Page 4 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter three

TJ

I sat in my car for a full five minutes after pulling into the Colisée lot. Engine off. Heat still running. Phone balanced on my knee, hoping it might give me a script for the day.

I refreshed Insta again. I knew I shouldn't, but my thumb had other ideas. The top post was a new edit of the hug photo, with falling snowflakes and swirly lettering that said "Frozen Hearts, Warm Hugs." What did that even mean?

Below that, a fan account had created a timeline: Rykson: A Love Story in Three Parts.

The hug.

"The look."

My so-called public proposal—aka that dumb line I threw at Jen Walsh because I panicked and defaulted to funny.

There was even a screenshot of me mid-smile with a caption: "The moment he knew."

I ran both hands through my hair and tried to collect myself.

"You've got this," I muttered to the empty car. "Go in, be cool, play it down, and don't touch anything unless you're one hundred percent sure it won't make it worse."

I checked the time—twenty minutes early. Weird. I was rarely early for anything, but I'd launched myself out of bed like it was game day. I didn't even remember brushing my teeth. I hoped I had.

And the thing was... I kept thinking about that moment. The hug. Not the photo of it, or the memes and sparkle filters, but the feel of it.

How solid he was. How easy it was to breathe when he leaned in.

Mason was objectively attractive—like, annoying-level attractive. He sported a chiseled jawline and better-than-average stubble. It was a should-not-be-allowed-to-smirk-in-public level of attractiveness.

It was worse up close. His eyes weren't merely blue; they were that washed-out, stormy kind of blue that made you say things you weren't planning to say. His hair always looked like he'd just run a hand through it, even when freshly cut.

And he was tall. Damn, six-three, I'd looked it up. I'm five-eleven on a good day with generous socks. Hugging him was like standing in front of a campfire—warm, slightly overwhelming, and hard to walk away for fear I might miss something.

Which… yeah. That kind of presence did things to a person.

I wasn't in love. Obviously.

I wasn't blind either.

My phone buzzed again—incoming text.

Brady : Smile pretty. Management's watching.

I tried to laugh. It came out more like a wheeze.

I opened my car door and stepped out into the morning air. Cold, crisp, sharp enough to wake me up. My breath clouded in front of me as I hoisted my gear bag and headed for the entrance, hoodie sleeves pulled down over my hands.

"Fake boyfriend," I mumbled to myself. "Fake boyfriend who's not in over his head. Totally fine."

I reached for the arena door and hoped, really hoped, that the rest of me would catch up.

I wasn't the only guy early. Monroe spotted me first. He stretched one leg up on the bench like he was about to do jazzercise and said, way too loud, "Morning, lover boy."

I froze mid-step, then kept walking like it was fine. Like that nickname wouldn't echo in my brain for the next ten years.

Mercier was inspecting his goalie mask. "Big day, huh? Hearts and headlines. Very romantic."

I dropped my gear bag with a thud, raising my voice just enough for everyone to hear. "Okay, can we not turn my poor life choices into an ESPN special?"

Monroe grinned. "Too late. You're trending in Canada."

Mercier smirked. "Only parts of Canada."

I gave them a look, which I hoped said I'm too tired to be the team's entertainment today , but was more likely read as please someone, drag me into a supply closet until this all goes away .

Lambert held up his phone, scrolling with one thumb. "Did you see the post from that one account—the one with the glittery heart transitions? It says, 'Ryker looks at TJ like he's the only stable Wi-Fi signal in a snowstorm.'"

I blinked. "That's oddly specific."

"It's weirdly sweet. I think you're someone's emotional support himbo now."

Across the room, Mason was already half-dressed, taping his stick with the quiet intensity of a man defusing a bomb.

He hadn't looked up.

My stomach fluttered.

I considered playing it cool. Maybe it was best to ignore everything, like I hadn't accidentally soft-launched a fake relationship on behalf of both of us. That lasted about six seconds.

I crossed the room and took the spot next to him—mine anyway, but it was double-loaded now. I offered the world's most casual shoulder bump. Just a nudge. Barely even a touch.

He glanced sideways at me.

"Morning."

"Morning," he echoed and then went back to taping. Same speed. Same focus.

I cleared my throat. "So. You're not, uh, mad?"

"You already asked me that yesterday."

"Right. Cool. Checking to see if the answer changed."

Monroe sauntered past, shirtless. "Hey, Mason—how do you like your eggs in the morning?"

Mason didn't blink. "Unfertilized."

I heard three simultaneous gasps.

