Page 7 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter five

TJ

I wasn't supposed to be early. I was never early. Not on principle, just… structurally. Like, if my body hit a doorframe, it was a fluke of physics, not planning.

There I was, parked outside the Colisée before the sun had even fully committed. Half a coffee left. Zero appetite. Hoodie strings chewed to death.

Inside the car, it was silent. Outside, steam was rising off the pavement like the city was tired, too.

I'd soon be boarding a team bus to Manchester, New Hampshire, for the first in a series of four road games.

My phone buzzed. I opened one eye to look.

Brady: we're riding the wave. couples content = fan love = $$$. smile pretty. lean in. be adorable. ??

I flipped it screen-down and stared at the glove compartment. Not for any reason other than looking anywhere else felt too much like checking in with myself.

A few minutes later, I grabbed my gear and headed for the arena's players' entrance.

The locker room was waking up like it always did before a road trip—too loud in one corner and too quiet in another. Monroe sang something wordless under his breath with a country twang.

I dropped my bag by my stall.

"TJ," Mercier called from across the room, "got your boyfriend packed or is he flying solo?"

"He's not my—" I stopped and didn't finish the sentence. "He's probably fine."

Lambert sauntered past with two coffee cups and a bag of sour candy. "You guys doing a travel vlog? Two Boys, One Bus, No Boundaries ?"

I smirked and did my best at such an early hour. "We were thinking something more tasteful. Like Skates and Soulmates ."

They both howled. I sat down, pretending I wasn't listening for footsteps.

Mason showed up just as the bus pulled up. Earbuds in. Hoodie up. He'd set his jaw, but something about how he looked around—quick scan, slight pause—made it feel like he'd been watching for me, too.

I silently hoped that was a good thing.

When Coach gave the signal to board, the team poured out like we were storming a beach. I ended up next to Mercier on the bus because fate hates me.

I glanced across the aisle. Mason was already sitting on the other side of Lambert, staring out the window. One leg jiggled slightly.

I buckled in and tried not to think about what we looked like from the outside. About what Brady had written. About the fact that I had no clue what the next few days would feel like and what might happen.

The bus pulled onto the highway. Lewiston disappeared behind us, and the guys got louder.

I stared out the window and told myself everything was fine.

I wasn't lying. Not really.

Just… warming up.

Two hours, one travel snack, and a lot of pretending to nap later, we landed at the hotel, early check-in secured by the team brass.

Room 418. Two beds. One roommate.

The fates forgot that Mercier was married, and I had a fake boyfriend.

When I opened the door, he'd already claimed the double bed near the window and dumped his gear across it like he was marking territory.

He had a protein shake open and was watching a video with the volume too low to hear but loud enough to irritate.

"Shower first or second?" he asked without looking up.

"I'll let you know after I remember how to function." I dropped my bag and sat on the corner of the unclaimed bed. "Give me a minute for the existential dread to fade."

Mercier nodded. "Take two. I've got earbuds."

I sat there with my phone in my hands and didn't move.

Not because I didn't know what I was doing— I absolutely knew what I was doing —but because sending the text made it real.

Still, I opened a new message to Mason.

TJ: hey. want to get lunch? I know a place. just us? might help the story if we're seen. no pressure. me thinking ahead.

I hit send before I could rewrite it five times or add something dumb like a wink emoji.

Mercier glanced over. "That for Romeo?"

"Do not call him that."

"I'm supporting your narrative."

"He's not Romeo. He's… Ryker."

"Sounds romantic either way."

I threw a pillow at him. He caught it, hugged it to his chest, and sighed dramatically. "Love is war."

"Love is manufactured for the sake of a fan hashtag," I muttered.

My phone buzzed.

Mason: okay.

That was it. Okay. It worked. My stomach fluttered.

I stood. "I'm grabbing food."

Mercier raised both eyebrows. "Like, now now?"

"Soon. Just need to find a shirt that doesn't look like I lost a bet."

I pawed through my duffel. Found the black long-sleeve that didn't wrinkle too badly. Changed in the bathroom. Decided not to look in the mirror but did anyway. Regretted it.

"You look the same," Mercier called through the door. "In case that's what you're checking for."

"Thanks. Next time I need a pep talk, I'll look for someone else."

When I came out, he had his feet up on the desk and was nursing the last remains of the protein shake. "So, is this a date-date or a for-the-story date?"

