Page 28 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter twenty-three

TJ

T he snow had stopped pretending to be festive. Christmas was three days behind us, and all that tinsel-and-joy crap had been replaced by slush, salt spray, and the smell of wet brake pads every time I slowed for an exit.

I’d forgotten how bleak winter could look once the string lights came down.

Mason hadn’t gone home for the holidays. Neither had I. Not because we didn’t want to—though in my case, it was complicated—but because Forge had games on the 23rd and the 26th. That left just enough time to do laundry and cry into a hot chocolate, if you were the sentimental type.

We weren’t.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Now the team had a rare three-day break before New Year’s, and instead of using it to sleep or catch up on therapy appointments like responsible adults, we were on the highway, halfway to Boston.

At Peggy’s invitation.

Technically she’d invited me, but when I’d hesitated on the phone, she’d said, “Bring the fake boyfriend. I want to see if he blinks under pressure.”

I flicked on the wipers again. The sky couldn’t decide whether to drizzle or dump snow, so it was doing both—classic New England compromise. Mason sat beside me, leaned back in his seat, hoodie hood half-up, one foot tucked under his leg like he’d lived in my car for years.

We hadn’t talked much since pulling out of Lewiston, but it wasn’t weird. If anything, it was… steady. Like a song I didn’t know all the lyrics to but could hum along with anyway.

“I can smell playoffs,” I announced

Mason glanced over. “You can smell playoffs? Are you sure that's not old sneakers in the trunk?”

“Yeah. It’s a vibe. Kind of like sweat mixed with adrenaline.”

I thought about the Christmas gift Peggy had mailed me—a cookbook I’d never use and a handwritten note that said, "You’re doing better than you think." Thought about how I hadn’t given her any recent updates on Mason, but she made it clear she already knew.

“Why’d you say yes to this?” I asked.

Mason turned toward the window, then back to me. “I want to know even more about you, and you didn’t say no when I offered.”

We pulled off at the next exit. A gas station loomed up ahead—weather-beaten, half-lit, and probably selling six kinds of jerky.

“You need gas?” Mason asked.

“No. You need coffee.”

Five minutes later, I handed him a cup—oat milk, one sugar. His usual.

“You remembered,” he said softly.

“Of course, I did.”

His eyes stayed on the lid. He didn’t take a sip. "I love that about you."

I didn’t answer. Not yet, but the inside of the car got warmer.

Twenty minutes later, I parallel parked in front of Peggy's building with the kind of precision that only came from extreme nervousness. Mason had finished his coffee and was methodically shredding the empty cup.

I turned off the engine. "You know she's going to love you, right?"

"Define love, in the family sense."

"Adopt you. Probably ask if you have any single brothers. Definitely try to feed you enough to put you in a coma."

He smiled, but it was tight around the edges. "And if she doesn't?"

"Then she's broken, and we'll get her fixed."

Peggy buzzed us in before I could finish texting “we’re here.” Classic move. She always said she could hear my thoughts before I had the decency to share them.

The elevator had a faint lavender smell. Mason leaned against the mirrored wall, clutching his coffee and watching me.

The doors opened to her floor, and a second later we were standing in the entryway to Peggy’s life: clean lines, warm lighting, and zero clutter.

The floors were dark-stained oak, polished but not fussy.

Every wall had something interesting on it—local art, a few photographs, and a woven tapestry that looked expensive.

It smelled like lemon oil and chai. There was music playing quietly in the background—something with layered harmonies and a female vocalist I couldn’t place, but definitely not Top 40.

And on the narrow console table by the door: a small ceramic tray full of paperclips, wine corks, and one of my old keychains from high school—a plastic snow globe with a shark inside.

Mason noticed it before I did. He picked it up, turned it over, then glanced at me with raised eyebrows.

“Class of whatever,” he read aloud. “Shark Week High?”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

He smiled.

From deeper in the apartment came the unmistakable sound of Peggy calling out, “If you mock the keychain, you get decaf.”

Mason blinked. “She’s psychic.”

“Only when it’s inconvenient.”

She appeared a second later, barefoot in wide-leg pants and a rust-colored sweater that made her look like the main character in a very highbrow drama. Her hair was twisted up, and she wore a rust-red lipstick that dared you to say the wrong thing.

“Hey, little brother.” She pulled me into a one-armed bro hug. “You didn’t warn me he was tall and handsome.”

I rolled my eyes as she turned her attention to Mason.

She offered her hand. “Hello, and welcome to the test.”

He shook it without flinching. “Thanks for having me.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She turned toward the kitchen. “There’s soup on, and the guest room heater works if you jiggle it.”

Mason followed me through the open-plan living room. The space was so Peggy—minimalist, yes, but not sterile. Books lined the walls, some stacked sideways. I spotted one of mine in the middle of a row—a dog-eared copy of The Queer History of American Theatre I’d left behind in college.

On the coffee table: a shallow bowl of smooth stones, a half-burned candle labeled Intentions , and a tiny Polaroid stuck under the corner of a coaster.

Me. At twenty. Laughing so hard my eyes were closed and my mouth was wide open, head thrown back like I didn’t know the world could ever be cruel.

I hadn’t seen that photo in years.

“Peg,” I called softly. “You kept this?”

She answered from the kitchen. “Yes, I did. It was the night you tried to make your own birthday cake and nearly set the oven on fire. Best laugh I’ve ever seen you have.”

