Page 8 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter six

Mason

T he clock bled seconds. Every one dragged its skates across my nerves.

My legs burned, but I stayed low, stick on the ice, tracking their winger as he wound up for something dramatic. I caught it on my blade, absorbed the shot into my pads, and sent the puck spinning along the boards.

He cursed.

I didn't look back.

Thirty seconds left, up by one. Everyone behind the glass was on their feet, noise rising to a roar. I didn't hear specifics—only the rhythm of my breath, scrape of my skates, and the sound of bodies closing in.

"Twelve!" Mercier shouted.

That was enough.

I pivoted and stayed in their center's lane, cutting off the angle, crowding him against the boards. He shoved. I held. He wasn't getting past me.

Five seconds.

Then I heard TJ—his blades cutting across the ice, fast and reckless. He stole the puck clean and flipped it high into open space, buying us the last few seconds we needed.

The buzzer blared.

The bench erupted.

I didn't even make it to Mercier before I was swallowed by a tangle of gloves and shouting and celebratory punches to the shoulder.

And TJ.

He wrapped his arms around me without hesitation, like it was what happened now—full-contact happiness.

His glove thudded against my back. "Hell yes, Ryker. That was beautiful. Like poetry, but violent."

I was still catching my breath. His body was warm and solid against me. Almost familiar.

He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes. "You always block shots like that, or was that for me?"

"You're always watching."

That got a laugh—loud, open, real. His head tipped back, helmet askew, hair damp and wild.

For one dizzy second, the whole arena faded. All I saw was the curve of his grin while heat swirled around us.

I let go first. Peeled off my gloves. Skated toward the bench with nonchalance like the moment hadn't meant anything.

I still felt his shape in my arms. And I wasn't sure I wanted to forget it.

After the game, the Manchester hockey bar had everything I expected: scuffed wood floors, sticky menus, and framed jerseys taking up all available wall space.

A couple of TVs played sports highlights with the sound off.

The place smelled like fried food, old beer, and lemon cleaner that was losing the fight.

Most of my team had already claimed a large, round booth. Monroe was in the middle of a wings situation. Lambert hovered near the jukebox, waving his hands at the screen just before picking something loud and terrible.

I hesitated at the bar. The noise buzzed inside my head, and the thought of slipping out early was starting to sound better than a beer.

Then TJ showed up beside me.

He didn't speak right away—only leaned in, chin almost on my shoulder, easy and familiar. He whispered in my ear, "The booth's weirdly lopsided without you. You coming?"

I followed him back, telling myself it was easier to play along than make a scene.

He dropped into the booth and tugged me in, close enough that our knees bumped. Someone pushed a beer across the table. A server appeared with a second. She nodded toward the bar.

"Guy in the Bruins hat sent that over. Said your line crushed it in the third."

TJ lit up. "Wow, scouting report energy. Love that. Tell him thank you from us."

The server smiled and moved on.

Brady held up his phone. "Quick shot for the Forge page?"

Before I could answer, TJ leaned into me. One arm draped around my shoulders, pulling me close enough for our cheeks to brush.

I didn't move and kept my expression on the cheerful side.

Brady snapped the photo. "Perfect. Looks real."

TJ let his arm fall away and picked up his beer. "Probably because we're naturals."

I didn't answer. Across the table, Mercier was arguing about his saved shots. A basket of fries landed nearby, already half-empty.

TJ turned back to me. "You doing okay?"

"Why?"

"You're quiet."

"I'm always quiet."

"Sure. But sometimes your quiet means thinking about homicide. Just checking."

I looked away and sipped my beer.

TJ started chatting with the server again, asking her name and repeating it. Not fake charm. It was him. Warm, present. A little too good at making people feel seen.

That included me. And it bothered me how much I liked it.

I must've been staring, because he caught me. Cracked one of those lopsided half-smiles. "Careful. You keep looking at me like that, and people are gonna think this is real."

"Maybe I'm looking at you because you're loud."

TJ laughed, head tipping back briefly, and leaned in again. Barely touching.

I realized I didn't want him to move, and none of this was part of the plan.

The bar got louder as the night wore on. Not just volume—energy, too. All the tables were full. The locals were generous. They appeared to like us as much as their home team.

Someone turned the game recap up on the TV overhead. Monroe explained a pool shot using French fries. TJ had kicked off his shoes and pushed against me, still riding the post-win buzz.

He had a beer in one hand, and with the other, he was making a dramatic commentary about Lambert's jukebox choices.

"Who requests two Bon Jovi tracks in a row?" he asked no one in particular. "That's a cry for help."

He wasn't putting on a show anymore. Not really. He'd relaxed, and he'd lowered his voice. He looked... tired, in a way that made him more real. It had been a long day and a draining game.

