Page 25 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter twenty

Mason

I t was loud in the locker room, how only half-dressed hockey players could be—music clashing with three separate conversations, two towels snapping mid-air, and the unmistakable squelch of someone stepping in a puddle of melted ice.

"Mercier, I swear to God, that's my towel." Lambert stood in the center of the locker room, dripping water with a scowl on his face.

"You can't leave your scent on everything like a tomcat," Mercier called back, holding the towel hostage like a flag of war.

I sat on the bench, tying my laces and trying not to smile. My arms still ached from practice, and the adrenaline hadn't totally worn off.

TJ breezed by in only compression shorts and an unzipped hoodie, hair damp and curling at the nape. He offered a finger-gun salute in my direction that I ignored on principle. He was still smug about scoring in the final drill. Rightly so. It was beautiful.

Coach MacPherson clapped twice at the front of the room. Loud and sharp.

No one noticed.

He tried again, stepping in front of the dry-erase board and raising his voice. "Okay! News time. Eyes up, ears open, mouths preferably shut unless you're chewing something important."

Still too much noise.

Lambert cupped his hands and stage-whispered, "Guys, Dad's doing announcements."

That got everyone to shut up.

Coach pointed his marker at Lambert like a game show buzzer. "That's right. And today's prize is instant fame broadcast in HD."

A few raised eyebrows accompanied by shaking heads.

Coach grinned. "The league's sending a media team.

Documentary-style. You know, behind-the-scenes, gritty boys chasing glory vibes.

Friday Night Lights on ice. They'll be filming practice, interviews, maybe some day in the life stuff.

So, if your life is mainly naps and protein powder, congrats—you're finally gonna be famous. "

More noise. Monroe let out something between a cheer and a turkey gobble.

Coach kept going. "They're calling it—get this— Forging Ahead. "

Dead silence.

Then Lambert: "No."

Monroe: "YES."

Coach shrugged. "Hey, don't look at me. I wanted Forged in Sweat. They chose corporate."

Someone in the back asked if it meant they needed new headshots. Mercier shouted, "My close-up better come with a wind machine!"

Coach ignored them and pushed forward, tapping the whiteboard with his marker for emphasis.

"Look, I know some of you think this is a distraction, but it's also a chance to tell your story.

Or at least show people we're not the team that folds when the stakes get real.

We don't have flashy stats or viral clips, but we have grit.

We've got heart. We've got Monroe, which counts for something. "

Monroe saluted with a water bottle. "America's sweetheart, right here."

"Seriously, though. This season, you've built something out of nothing. People are starting to notice. Let them. You've earned it."

Lambert raised a hand. "Do we get makeup or not?"

Coach sighed like a man whose tostada had just fallen, topping-side down. "Get out of here before I make you all do a burpee montage."

The room broke apart into laughter and motion—guys heading for the showers, phones, and a mirror or two. TJ stopped next to me and tapped my shin guard with his stick.

"Bet you're a natural on camera."

I shook my head. "I sketch. I don't talk."

He tilted his head like he was filing that away. "Well, they're gonna want both."

Then he was gone, leaving sneaker prints on the damp floor.

I sat there for a minute, still tying my laces, thinking about what he'd said. You're a natural on camera. TJ had a way of seeing things in people that they didn't see in themselves. It should've been comforting. Instead, it made my stomach twist into knots.

I was pulling my hoodie over my head when Coach's voice cut through the locker room noise.

"Ryker! My office. Five minutes."

A few guys looked over—Monroe tilted his head to the right, and Lambert made an exaggerated "ooooh" sound. I nodded and finished dressing. Coach calling you to his office after practice could mean anything from a promotion to a trade discussion.

I knocked on his door exactly five minutes later.

The office looked like someone had tried to organize it once and then lost interest halfway through. Old whiteboards covered in faded lines and half-erased names. A stack of abandoned clipboards. A stained coffee mug on top of a folder labeled GAME FILM.

He glanced up when I knocked, then pointed at the chair across from him. "Come on in."

I sat. The chair creaked but held.

He finished typing something, shut the laptop, and leaned back with a tired sigh. "So, a couple of things."

I nodded.

