is, Ryker, you're pedaling away from that volcano tonight, and it's magnificent."
Before I could respond to the questionable wisdom, hands grabbed me from three different directions.
"Oh no," I managed, before Lambert, Monroe, and Mercier—still dripping with post-goal adrenaline—hoisted me clean off my skates.
"Victory parade!" Monroe announced, his voice cracking with laughter as they carried me like a trophy. My skates dangled uselessly, and I had to grip Lambert's shoulder to keep from toppling backward into Mercier's chest protector.
Coach Mac clapped his hands together, delighted. "Yes! This is team chemistry! This is brotherhood! This is probably a workers' comp claim waiting to happen, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it!"
They paraded me in a wobbly circle around the locker room.
"Ry-ker! Ry-ker! Ry-ker!"
They finally set me down, and I steadied myself against a wall, catching my breath.
Coach Mac appeared beside me. "You know what I learned in my third year pro?" he said, his voice surprisingly gentle beneath his caffeinated enthusiasm. "The crowd's nice and all, but the real magic happens when you've got people who stick around after the lights go down."
He clapped me on the shoulder. "Now get back out there and keep pedaling away from that volcano, son. We've got hockey to play."
I looked at him. "Coach, that metaphor doesn't—"
"Details, Ryker. Details are for people who don't believe in bicycle volcanoes."
The chant faded, and we readied ourselves for the third period.
***
The media scrum after the game was the usual circus. Reporters clustered around like pigeons fighting over breadcrumbs, microphones thrust forward, cameras clicking in rapid-fire staccato.
I'd been through the routine dozens of times—the practiced answers, diplomatic non-responses, the careful navigation between saying something meaningful and something that could be twisted into tomorrow's controversy. Usually, I could sleepwalk through it.
Tonight felt different.
Maybe it was the hat trick, but the usual armor of bland professionalism felt thin. Raw.
A young reporter—college-aged, probably an intern, with nervous energy radiating from her like heat waves—pushed through the crowd and shoved a microphone toward my face. Her press badge read Lewiston Tribune in faded letters.
"Mason Ryker, I'm from the Lewiston Tribune ," she said, slightly breathless. "Amazing performance tonight. What would you say has changed for you this season?"
It was a standard question. The kind I could answer in my sleep: Team chemistry, hard work in practice, focus on fundamentals.
Still, something about the way she asked it—earnest, direct, like she actually cared about the answer—made me pause.
What had changed?
Images flashed through my mind. TJ sprawled across my couch in that ridiculous shimmery hoodie, legs tangled in a blanket, arguing with the TV during a cooking show rerun.
I thought about how he ate peanut butter toast like it was a religious experience, getting crumbs on every surface and somehow making it endearing.
He saw me. Not the careful, controlled version I showed the world, but the messy, uncertain person underneath. And somehow, impossibly, he liked what he found there.
"Being seen by the right people changes everything," I heard myself say.
The reporter blinked, her pen hovering over her notepad. "Could you elaborate on that? Who are the right people?"
The cluster of microphones pressed closer, sensing something more interesting than the usual post-game platitudes. I saw other reporters leaning in, phones recording, eyes sharp with the possibility of a story.
I was already stepping back, away from the too-bright and intrusive circle of attention. "That's all for tonight." I pushed through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned how to disappear when necessary.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was probably Brady, ready to talk about damage control. I ignored it.
Some truths weren't meant for public consumption. Some things belonged in the quiet spaces between two people, morning conversations over coffee and late-night confessions whispered into the dark.
The locker room was pure pandemonium.
Someone—probably Monroe—had upended an entire cooler of ice water over Lambert's head, and now Lambert was chasing him around the benches with a wet towel, both howling like teenagers. Mercier sat in his stall, still half-suited in goalie gear, grinning so wide his face looked like it might crack.
Coach MacPherson stood near one of the benches, arms spread wide like he was conducting an orchestra of chaos. "Gentlemen!" he bellowed over the noise. "We're three points from a playoff spot, and Ryker here reminded everyone why they invented hat tricks in the first place!"
More cheering erupted. Someone threw a sock. Lambert managed to snap Monroe with his towel, producing a yelp that could probably be heard in the parking lot.
I sat in my stall, gear half-off, trying to process the organized insanity surrounding me. My jersey clung to my shoulders, damp with sweat and melted ice. My legs were wobbly from the exhaustion that came from giving everything and having it matter.
The chaos was infectious. Watching my teammates lose their minds over three goals I'd happened to score made me smile. For once, I didn't feel like the odd man out, the guy who watched celebrations from the edge of the circle. I was part of it. Part of them.
"Mason."
I looked up to find TJ leaning against a locker, hair dark with sweat and sticking up at impossible angles. His cheeks were flushed pink, and that crooked smile was back—the one that made my stomach do complicated things.
"Hey," I said, pulling off my shoulder pads and dropping them beside my stall.
He pushed off and walked over, weaving between the ongoing towel war and Coach's increasingly elaborate victory speech. Up close, I saw how his eyes were still bright with adrenaline.
"Remind me to add this episode to my comic," he said, voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. "Florence Nightingale Scores a Hat Trick."
I snorted. "You better draw me hotter than that last one."
"Not possible." His grin widened. "That one had your game face."
"My game face is not—"
I didn't get to finish the protest because TJ stepped closer and wrapped his arms around me.