Page 3 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter two

Mason

" G uess we're dating now."

It came out easy, but nothing about what it implied was... easy.

TJ grinned like he'd just won something, maybe the big pot at Poker Night. "So, uh… do we fist bump? Shake on it? Or is there some fake boyfriend handbook I'm supposed to memorize?"

He did his best to joke. I knew that. I also knew he was nervous. In my two months with the team, I'd figured out that TJ was never subtle—his thoughts ran out of his mouth with all the elegance of a loose puck in a shootout. Still, somehow, most of the time he pulled it off.

I didn't answer partly because I worked hard to keep my face unreadable, and mostly because I didn't trust what would come out if I said too much too fast.

I was here to clean up a mess. Instead, I'd already agreed to extend it.

TJ was still talking, half to me, half to himself.

"We probably need a story, right? Like, how long we've been fake-dating?

Did we kiss on the first day of practice?

Or was it less first-come, first-served, and we bonded over a team road trip?

Did we share one of those sad little hotel breakfast yogurts? You hate yogurt, don't you?"

I did. I also hated how easily he'd read that on my face.

I didn't let people in. It wasn't a personality quirk—it was strategy. The less they saw, the less they could weaponize.

TJ? He talked to everyone. Listened, too. Not always well, but with heart. Like he wanted to be close, even when it terrified him.

I cut across his ramble. "This isn't a game."

He flinched a little, then shrugged. "Right. Yeah. I know that. I just—" He made a vague hand motion like he was trying to swat away a cloud. "It was either run with it or try to spin it, and honestly, I don't think I've got the energy to outpace the internet."

I wanted to be mad at him.

The best I could do was be tired.

I glanced around his apartment. Cluttered. Personal. Messy in a way that made sense if you stared long enough.

A hockey stick leaned against the wall by the fridge. A ratty sweatshirt draped over a kitchen chair. A pair of running shoes sat by the door, one laced, one not.

It was the kind of space that belonged to someone who came home tired but managed to stay alive. There was life in it: noise and motion.

My place didn't look like TJ's. My place looked like nobody lived in it on purpose.

I surprised myself again. "Okay, we do it. Temporarily."

TJ's whole face lit up. "Wait, seriously?"

"Just until things die down."

"Sure, yeah, of course. Right." He nodded too quickly. "We should probably set some ground rules. Like what we say in interviews. And maybe I shouldn't post any gym thirst traps for a while—"

"Please never say thirst trap to me again."

He laughed—loud, like he wasn't used to censoring himself and didn't plan to start. His openness found a gap in my defense I didn't know existed.

He walked over to the kitchen and grabbed two cans of something from the fridge. Protein water, probably. He tossed one to me without warning, and I caught it on reflex.

I cracked the can too fast and got sprayed for it—cold fizz on my fingers, sharp with citrus. TJ sat down next to me, cross-legged, like we did this all the time.

He wiped condensation off his can. "So, you sure you're okay with this?"

I sipped and looked at him, my new fake boyfriend.

His hair was sticking up in three directions. There was a smudge of something on his cheek—soy sauce, maybe.

His hoodie hung off one shoulder, collar stretched, revealing the curve of his collarbone and a flash of ink I hadn't noticed before—just the edge of it. The T-shirt underneath had a cartoon hockey puck on it with the words Get Pucked.

TJ looked like a train wreck wrapped in unexpected charm.

And for reasons I didn't want to examine, I didn't want to leave.

"No, I'm not okay, but I'm saying yes anyway."

He blinked. "What?"

I tried to lay it out more gently. "I said for now, which means we need to be careful. Keep it light. No slip-ups. We control the story."

He offered a toast with his can. "To wildly irresponsible decisions and confusing fan edits."

I tapped mine against his. "God help us both."

We drank.

It didn't fix anything, but didn't make it worse either.

Considering everything, that was a win.

For a minute, we just sat there, the fizz going flat in our cans. His leg bumped mine, and neither of us moved.

I could've stayed longer.

Maybe I should've, but I didn't.

Instead, I stood. He didn't ask me to stay, and I didn't ask whether he wanted me to.

Perhaps that was a part of the deal we hadn't said out loud.

The door shut behind me with a mechanical clunk.

I landed on a cracked cement landing, with a short stairwell and a metal railing that had started to rust at the joints. Although it was still daylight, a flickering security light buzzed above me.

I exhaled slowly.

It was the first time I'd really breathed since walking into TJ's apartment.

A gust of cold early November wind cut between the buildings. I shoved my hands into my pockets and crossed the parking lot, boots crunching on salt left over from a Halloween snow event—what the weather people called it.

I'd done what I came to do—de-escalate, get clarity, draw boundaries for a chaotic situation.

But all I could think about was the look on TJ's face when I said yes.

Like he'd just been handed the only gift he wanted for Christmas.