"First—interviews. You know the documentary thing I just told everyone about? Well, they want a few guys to talk on camera. I told them you'd be one of them."

My eyes widened. "Me?"

Coach tilted his head. "Yeah, you. You've been consistent. Focused. People like seeing someone who gives a shit."

The comment wasn't what I expected. It was sort of a compliment. I nodded slowly.

He tapped a pen against his desk. "They also asked if we had any players who could contribute something visual. Their words, not mine. Something creative. Sketches, drawings, anything that shows the team from a different angle." He leaned forward. "You know anyone like that?"

I hesitated. Then the words tumbled out in a whisper. "I sketch."

"That so?"

"Sometimes. Nothing fancy."

Coach leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against his head.

"They'll only use one, a single piece, probably mixed in with the title or cut between scenes. If you've got something you want to send… you can."

"What kind of sketch?"

"Whatever feels like the Forge to you. Doesn't have to be literal. Doesn't even have to show anyone's face."

I nodded again.

"Alright." Coach sounded like it was all settled. "The interview schedule goes out tomorrow. Be yourself. Unless your self gets weird under pressure, in which case, be someone cooler."

I smiled, and he didn't say more. He shuffled through his notes, already moving on. I stood and left.

***

They set up the camera crew in the hallway outside the trainers' room—two folding chairs, a black curtain backdrop, and a ring light that made everyone look like they hadn't slept in three days.

Lambert walked past holding a protein bar. "Tell my story right, boys."

I checked the printed schedule clipped to the wall: Mercier, Monroe, two rookie defensemen, and me.

No TJ.

I reread the list to be sure.

I found him leaning against the wall near the stretching mats a few minutes later, scrolling through his phone.

"You're not doing the interview?" I asked.

He looked up. "Nope."

"They didn't pick you?"

"They did." He tucked his phone into his hoodie pocket. "I said no."

The comment caught me off guard. TJ turned down the chance to be on camera?

"You okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It didn't feel like me."

"You used to love stuff like this."

"Yeah." He smiled. "I used to think being seen was the same as being known, but that's not true. I'm not in the mood to perform right now."

I didn't know what to say, so I shut my mouth.

TJ kicked lightly at the wall behind him. "Besides, you're better for this anyway. You don't even have to try—you're already interesting."

I laughed. "I'm literally the least interesting person on this team."

"That's what makes you dangerous." He narrowed his eyes and grinned. "No one sees you coming."

I shook my head.

TJ pushed off the wall. "Good luck with your close-up. Let me know if they make you cry."

I watched him walk down the hall, loose-limbed and confident as always, but different somehow. Like the volume had been turned down, and the noise got out of the way of the melody underneath.

The interviewer was experienced, professional, and warm enough to seem genuine.

"So, what's different about this team? What makes the Forge culture unique?"

Standard question. I had a dozen safe answers ready: work ethic, supportive town, Coach's leadership style.

When I opened my mouth, something different came out. "Chemistry, I guess, but not the kind you can manufacture."

She leaned forward slightly.

"It's about finding players who see the game differently. Who make you want to be better than you thought you could be."

I shifted uneasily as I heard myself.

"Can you give me an example?"

I could've deflected and kept my answer generic, but something wanted to be out in the open.

"There's this guy on our team. Center. He reads plays three steps ahead of everyone else, but he doesn't show off about it. He makes the right pass at the right time, making everyone around him look smarter."

I was talking about TJ. Of course, I was talking about TJ.

"And off the ice, he's..." I paused, aware I was crossing a line I couldn't uncross. "He notices things. Takes care of people without making it about him. He's the kind of person who helps you realize you've been settling for less than you deserve."

"Sounds like strong leadership qualities."

"It's more than that." I'd already dug myself in deep, so why drop the shovel now? "He makes me want to be a person worth knowing."

The interviewer tapped the arm of her chair.

"That's... that's beautiful. This teammate sounds special."

The back of my neck prickled. "He is."

Fuck.

"Well, that's all we need for now. Thank you so much for your time."

The camera operator was already breaking down his equipment, but I stayed frozen in the chair, replaying what I'd just said. Not only the specific words but also how I'd said them. The tone. My complete lack of control over the gap between me and the audience.

I'd just told a stranger with a camera that TJ Jameson made me want to be a better person.

