Page 23 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter nineteen

TJ

T he locker room reeked of disinfectant fighting a losing war against the post-practice sweat of thirty guys. Most of the team had already cleared out—Monroe's off-key humming still echoed from the showers, and I heard Lambert arguing with someone about protein powder in the hallway.

Mason had bolted ten minutes ago. Emergency dentist appointment, something about a crown that had been giving him hell since the Augusta game. He'd tossed me his car keys on the way out.

"Grab my backup mouthguard from my bag?" he'd called over his shoulder. "It's in the side pocket. And maybe those energy bars, if you see them. And my old gloves—time for their retirement."

So there I was, elbow-deep in Mason Ryker's meticulously organized gear bag, trying not to disturb the precise ecosystem he'd created. Everything had its place—tape rolls nested by size, undershirts folded with military precision, even his spare socks arranged by thickness.

I found the mouthguard first, still in its plastic case, tucked next to a packet of gum so old the wrapper had gone soft.

The gloves were big, so they were easy, too, but when I reached for the energy bars underneath his folded base layer, my fingers brushed something that definitely wasn't cardboard-wrapped protein.

It was paper: thick paper, the kind meant for art.

I pulled it out carefully, half-expecting it to be team meeting notes or a play diagram Coach had handed out. Instead, my brain short-circuited.

It was me.

Not a photo. A sketch. Charcoal on cream-colored paper, unfinished but unmistakably me. Mid-stride, stick in hand, jersey clinging to my chest. I'd turned slightly toward something outside the frame, jaw set, eyes focused with an intensity I rarely saw in mirrors.

Sweat flew from my brow in dark, confident strokes. Mason had caught the exact moment when everything clicked—when hockey became instinct instead of thought.

I sat on the bench, holding my face in my hands.

The sketch was rough around the edges. Mason had started to shade the curve of my shoulder but hadn't finished. My left skate was barely more than an outline. Somehow, those unfinished parts made it even more honest. More real.

I'd been photographed plenty—team headshots, action shots for the website, candid moments Brady captured for social media. This was different. It wasn't documentation. It was an observation. Someone watched me move and preserved what they saw in their mind.

I traced where Mason's hand had smudged the charcoal with my thumb. In my head, I saw him working, hunched over the paper in his apartment, trying to get the angle of my stick just right.

The weirdest part? Unlike Brady's attempts to get in our faces, the picture wasn't invasive.

I wondered whether I was supposed to be embarrassed or pissed that he'd been studying me without my knowledge.

I couldn't go there. It would mean getting past the warm sensation spreading through my chest, knowing Mason wanted to capture me.

It wasn't a portrait. It was more like a glimpse.

I folded the sketch carefully, sliding it into my coat pocket like it might disintegrate if I handled it wrong. I suddenly realized I needed to move. I needed air and to talk to someone who wouldn't ask the obvious questions.

Twenty minutes later, I was in my car, scrolling through my contacts. My sister, Peggy, picked up on the second ring.

"Please tell me you're not calling to ask what temperature to cook chicken again."

I spoke twice as fast as usual. "I need to see you. Today. Somewhere between here and Boston."

"You okay?"

"I don't know."

"Text me an address. I'll be there in two hours."

The diner sat at the intersection of two forgotten highways, the kind of place where truckers and traveling salespeople crossed paths with locals who'd been ordering the same breakfast for thirty years.

I texted Peggy the address with a simple "Meet me here at noon. Bring your appetite, and I'll bring my emotional baggage."

I spotted her through the grease-streaked window before I even parked—auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun, oversized cardigan that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget, and fingers wrapped around a coffee mug.

The bell above the door jangled when I pushed inside. Peggy looked up and immediately started laughing.

"TJ! Did you get dressed in the dark?"

I glanced down at myself. Gray hoodie with a ketchup stain near the hem, jeans that had seen better decades, and sneakers held together by athletic tape and pure stubbornness. "This is my signature look. Effortless disaster chic."

"Effortless, my ass." She stood to hug me, and I smelled expensive perfume mixed with the diner's ambient bacon grease. "You look like you've been living off protein bars."

"Accurate."