Someone passed by the booth and clapped him on the shoulder—an older fan, Forge hat pulled low. "Nice game tonight, Jameson. And your boy here?" He gestured toward me. "Solid on that last shift."

TJ beamed like he'd scored a hat trick. "He's a wall. A very handsome, emotionally elusive wall."

The guy laughed and wandered off. TJ turned back toward me, still grinning.

"I can punch you under the table," I said.

He sipped his beer. "You won't."

He wasn't wrong.

The thing was, all night he'd been doing small, quiet things. Thanking the server by name. Giving up his seat at the bar to an older couple who looked exhausted. Making sure I wasn't boxed in when someone slid into the booth beside us earlier.

He was paying attention. Not only to fans or friends. To me.

I leaned back and stared at the condensation on my glass. My list of ground rules had felt solid when I made them—no personal questions or unexpected contact.

TJ didn't need to break the rules to get under them. He only had to sit there being kind and present and utterly unaware of how much harder he was making the fake thing for me.

He shifted slightly to face me. "You know, I thought this part would feel weird. Sitting together, pretending to be a couple, but it doesn't."

I didn't answer.

He waited and then filled the empty space, "You're easy to sit next to."

He wasn't flirting. It sounded like the truth.

I focused on the scuffed tabletop. "You're better at this than I thought."

"Faking it?"

"Being good with people."

He shrugged, a sheepish little grin on his face. "I've had a lot of practice."

A moment passed. He looked worn around the edges, hair starting to curl a little where it met the collar of his shirt.

"You still want to keep this going?" I asked. "The whole fake thing?"

He didn't even pause. "Yeah. I mean, unless you don't."

I didn't answer right away.

He looked down at his beer and swirled it a little. "I do like hanging out with you."

Simple comment. No smirk. No joke.

For a second, I forgot why any of this was fake.

We didn't say much after that.

TJ slipped back into the team chatter, teasing Monroe about karaoke night and ignoring Brady's not-so-subtle attempts to document our chemistry. Every now and then, though, he glanced at me.

He had no idea what he was doing. On second thought, maybe he did.

I tuned out the content of the conversation and let the ambient noise settle around me. I kept thinking about how his hand had rested behind me on the booth all night.

It was a quiet claim, close enough to feel like it mattered.

Those were the parts of TJ I hadn't expected. The small stuff. His voice. How he said my name. How he was never performing when he looked at me, even though we were supposed to be pretending.

It wasn't supposed to feel good, but it did. That scared the hell out of me.

I didn't know how to want something without looking for the cracks and how it might all blow up. I didn't know how to trust with ease.

TJ made it hard to control the gap between us. He didn't come at me with force. He only showed up, again and again. I was starting to forget to brace myself.

I glanced over.

He was laughing again—loud, unfiltered, whole-body laughter that pulled the attention of half the room. His head tipped back, hand over his chest, like whatever Monroe had said had knocked the wind out of him.

He looked happy, a little tired, and at home. When he caught me watching, he didn't look away.

"You good?"

"Yeah." I turned back to my drink.

It wasn't exactly a lie; it was more like a placeholder.

The truth was still moving. I just hadn't figured out where I wanted it to land.

We stepped out into the cold night just after eleven. The freezing air hit hard—sharp and clean after the heat and noise inside. My ears rang from the sudden quiet.

The team scattered in twos and threes, heading toward the hotel. Someone yelled goodnight. Monroe waved like we were all on a sitcom. Brady gave us a mock salute and disappeared down the sidewalk.

TJ walked beside me, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, head down like he was thinking about something.

The street was mostly empty. A light dusting of mid-October snow clung to the curb. Traffic lights blinked on autopilot.

"You cold?" he asked.

I shook my head.

We crossed at the corner. The hotel came into view a block ahead—enough light in the windows to feel watched, even if no one was looking.

He glanced sideways. "Thanks for tonight."

"It was your idea."

"Still. Thanks for not letting me make an ass of myself in public. Well, less of one than usual."

"You're welcome.

Outside the hotel, we paused.

He didn't ask if I wanted to keep walking. I didn't ask if he wanted to stay outside a little longer.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled foil packet of mints. Held one out to me.

I took it. Unwrapped it. Let it sit on my tongue.

"You sure you're okay?" It sounded like he actually wanted to know.

"I'm fine."

TJ looked up toward the hotel. "Guess this is the part where we pretend the night's over and we didn't almost have a moment."

I raised an eyebrow. "Almost?"

He grinned. "What can I say? I’m an optimist.”

I didn't say anything, and he didn't press. It made me happy, and maybe a little disappointed.