Maybe it was just my imagination, or the fact that Mason was six-three and the lighting in the locker room always made me feel like I lived in a high school cafeteria, but when he stood next to me, I felt… smaller. Not in a bad way. Aware of the space he took up and how he moved through it.

He was halfway to the tunnel before I remembered I was supposed to be attached to him. I yanked on my jersey and skates fast enough to nearly lose a sock, then jogged to catch up.

Fake dating. Easy.

All I had to do was survive practice without making it weird.

Have you met me?

I skated over to Mason during warmups like I had every right to be there.

I did, technically. We were teammates. Linemates sometimes, depending on the rotation.

I drifted closer and matched his pace. Not too close.

Mason didn't say anything. He had that locked-in look again, focused on his edges, and his arms loose at his sides. I, on the other hand, was thinking about his jawline and trying not to trip over my own skates.

Casual. Be casual.

"So," I said, breath puffing in the cold. "Do we have, like… a hand signal? For the fake relationship thing? Something subtle? Finger guns? Morse code?"

"No."

"Cool, cool. Just brainstorming." I tried to skate backward while talking because apparently I'm an idiot. "Maybe we could—"

Coach blew the whistle—time for the first drill.

I spun around fast, trying to make a clean pivot and look like I hadn't just been flirting badly with my fake boyfriend. My blade caught an edge. I windmilled my arms, clipped Mason's skate with mine, and sent us both into a graceless tangle of limbs and sticks.

He went down hard but controlled, rolling with it like he'd been expecting me to take him out eventually. I, on the other hand, slid past him on my ass and straight into the boards with a resounding thunk.

The entire team stopped skating.

"Jameson!" Coach barked. "What the hell was that?"

I untangled myself from my stick and scrambled upright, cheeks burning. "Sorry! That was me. Just… foot stuff. I mean—not feet! Just—skates!"

Mason was already back on his feet, adjusting his helmet with that infuriating calm. He looked down at me with an expression that might have been amusement.

I wanted to crawl into the Zamboni closet and live there.

"I'm gonna stop talking now," I added helpfully.

"Good plan." Mason skated off without breaking stride.

The drill started. Pass-and-pivot, and then a drive toward the net. Basic stuff. I ran it fine, mostly. Whenever I saw Mason out of the corner of my eye, I had to remind myself to focus.

Yes, we were pretending, but he looked good. He always looked good. Even in a helmet. Even with that stupid tape on his gloves and a scratch on his chin from the last game.

During a water break, Monroe sidled up next to me, bottle in one hand, mischief in both eyes.

"So, is this, like, one of those fake dating stories where you fall in love for real?"

I choked on my water. "What? No. No-no. I mean—no. It's fake. Strictly performance. A PR promo. It's essentially community theater on ice."

Lambert snorted. "Community theater? Dude, you took him down before the first drill. That's either method acting or you're more rattled than you're letting on."

"I am not rattled." My voice cracked slightly.

Monroe nodded sagely. "He's rattled."

"Completely rattled." Lambert gestured at me like a Price Is Right model. "Look at him. He's doing that thing where his eye twitches."

I touched my face. "My eye doesn't twitch."

"It's twitching right now, aggressively."

Across the ice, Mason stretched against the boards, all controlled grace and focused breathing. He caught me looking and raised an eyebrow.

My teammates followed my gaze and immediately started snickering.

"Oh, this is painful to watch," Lambert muttered.

Monroe nodded. "Honestly, the two of you have good chemistry."

"Thanks."

"Like, really good. I showed the hug photo to my sister, and she cried."

"Okay."

"She thinks you're soulmates."

I pointed at him. "You're banned from talking to your sister."

He grinned and skated off.

When practice wrapped, I peeled off my helmet and skated toward the bench. Mason was already there. I slowed as I passed him.

I considered saying something meaningful, but instead, I tripped over the edge of a stick blade and nearly faceplanted into the boards.

Mason didn't laugh. He looked up. "You okay?"

"Yup," I squeaked.

He nodded once.

I clutched my helmet like it was a flotation device.

Controlled PDA attempt: failed.

New plan: survive the day, regroup, and Google "how to fake date someone who makes your brain short-circuit.

Practice ended, but my panic didn't.

I'd barely peeled off my gloves before Brady appeared in the tunnel like an anxiety-themed mirage in a team polo.

He didn't say hello. "We're doing a thing."

I followed him toward the media corner. "I don't like how vague that is."

He handed me a Forge-logo water bottle. "Quick hit with Cass from the ForgeCast fan pod. Keep it cute. Keep it clean. Don't joke about weddings."

"Would I—"

He stopped me with a look.

"Oh, right. The quote."