We slid into the cracked vinyl booth across from each other. The server—fifty-something with tired eyes and a name tag that read "Dolores"—shuffled over with an aging coffee pot.

"Coffee, hon?"

"Please." I flipped my mug right-side up, and Dolores filled it with liquid that looked strong enough to lube a car engine.

Peggy waited until we'd ordered—grilled cheese and tomato soup for her, the "Trucker's Special" for me because I was apparently still sixteen and thought ordering the biggest thing on the menu was impressive—before giving me her practiced older-sister once-over.

She stirred sugar into her coffee with deliberate precision. "So, you look different."

"Different how? More handsome? Finally aging into my bone structure?"

"Different, like you're hiding something good instead of something terrible."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "I'm that transparent now?"

"I've known you for twenty-seven years, TJ. I can read your face like a weather map." She leaned back. "Usually, when you're secretive, it's because you broke something or forgot someone's birthday. This time, you look like you're trying not to smile."

Folded carefully in my jacket pocket, the sketch burned against my ribs like contraband. I didn't bring it on purpose. I hadn't stopped at home yet to add it to the collection in my nightstand.

"Maybe it's only a good mood."

"That's garbage. You're never only in a good mood. You're either catastrophically anxious or performing happiness for an audience. This is different."

Our food arrived before I could deflect again. Dolores set down plates that could've fed small armies.

I took a bite of hash browns that were somehow both crispy and soggy, buying myself time to think. Peggy didn't push. She bit into her grilled cheese with the patience of someone who'd learned that silence was often more effective than interrogation.

Finally, I pulled the sketch from my pocket.

"Someone drew this." I unfolded it carefully on the table between our plates.

Peggy set down her sandwich and lowered her head, inspecting the charcoal lines. Her expression shifted from curious to something softer and more serious.

"TJ, this is beautiful."

"It's unfinished."

"No, it's not." She touched the edge of the paper with one fingertip. "It's complete—exactly what it needs to be."

I waited for her to ask who drew it, but she didn't. Instead, she cradled her coffee mug in both hands and looked at me with those knowing eyes that had always been my kryptonite.

"That's not a drawing. That's someone falling in love."

My cheeks blushed fiery red. "You sure? Looks more like a guy having a heart attack to me."

That was gibberish. I tried to deflect on autopilot, and it didn't work.

Peggy didn't laugh. Instead, she gave me the kind of look she'd perfected in high school when I tried to convince her that the dent in Mom's car had been there all along.

"He sees you as something worth capturing. Don't turn that into a punchline."

The image reduced my usual armor of humor, making me feel like I was trying to hide behind a screen door instead of a wall.

I sighed. "How do you expect me to do this?"

"Do what?"

"Be seen like this, without performing."

Peggy reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. Her fingers were warm from the coffee mug. Her hand was steady in a way that reminded me why I'd driven an hour and a half to sit in a greasy diner and eat overpriced comfort food.

"Maybe it's time to learn."

The words followed me home like a song stuck on repeat. I sat in my apartment for an hour, sketch spread on the coffee table, staring at Mason's charcoal strokes. Peggy was right—she was always right, which was both comforting and infuriating.

Knowing I needed to learn how to be seen didn't show me how to do it. Maybe if I could understand what Mason saw when he drew me—what made it worth capturing—that could be a first step.

I opened my laptop and typed "art galleries Portland Maine" into the search bar before I could talk myself out of it. If this sketch was what Peggy thought it was—what I was starting to think it was—then maybe I needed someone who actually understood art to tell me I wasn't losing my mind.

The Cornerstone Gallery's website looked legitimate enough, professional but not too pretentious. I could drive down, ask a few questions, and return before Mason noticed his missing drawing.

What could go wrong?

The drive to Portland should've taken forty-five minutes. I stretched it to an hour and a half, stopping at a gas station for gum I didn't need and circling the downtown blocks twice like a stalker casing his target.

The gallery sat wedged between a vintage bookstore and a coffee shop that probably charged eight dollars for a latte.

Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed white walls dotted with expensive and slightly incomprehensible paintings—the kind of art that made me wonder whether I was smart enough to understand it, or if not understanding it was the whole point.