Mason’s hand brushed mine.

“You still laugh like that,” he whispered.

“Thanks for coming,” I said.

“Try and stop me.”

Peggy’s idea of a casual dinner was a homemade butternut squash soup, rosemary focaccia still warm from the oven, and a salad that had pomegranate seeds and shaved fennel, a recipe she might have cribbed from a Pinterest board.

Mason didn’t say much during the meal, but I watched him take a second helping of everything, and that was all the commentary I needed.

She asked questions like she was only curious—not like she was vetting someone to date her baby brother. I knew better. I’d seen her do it to two of my exes and one of my old roommates. It was all about cadence: letting silence fall in the right places to see who’d rush to fill it.

Mason never rushed.

When she asked, “So what does a Forge winger do on his day off besides get dragged to Boston?” he shrugged.

His answer came a few seconds later. “Try to figure out what else I’d be good at, in case the skates stop fitting.”

Peggy nodded like that was the right answer.

After dinner, she pulled out a battered deck of cards and set us up for a game of Knock. I hadn’t played it since high school, but Mason said he'd heard of it and caught on fast. Too fast.

By the third round, he was demolishing both of us.

“Are you sure you haven’t played this before?” I narrowed my eyes as he laid down another perfect hand.

“I’m observant."

“You’re terrifying."

Peggy rolled out a classic line for her. “TJ, you always did get weirdly competitive when you liked someone.”

I coughed. Mason blinked.

We finished the hand in silence. Peggy stood, stretched, and said, “I’ll leave you two alone.” She disappeared into the kitchen with a mug in hand and a look I didn’t trust.

Mason gathered the cards, reshuffling them even though the game was over.

“She’s smart,” he said finally.

“Too smart.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just waiting to be grilled more thoroughly. I know Peggy.”

“She already decided.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Decided what?”

“That I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Are you?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No. I've done enough of that in the past. I’m done running from things that scare me.”

When I didn't respond, he added, "I love you."

I leaned forward, brushing my fingers across his knee. “I love you, too.”

He exhaled.

“Even though I obliterated you at Knock?”

“Especially because of that.”

Mason headed for the bathroom, and I found Peggy on her balcony.

It was barely big enough for two chairs and a narrow table with a citronella candle stuck in winter hibernation. The city spread out beyond the railing in grayscale—streetlights haloed in mist, headlights moving slow through slush, and a world still catching its breath after Christmas.

Peggy had wrapped herself in a gray knit shawl that looked aggressively cozy. She handed me a mug before I could say anything.

“Chamomile. Don’t make a face.”

I didn’t. I sipped. It was warm and citrusy. Calming.

“He loves you,” she said, eyes still on the skyline.

“I know."

“And?”

“And I love him.”

She nodded, like she’d already known both answers but wanted to hear them out loud. For a while, the only sounds were the hush of traffic and the occasional clink of my spoon against the ceramic rim of my mug.

She reached out to rub my forearm. “I’ve never seen you like this. Not even when you were trying to convince yourself you were happy.”

I looked down at my mug.

“I keep waiting for it to fall apart.”

She turned to face me. "Relax into it, TJ. Stop testing the floor for weakness."

“What if it gives out?”

“Then you fall together. That’s what this is.”

She reached for my hand and squeezed it once.

“I’m proud of you, and I like him. You don’t need to keep auditioning for love—it’s already yours.”

A lump grew in my throat.

“I didn’t know I needed to hear that."

Peggy excused herself to go to her bedroom.

Mason was already in the guest room when I got back inside, sitting cross-legged on the bed in borrowed flannel pants and one of my old Forge T-shirts that Peggy must’ve dug out from some closet where she stored nostalgia like wine.

The room was small—books stacked on the nightstand, a faded Red Sox pennant above the dresser, and a photo of Peggy and me at a middle school science fair.

The overhead light was off. The warm glow from a little bedside lamp lit Mason’s face, softening the lines.

He was sketching.

I paused in the doorway. “That me?”

“It was supposed to be. Started out that way, but it turned into something else.”

I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me. “Can I see?”

He turned the sketchbook toward me.

It wasn’t a portrait. Not exactly. It was a collection of motion—lines that suggested someone in the middle of a laugh, a hand caught brushing hair away, and the outline of a hoodie sleeve pushed up at the wrist. It was a study in presence.

“I love it,” I said.

Somewhere outside, the city kept breathing. Somewhere up the road, the Forge locker room was still draped in string lights and chaos. And somewhere deep inside me, a familiar ache finally loosened its grip.

We didn’t fall asleep all at once. But we didn’t let go of each other, either.

Mason shifted beside me, and I felt him smile against my hair. "What are you thinking about?"

"Everything," I said. "The season. Playoffs. Whether Mercier's going to figure out that protein powder situation. Whether you're going to keep drawing me when I'm asleep."

"I wasn't—"

"You were. You were memorizing me."

He laughed. "Guilty."

I turned in his arms until we were face to face in the dark. "What happens when the season ends?"

"We figure it out," he said simply. "Together."

It wasn't a detailed plan or a promise, but it was the first time either of us had said out loud that there would be a future beyond playoffs and beyond the Forge.

"Together," I repeated, testing the word.

"Unless you're sick of me by then."

"Not possible."

This was what came after the fake dating. After the viral photos and the hashtags and the carefully choreographed moments for the cameras.

This was what came after pretending: Everything real.