I hadn't said his name, but anyone who knew anything about hockey could figure it out. Center. Play-reader. The only center on our roster who fit that description.

I pulled off the small mic clipped to my shirt, handed it to the sound guy, and tried to look casual while my heart hammered against my ribs.

That's when I spotted him.

TJ, at the far end of the hall, walking fast toward the emergency exit. His shoulders were tense, head down. He was trying to escape something.

Or someone.

He'd been listening.

I followed him without thinking, pushing through the exit door into the gray afternoon. He was sitting on the concrete steps, elbows on his knees, staring at the parking lot.

"TJ."

He didn't look up. "You were talking about me."

No point in denying it. "Yeah."

"Not us. Not the... thing we do for cameras. Me."

"Yeah."

He finally turned, and his expression was something I'd never seen before. Raw. Unguarded.

"I heard it in your voice. When you said I make you want to be better, you meant it."

"I did."

"You said it to a stranger with a camera."

The weight of that hit me all over again. I had. I'd let my guard down completely, and now it was on tape. Permanent.

"Mason." TJ's voice cracked. "No one's ever—"

He stopped, swallowed hard, and tried again.

I sat down beside him on the cold concrete. "I meant every word."

"You could've said team chemistry. Could've talked about work ethic or any of the bullshit they wanted to hear."

"Yeah. I could have."

"But you didn't."

"No. I didn't."

We sat there as the light faded, and I realized I wasn't scared anymore. Not of what I'd said, who might hear it, or what it meant.

I'd told the truth, and the sky hadn't fallen.

Later, that evening, I sat on the edge of my bed with the sketchbook open across my knees.

Pages fanned around me on the floor—some loose, some torn from older pads, and one half-crumpled from where it got caught under my boot in the locker room last month. Studies of movement. Rough pencil lines. Quick shadows. A lot of false starts.

The room was quiet except for the radiator ticking in the corner.

I'd pulled half a dozen pieces that might have worked. Monroe mid-laugh. A cluster of sticks tangled after a scramble in front of the net. Mercier's blocking the net in a blur of charcoal and blue.

None of them felt like the Forge. Not really. Not the way I knew it.

Then I flipped back to one I hadn't looked at in weeks.

TJ, mid-stride. No number, no face. Only his motion—sharp, alive, leaning forward into the ice. His stick was cutting low, his body low-slung and loose, like he had poured everything into forward momentum.

The sketch wasn't clean. There were smudges near the elbow and an erased line at the knee. I knew it was the one.

I stared at it for a long time.

No one else would know it was him.

That didn't matter.

I took a photo with my phone: no filters or cropping. I didn't rename the file—just sent it as-is to Coach, a string of numbers and letters and silence.

I didn't feel nervous, not exactly.

It was more like I'd relaxed and let something go a little.

The team group chat that night devolved into chaos. Monroe had posted a blurry video of himself getting mic'd up, captioned: My Roman Empire. Lambert suggested Monroe spruce up his look with eyeliner.

I scrolled past all of it, not really reading—until TJ's name popped up in a private thread.

TJ: Just watched your interview clip.

I straightened up.

TJ: You looked calm. Like you weren't trying.

TJ: That's a compliment, by the way.

I stared at the screen.

Mason: That obvious I was faking it?

The dots pulsed for a while.

TJ: Nah. That was all you.

TJ: They're lucky they caught it.

He paused while I tried to think of a response. He beat me to the next message.

TJ: Also, you left your hoodie in my car.

TJ: Smells like you.

TJ: I'm not complaining.

I slowly exhaled

TJ: I thought again about you saying I make you want to be better.

TJ: You meant it.

Long pause.

Mason: Yeah.

TJ: You're still the only one who's ever said that about me.

TJ: Like I'm worth getting better for.

Mason: You are.

TJ: I'm falling in love with you.

TJ: Thought you should know.

I breathed deeply.

Mason: Come over.

I reached for the hoodie draped over the back of the chair. Not the one from TJ's car—the other one. The older one. Fabric thinner from too many washes. Sleeves pushed out from where I always thumbed the cuffs. It didn't even smell like anything anymore.

But I pulled it on anyway.

Not because I was cold. Because it fit.