Page 9 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter seven

TJ

H alfway through unstrapping my gear, I saw Brady's face hovering in the locker room doorway.

He lifted his chin. "Heads up. Walsh and company are circling."

"Seriously? It's practice. What are they gonna ask? Whether I hydrated enough?"

Brady didn't smile. "They're asking about the photo. Again. And the podcast. And whether the sparkly hoodie you wore last game was a gift from your quote, handsome and emotionally elusive wall of a boyfriend."

I groaned. "Okay, one, it's not sparkly. It's shimmery. And two, I hate how well you remember that quote."

"Do you want me to run interference or not?"

I sighed. "No. I've got it. I'll keep it light. Deflecty. Human Teflon."

"Oddly, that explains a lot."

I yanked a hoodie over my head and followed the sound of clacking heels toward the media corner.

Sure enough, a trio of familiar faces waited, pens ready and eyes already doing that thing where they examined my jawline for clues about the state of my relationship.

Jennifer Walsh spotted me first. "TJ! Quick word?"

I grinned. "Only if it's discombobulate. Always liked that one."

A few chuckles. Not enough to escape. I leaned against the wall, all relaxed, at least on the outside.

"So," she said, phone in hand, "any comment on the team's growing social media presence?"

"You mean the memes? I live in fear."

She raised an eyebrow. "Rykson—your connection's gotten a lot of attention."

"Great linemate. Solid blocker. Doesn't hog the remote."

Laughter, again. Lighter this time, but Jen didn't blink.

"And the photo yesterday? The one the Forge posted at golden hour, captioned with a lyric from 'Call Me Maybe?'"

"That wasn't my doing. Brady's got a thing for vintage bangers."

She narrowed her gaze. "But the look you gave him—"

"Pretty sure I was thinking about fries."

That got a bigger laugh, and I started to relax into my rhythm. Then Jen tilted her head, and I saw something change in her expression. She'd saved the real question.

Her voice was softer as she moved in for the kill.

"TJ, I've been covering you for three seasons.

You've always been the guy with the perfect comeback, keeping everything light.

But lately..." She paused, studying my face.

"You look at Mason differently than you've ever looked at anyone.

Even when you think the cameras aren't rolling.

So I have to ask—is this the first time you've been in love? "

Jen Walsh with the blindside check.

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

The easy deflection died in my throat because she wasn't asking about PR or social media or what we had for breakfast. She asked about the one thing I hadn't figured out how to joke away.

The other reporters leaned forward. Phones stayed up. The silence was painfully awkward.

"I..." I stopped myself before I said something real. Something true. Something that would make all of this impossible to take back.

I forced a laugh, but it came out wrong. Too late. Too hollow.

"That's, uh. That's quite a question, Jen."

"It's quite a look. It's the one you don't seem to know you're wearing."

Heat crept up my neck. She was right, and we both knew it, and I couldn't joke my way out of the truth written all over my face.

When they finally moved on to Mercier and his wife's new baby on the way, I exhaled like I'd barely finished a breakaway sprint and made it out alive.

Brady found me two steps from the locker room door. "Not bad. No headlines. No confessions."

"Always the goal."

"Although…" He tilted his phone. "You are trending again. Under 'softest smile in sports.'"

I groaned and buried my face in my hoodie sleeve. "Seriously. What is my life"?

Brady smirked. "Pretty sure it's a real-life romcom now."

I didn't answer. Not out loud. Lately, I wasn't sure whether I was faking the plot or already halfway through falling for the ending.

When I returned to the locker room, I wrinkled my nose at the smell of old sweat, damp gear, and Monroe's cologne—aggressively citrusy. I dropped my bag by my stall and flopped onto the bench, trying not to think too hard about how Mason hadn't said a single word to me since warmups.

Mercier was mid-rant about the lighting in visiting rinks. "It's either prison-yard harsh or horror-movie dim. There's no in between."

Lambert, half-dressed and elbow-deep in a protein bar wrapper, chimed in. "You just don't want anyone to see the breakouts you miss."

"I don't miss breakouts."

"You miss them with flair."

Monroe snorted, but then his expression shifted. It turned more serious. "Speaking of missing things..." He glanced toward the far end of the room, where Mason was methodically unstrapping his pads. "Ryker's been weird today. Weirder than usual."

Lambert followed his gaze. "Yeah, I noticed that too. During drills, he kept looking over at TJ, then looking away quickly when anyone noticed."

That fluttery feeling in my stomach came back. "He was probably just—"

"Nah," Monroe interrupted. "I've roomed with the guy on road trips. He doesn't do the whole pining thing. But today?" He shook his head. "Today he's doing the whole pining thing."

Lambert unwrapped another protein bar. "He asked me about you yesterday, TJ. Real casual-like, but not casual at all, you know? Wanted to know if you were seeing anyone before all this started."

I looked up from my skate laces. "He asked what?"