I'd parked my car in the shadow of a dumpster, between a Camry missing one hubcap and a snowbank that would probably grow until spring. I slid into the driver's seat and let the silence press in around me.

My phone buzzed.

I didn't check the notifications right away. I sat there, staring through the windshield at the building across the lot.

Another buzz, and I grabbed my phone. #Rykson was still trending.

I tapped on the latest post. It was a slowed-down version of the hug with the Carpenters' "We've Only Just Begun" playing in the background.

The hug looked different in slow motion. Less of a celebration. More tender than that.

I didn't remember leaning in that much, but there it was—my face angled just slightly, eyes soft. TJ beamed.

I locked the screen and tossed the phone into the passenger seat, then braced both hands against the wheel like I was about to drive straight through a wall.

My visit with TJ didn't fix anything.

If that's all I wanted to do, I could've texted. Called. Let it blow over.

I didn't.

I showed up, and then I offered to keep it going.

I ran it all over again in my head. The goal was story control, keeping the press off our backs.

That didn't explain why I'd noticed his hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Or why I'd liked how my name sounded in his mouth, casual and a little fond.

I started the car, backed out slowly, and drove toward my place, thinking I still had time to change direction, maybe even turn around.

I didn't look back at the building, but I already knew which window was TJ's.

My apartment was quiet when I opened the door.

Not a peaceful silence… empty. The place was used to me coming home without bringing anyone or anything with me.

I shut the door behind me, slid off my boots, and hung my coat on the rack by the door. Straightened it automatically so the sleeves lined up. Then I walked to the kitchen, filled the electric kettle, and turned it on.

Late afternoon edged toward evening, and Lewiston began its slow, gray, November fade. I didn't turn on music. Didn't ask Alexa to do anything.

The kettle clicked off.

I poured the hot water, dunked a tea bag, and sat at the small table by the window holding the mug in both hands like it might give me advice.

The steam rose quick and clean—nothing like TJ's kitchen, where he'd covered the fridge door in takeout menus, and everything smelled faintly like soy sauce and vanilla protein powder.

This was my space. Clean. Uncluttered. A bookshelf with everything alphabetized, a couch with sharp corners, and a throw folded neatly over the back.

My hockey gear lived in a bin in the hall closet—Febreze'd, aired out, bag zipped. No dishes in the sink. No mystery stains on the counter. No evidence of anything other than structure.

Living this way had always been enough until today.

Until TJ's crooked grin, dumb mug, and half-eaten takeout sitting on the coffee table.

I stood too fast, put the mug down too hard, and crossed to my bedroom like something urgent might be waiting there.

There wasn't.

Only the same tidy room, blackout curtains drawn, even though the sun hadn't fully set. I changed into sweats, folding my jeans over the back of the desk chair, lining up the seams.

I flopped on the bed and grabbed my laptop from the nightstand.

I wasn't planning to scroll through social media. I intended to draft a statement. Staring at the familiar glow, I opened a blank document.

What do you want, really? Those were the first words that came to mind, but I quickly deleted them.

It would have made sense to turn the computer off then. Instead, I ended up scrolling through the team's video archive.

The clip I found wasn't recent. It was two seasons ago, and TJ's hair was longer, floppy, wilder. He looked younger. Not softer. Even more chaotic.

The video was labeled TJ Jameson Post-Win – Lewiston at Augusta. One of those throwaway clips. Under two minutes long. Our familiar locker room was the backdrop, and a Portland TV reporter held a microphone.

I hit play.

TJ was in full post-game mode—wavy dark hair damp with sweat, a faint flush across his cheekbones, and mouth moving faster than his thoughts. "Look, I'm just saying, if I score twice and nobody gives me egg rolls, what are we even doing here?"

Laughter off-camera.

He grinned, leaning forward like a comic delivering a punchline. "No, seriously. Mercier gets a shutout, and people act like he walked on water. I do back-to-back goals, and all I get is a half-eaten granola bar and an accidental elbow from Whitaker."

More laughter. TJ basked in it. Played to it.

Someone off-camera asked, "Any thoughts on that second goal? Looked like it surprised even you."

TJ opened his mouth fast, ready to joke. Then, he stopped.

It was only for a breath. You'd miss it if you weren't looking. Like a skip in the coverage.

His eyes darted away from the mic, down and to the left—classic tell. His shoulders dropped a fraction. The mask slipped for a few seconds, and he didn't catch it in time.

The smile came back, big and easy.

"I mean, come on." He tapped his chest with mock pride. "This is what I do. Trip over a loose puck, black out, and score anyway. Classic Jameson magic."

The reporter laughed. So did TJ.

I just sat there on my bed, staring.

That pause. It was a moment when his face lost all that light.

I'd never seen it before. Two months with the team, and it didn't happen.

But now, I couldn't pack it up and forget it.

The performance had slipped, like someone tired of playing himself.

I watched that three-second pause three more times before I closed the tab.

He wasn't the only one tired of playing a role.