"For the story."

He tilted his head like he didn't believe me. "You want me to run interference if anyone else tries to come along?"

I paused. "Actually… yes. That'd be good."

"Say no more." He raised the shake in a solemn toast. "You'll owe me one."

"I already owe you three."

He grinned. "Four, after this."

I grabbed my key, phone, and whatever dignity I could find, and left before he could make it five.

Mason was already in the lobby. He stood near the front windows, jacket zipped, phone in one hand, but not doing anything with it. He held it like he wasn't sure where else to put his hands.

I slowed a little before I reached him.

I'd grabbed my heavier jacket for once. It was the navy blue one with decent shoulders and a collar that sat right. Nothing dramatic. Just… not the usual hoodie. I'd even combed my hair on purpose.

"Hey," I said.

He looked over. "Hey."

We fell into step together without discussion, walking the block to the restaurant without talking. It wasn't tense. It was quiet. That's different from silence.

Inside, a woman led us to a booth near the back. The place smelled like fresh bread, a pleasant surprise for lunch.

Mason slid into the booth first. I sat across from him, unzipped my jacket, and tried to act like the lunch was normal—something we did all the time.

I picked up the menu and pretended to read it.

Across the table, Mason was doing the same, but slower. More focused. He turned the page, then paused halfway through, glancing up at me like he'd just remembered I was there.

"They've got the kind of fries you like," he said.

I blinked. "You know what kind of fries I like?"

"You always finish Monroe's at the Icehouse when he doesn't."

I didn't know what to say to that. I felt the tips of my ears turning red.

He went back to the menu.

Our server came. We both ordered without fuss—him the grilled chicken sandwich, me the soup and fries. I added a side of pickles without thinking and caught him looking when I said it.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing. You just have very specific tastes for someone who eats whatever's in front of you."

I shrugged. "Chaos has a flavor profile."

One corner of his mouth turned upward, the precursor of a smile

When the server left, I toyed with the edge of my napkin.

"You sure you're okay with this?"

Mason paused. "I said yes."

"Right. I don't want you to feel cornered."

"I don't." He looked at me directly. "Not when it's you."

I blinked. My brain stalled just long enough to forget what I was supposed to say next.

Reaching for my water glass, I didn't take a sip. Only held it.

Mason leaned partway across the table. "You're not what I expected, you know."

"Expected how?"

"You talk a lot, but you mean most of it."

"I mean everything." I sounded defensive.

He shook his head slightly. "No. You cover with jokes, but underneath those, you mean it."

I swallowed. "And you? Do you mean half of what you don't say?"

That got a full smile. Mason leaned back, and I thought I saw a sparkle in his eyes.

The food came. We adjusted our plates, passed ketchup, and started eating.

Halfway through the fries, he nudged the plate toward me. Not dramatically. Just enough that I noticed.

"You're not gonna finish those?"

"You like them more."

I grabbed one. "Are you sure you don't moonlight as a romantic lead?"

Another smile.

We were both quiet after that. Two guys sharing food because it was easier than talking.

And then—when I thought the meal was over, and I'd have to face Mercier again—Mason leaned forward a little.

"We should do the photo outside. There's actually sunshine out there."

"Yeah. Good call."

He nodded. "Better now than later. While it still feels like this."

"Feels like what?"

He held my gaze. "Something we chose."

I had no comeback. No joke.

Just a flicker—sharp and stupid and too much—of wanting it to be true.

I didn't answer. I slapped down a few bills, stood, and pulled on my jacket.

Outside, a breeze was blowing, and it was still cold. Not brutal, but enough that you felt it through your jeans and noticed the difference between a jacket you wore because it looked good and one actually built for the weather.

We stood near the sidewalk, a few feet from the restaurant's front windows. There was a small patch of brick wall beside a planter full of winter-dry shrubs. It wasn't romantic, exactly, but the lighting was warm.

Mason looked at me. "You want to take it?"

I pulled out my phone. "I figured I'd set a timer. We'll try for the accidental candid thing. Brady likes those."

He nodded once.

I opened the camera app, set the timer, and then held it up. "Okay. We've got ten seconds to look like we like each other."

Mason didn't move.

I looked over.

He was watching me.

"Do you want me to—?" I asked, motioning toward his side. "I mean, an arm around your waist is probably standard issue for this sort of thing."

