Page 24 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

I'd thrown on my most anonymous outfit: black hoodie pulled low, Red Sox cap tugged down until the brim nearly touched my nose, and sunglasses that made me look like a B-list celebrity trying to buy milk without getting photographed.

The folder under my arm contained Mason's sketch, protected by two pieces of cardboard I'd cut off a cereal box.

My hands were sweating so badly that I feared leaving fingerprints on the door handle.

The gallery smelled like turpentine and burnt coffee. The woman behind the reception desk didn't look up when the bells chimed my entrance—she was too busy attacking a canvas with what looked like a palette knife, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration.

She finished whatever violent artistic surgery she was performing, then glanced up with eyes the color of steel wool. Silver hair escaped from a paint-splattered bandana, and her black turtleneck had more colors on it than the paintings on the walls.

"You're either lost, planning a heist, or carrying something you're afraid to show me." Her voice had a Boston accent sandpapered by years of cigarettes and strong opinions. "Door's behind you for the first two options."

I cleared my throat, suddenly aware that my disguise made me look more like someone planning a robbery than seeking artistic guidance. "I was hoping to talk to someone about a piece. For evaluation, maybe?"

She studied me over paint-smeared reading glasses that hung from a chain made of what looked like vintage typewriter keys. "What kind of piece? And speak up—I'm not getting any younger, and my hearing went to hell during my punk phase."

"A drawing. Sketch. Charcoal." I held up the folder like evidence. "I'm not sure if it's... you know. Good."

She set down her palette knife with a decisive clunk.

"Kid, I've been running this place for thirty-seven years.

In that time, I've seen more bad art than you've had hot dinners, and enough good art to know the difference.

Good is what my grandmother called casseroles—art is either honest or it's bullshit. "

She stood, revealing paint-splattered jeans held up by a belt that appeared to be made from an old camera strap. "I'm Elena Vasquez. I own this place, teach watercolors to rich ladies on Thursdays, and once dated a man who tried to convince me that finger painting was high art. Follow me."

She led me through the main gallery, past a sculpture that looked like someone had sneezed while welding, toward a door marked PRIVATE.

She pushed the door open. "Fair warning, my office makes tornado damage look organized."

She wasn't lying. It was like an art supply store had exploded inside a library, and somebody stirred it all with a stick.

Canvases leaned against every wall surface—some finished, others abandoned mid-stroke.

Books tottered in precarious towers, their spines worn smooth by countless consultations.

A coffee maker that had probably been white once upon a time gurgled in the corner, surrounded by mugs in various stages of decay.

"Sit anywhere you can find space." She cleared a chair for herself. "Coffee? It's strong enough to strip paint, which around here is sometimes useful."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Smart man. The last person who drank my coffee stayed awake for three days and painted seventeen self-portraits. Now, show me the goods."

My hands shook as I opened the folder. The sketch looked impossibly small, insignificant among all the legitimate art. I slid it across the desk like I was surrendering evidence.

Elena picked it up, and her entire demeanor shifted. The sardonic gallery owner disappeared, replaced by someone whose eyes moved with surgical precision across Mason's charcoal strokes. She held the sketch at arm's length, then closer, then sideways—as if the angle might reveal additional secrets.

"Huh."

"Huh good or huh bad?"

"Huh interesting." She set the sketch down but kept one finger on its edge. "This was done from life?"

"Yeah. He didn't mean for me to see it."

Elena's eyebrows shot up. "So, this is stolen goods?"

"Not stolen. Found. Accidentally."

"Kid, I've been married four times. I know the difference between found accidentally and went looking because you had a feeling.

" She picked up the sketch again, inspecting how Mason had captured the sweat flying from my brow.

"Question is: are you here because you want me to tell you it's good, or because you already know it is and need someone to confirm you're not crazy? "

I opened my mouth to lie, then closed it. Something about Elena's directness made deflection feel pointless.

"Both, maybe?"

"Honest answer. I like that." She leaned back in her chair. "You want the technical assessment or the gut reaction?"

"Technical first?"

"Technically, your mystery artist needs to work on proportions. The shading technique is self-taught, probably learned from YouTube videos and library books rather than formal instruction."

My heart sank. "So, it's amateur."

"I didn't say that." Elena sharpened her tone. "Amateur means someone's playing at art. This person isn't playing. Look here—"

She pointed to where Mason had captured the tension in my jaw. "See how they didn't just draw what they thought a face should look like? They drew the specific face in front of them. They got all the asymmetrical bits that make it you instead of Generic Hockey Player Number Seven."

She traced the outline of my jersey with a paint-stained fingernail. "And here, they didn't idealize the uniform. Got the wrinkles right, how the fabric pulls across your chest. That's observation, not imagination."

"What's the gut reaction?"

Elena was quiet for a long moment.

"My gut reaction is that whoever drew this sees you the way most people get seen maybe twice their whole lives.

If they're lucky." She set the sketch down gently.

"This isn't an artist trying to prove they can draw pretty pictures.

Someone is trying to hold onto a moment because it mattered to them. "

I squirmed. "So it's... what? Good?"

Elena barked out a laugh. "Good is what you call a sandwich or a parking spot. This is skilled. Raw, but skilled. Your friend's got an eye—the kind you can't teach, only nurture."