There was a tiny pause. "Yeah. That's fine."

My hand landed on his lower back. Warm through the fabric. Solid.

He didn't pull away.

We faced the phone. I hit the shutter.

Ten seconds.

He didn't smile. Not really, but his face relaxed.

I smiled like I always did for photos—easy, practiced, slightly crooked.

Flash.

Done.

We stepped apart. Not like we'd touched something hot. Just enough to re-establish personal space.

I checked the photo.

"It's kind of perfect," I said. "You look like the one with emotional depth, and I look like I'm trying not to ruin it."

Mason looked at the screen. "You don't look fake."

I glanced over. "Is that a compliment?"

"I think so."

We started walking back toward the hotel. Side by side. No hurry.

As we approached the hotel, Mason spoke up. "You ever wonder what would've happened if that photo never got posted?"

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. "The one that started all of this?"

He nodded.

"I mean… yeah. A little."

"What do you think?"

"I think we'd still be teammates, but I wouldn't have known how good you are at noticing things."

Mason didn't say anything. His elbow brushed mine as we neared the front door; it wasn't an accident.

There was no noise but the sound of traffic half a block over and wind playing with the flags outside the arena two blocks down.

I held open the hotel's front door, and he stepped through.

Inside, the lobby lighting made everything feel too bright.

I stuffed my phone in my pocket. "I'll send the photo to Brady. He'll probably schedule it for morning."

"Okay."

We stood there like neither of us was sure what was supposed to happen next.

"See you in a couple of hours for warmups?" I asked.

"Yeah."

I started for the elevator and then paused. "Thanks. For the fries."

"Thank you for the company."

I grinned. "And thanks for lunch. And for not making it weird."

He joined me in the elevator.

I watched the doors close. His shampoo was starting to smell familiar, and it was getting harder to pretend I didn't want to stand closer to him.

Mercier was asleep. He was flat on his back, one arm hanging off the bed, blanket bunched at his waist like he'd lost a fight with a bear. He'd left the bathroom light on. He'd told me once he preferred "ambient threat levels" when he napped.

I headed for the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror, and winced. Not because I looked bad. Just because I looked too much like me. Same tired eyes, same messy hair, and same "Oops, I fell for my fake boyfriend" expression I hadn't figured out how to erase yet.

My phone buzzed when I plopped down on my bed.

Not Mason.

Peggy: Hey. You free?

TJ: Sure. We gotta be quiet though. Roomie's unconscious.

She FaceTimed anyway.

I answered with the volume down while pulling the bedspread over my head.

She blinked at me through the screen. "You look like you committed a crime and then fell in love with the detective."

"I need you to stop nailing my life in one sentence."

She grinned. "You're welcome."

"What's up?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "You calling for gossip or guidance?"

"A little of both. I saw the photo. The one with the lighting that makes you look like someone's golden retriever boyfriend."

"I'm showing off my natural charm."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

I pushed further down toward the foot of the bed. "It's PR. Strategic visibility. Controlled narrative momentum."

She narrowed her eyes. "I bet you took him to dinner."

"It was lunch."

"You wore your decent jacket."

"The hoodies need laundering."

"You shared fries."

I didn't respond.

Her voice softened. "You like him."

"I barely know him."

"You mentioned him to me on the first day of the season."

"Teammates watch each other."

"But you only called out one."

I let that sit.

She sighed. "Listen. You don't have to label it. Or tell the internet. Still, maybe you should tell yourself."

I exhaled slowly. "I don't know how to do this."

"Then don't do all of it at once. I suggest you keep showing up, for a start."

We were both quiet for a second. I heard her kitchen clock ticking behind her.

"You looked happy in the photo."

I blushed slightly. "Yeah, I think I was."

Another pause.

Then, from the other bed: "Tell your sister to stop analyzing your love life while I'm trying to sleep."

I jumped out from under the bedspread. "Mercier! I thought you were unconscious!"

"One of your fries touched my sandwich in a dream. It woke me up."

Peggy snorted.

I ended the call with a quiet goodbye, dropped the phone on the nightstand, and stared at the ceiling.

The bed was too soft. The pillow smelled like hotel laundry detergent and not much else.

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in a while, I let myself think about the rest of the day without immediately panicking.

We had a game to play.

Mason and me.