"What does that mean?"

"Means they see things worth capturing and know how to present them. Most people look at a hockey player and see the uniform, the gear, the surface stuff. This person looked at you and saw..." She gestured at the sketch. "Whatever this is. The you underneath all the performance."

The word hit hard: "Performance?"

"Oh, come on." Elena's smile turned knowing.

"You walked in here dressed like you're trying to hide from paparazzi, asking me to evaluate art, perhaps fearing I will laugh at you.

Everything about your body language screams 'I perform for a living.

'" She leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

"But whoever drew this? They saw past the show. "

I stared at the sketch, trying to see what she was seeing. "Are there more questions I should be asking?"

"Only one that matters: are there more drawings?"

The question felt like it pushed me to the edge of a cliff. "I don't know. Maybe."

"And the artist?"

Every instinct screamed at me to protect Mason's privacy, but sitting amid the chaos of creative energy, watching Elena treat his work with reverence instead of judgment, made me want to shout his name from every rooftop in Portland.

"I can't say yet. He doesn't know I took this."

Elena nodded like she'd heard that story before.

"Fair enough. Artists are touchy about showing their work before they're ready.

Hell, I once dated a sculptor who wouldn't let me see his pieces until they'd been fired, glazed, fired again, and blessed by a priest." She stood, moving to a filing cabinet.

"But here's the thing about talent—it wants to be shared. Eventually."

She pulled out a business card and scribbled something on the back. "When your friend's ready—and he will be, they always are—bring me more. I've got contacts at the Maine College of Art and Design and a couple of Boston galleries that specialize in emerging artists."

She handed me the card. The front read "Elena Vasquez, Curator & Professional Art Troublemaker." The back had her cell number.

"You really think he's that good?"

"I've been doing this since before you were born. I can spot real talent from across a crowded room while half-drunk on cheap wine." Her smile turned fierce. "This friend of yours? He's got something. The question is whether he's brave enough to do something with it."

"Thank you." I stood, tentatively, trying to make sure my legs still knew how to work.

"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you convince him to show the world what he sees."

I walked out of the gallery in a daze, Elena's business card burning a hole in my pocket next to Mason's sketch.

The afternoon had turned gray and drizzly, typical Maine weather that couldn't decide what season it wanted to be.

I sat in my car for ten minutes, engine running, heat blasting, trying to process what had just happened.

He's got something.

The words echoed in my head during the entire drive back to Lewiston. Elena hadn't only been polite—she'd been genuinely excited about Mason's work. About Mason's talent and the possibility of seeing more.

My apartment felt different when I walked through the door—not empty, but expectant instead. Like it was waiting for something to happen.

Mason's practice gloves sat on my coffee table where I'd dropped them after dropping off his other gear.

Black leather worn soft at the palms, fingers shaped by years of gripping and releasing hockey sticks.

One thumb had been patched with athletic tape, and the padding along the knuckles had compressed into familiar grooves.

I picked up the left glove, turning it over in my hands. The leather was butter-soft where his palm had worn it smooth. It smelled like sweat and rosin.

These gloves had blocked shots, fought for pucks in corners, and celebrated goals. They'd touched my face when he kissed me on the ice.

The sketch lay beside me on the couch cushion, still half-folded in my makeshift protective cardboard. Elena sounded like she thought Mason possessed some artistic superpower I'd never noticed.

My phone buzzed against my thigh, an Instagram notification—probably someone liking an old post or Brady tagging me in another team photo. Instead of checking it, I opened my phone's camera.

The glove looked smaller through the phone screen, more vulnerable somehow. I adjusted the angle to capture how the leather caught the light.

I switched to my story settings and scrolled to "Close Friends"—a list of maybe twelve people who'd survived my periodic social media purges. Peggy, a couple of guys from juniors, Leo, Whitaker, Pike, and Carver. People who knew there was a me below my performances for strangers.

The photo uploaded with that familiar whoosh sound. Now came the hard part.

I stared at the blank caption box, cursor blinking like a heartbeat. Usually, I'd overthink it—craft something clever or self-deprecating and add hashtags that made it feel less personal. But sitting there with Mason's gloves in my lap and his sketch beside me, the words came without editing:

"He holds everything tighter than he lets on."

No hashtags. No explanation. No emoji to soften the edges.

My thumb hovered over the "Share" button for what felt like an hour, but was probably thirty seconds. It wasn't the same as our public charade—the posed photos and practiced smiles we fed the Rykson fans. This was smaller, quieter. Real.

I hit share before I could change my mind.

The story posted with another soft whoosh, and I set my phone face down on the coffee table.

Outside, Lewiston settled into its weeknight rhythm—distant traffic, the hum of someone's TV through thin walls, and the occasional bark of Mrs. Pflug's ancient beagle.

I'd spent years posting carefully curated versions of my life, turning every moment into content that might make someone laugh, double-tap, or share with their friends. This was different. Maybe I was tired of performing and ready to just... be.

Mason's glove was still in my hands when I finally turned off the lamp and headed for bed. I set it gently on the nightstand, close enough to smell that familiar mixture of leather and determination.

Tomorrow, I'd return it to him. Tonight, it felt like holding a piece of something I couldn't name yet. It was something that felt warm in my hands and stayed with me even after the light went out.