"Whether you had a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Said he wanted to make sure the fake dating thing wasn't going to mess up anything real for you." Lambert's voice dropped lower. "But the way he asked... man, he cared about the answer. Like, really cared."

My eyes drifted toward the far side of the room—toward him.

Mason had one knee propped on the bench, unstrapping his pads carefully. His head was down, jaw tight, expression flat.

We hadn't talked much since returning from Manchester. A few texts. A hallway nod. Not cold, exactly. Just… neutral.

It made me crazy because I couldn't stop thinking about when he said, "Not when it's you."

I kicked off one skate and glanced over again. He was rolling tape between his fingers, eyes fixed on the blade of his stick.

Lambert sat beside me, popping the last piece of his protein bar. "So what's the vibe? You and Ryker keeping it casual? Or are you measuring for tuxes?"

I snorted. "Do we look like tux people?"

"You look like people who would accidentally adopt a dog together."

Mercier leaned over. "You want an honest take? You guys have the vibe . Whatever the vibe is, you've got it. I showed the photo to my wife. She made a sound I can't describe without losing masculinity points."

"Why are we still talking about this?" I asked, pretending I wasn't secretly listening for Mason's reaction.

Nobody answered.

Mason stood slowly and crossed to the stick rack. Walked past me. He didn't look at me, but his hand brushed mine, fingertips along my thumb knuckle.

I froze.

I couldn't decide whether it was a big moment or nothing. Maybe it was everything.

Because he didn't pull away fast, and when he reached the rack, he stood there for an extra breath, just breathing.

He grabbed his stick, adjusted the tape, and left the room without a word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Lambert said something. Monroe laughed.

I didn't hear it. I'd stopped thinking about my teammates, the press, and the fans. I was thinking about Mason's fingertips.

I wondered whether maybe I wasn't the only one wondering what came next.

I hadn't meant to end up outside Coach's office. I needed to walk and push some thoughts out of my head.

The hallway was quieter than usual. Everyone else had peeled off to the trainers' room, the lounge, or a few solo minutes post-practice on the ice.

I leaned against the wall and stared at a flyer someone had taped up—something about flu shots and team wellness.

It was the kind of notice no one reads unless they're avoiding something.

Yeah. Guilty.

I heard the door click open behind me.

Carver stepped out, talking with Coach. His sleeves were rolled up, notebook in hand, eyes sharp. He looked good and relaxed, like retirement treated him well, and consulting was all the hockey he needed. He was a guy who'd been through all of it and wasn't trying to pretend otherwise.

He spotted me immediately.

"Well, well," he said, mouth tugging into a smirk. "Nice to have you batting for our team."

I blinked. "What?"

Carver gestured vaguely in the direction of the locker room. "The hug. The quote. The whole charming chaos of it all."

I laughed weakly. "Oh. That."

"That. Don't worry—I'm not judging. Only surprised. In a good way."

I looked down at my sneakers. One lace was untied.

"I didn't plan it. I just—I don't know. Panicked. Made a joke. Then the internet did its thing."

Carver nodded. "And now?"

I shrugged. "Now I'm apparently dating the most emotionally unreadable man in hockey, and people keep tagging me in fan art where we're holding hands in space."

He laughed. "I've seen it. The one with the nebula in the background? It's weirdly romantic."

"Right? I look like Major Tom with unresolved feelings."

He leaned a shoulder against the opposite wall. "You okay with it?"

I hesitated. "I don't know. It's fake, but it's not, too. I mean—we agreed to pretend, but it doesn't always feel like pretending. And I can't tell whether that's just me getting caught up in it or…"

"Or if he's in it, too," Carver finished for me.

I nodded. "I've been out in bits and pieces, here and there. Nothing formal. No coming-out post. Some people figured it out. Others didn't ask."

"Been there."

"I always thought I'd do it for real if it ever happened. On purpose. When I was ready."

"And this wasn't that?" Carver raised an eyebrow.

I chuckled. "Nope. This was a spontaneous soft launch sparked by panic and post-game adrenaline."

He tilted his head. "And yet…?"

"And yet, it feels real sometimes. When he looks at me. When I forget we're not supposed to be like that."

Carver didn't say anything for a beat.

Then: "You ever told him that?"

I swallowed. "No. Not even close."

"You should."

"I don't know how."

"Start by not calling it a joke."

I stared at the floor again, that loose shoelace looking like a metaphor I didn't quite understand.

My voice was soft. "Thanks."

Carver pushed off the wall. "You don't owe the world a perfectly staged confession, TJ. You do owe yourself something honest."

He walked off, disappearing around the corner, acting like he hadn't just dropped a ten-ton truth bomb in the hallway.

I stood there for a long time after he left, then bent down and tied my shoe.

I didn't go back to the locker room right away.

Instead, I left the arena and sat on the short bench by the side entrance. My brain was working too hard to notice the cold.

I didn't pull up my hood or scroll my phone. I sat there, elbows on my knees, staring at the crack in the sidewalk where a weed always tried to grow in spring.

Everything Carver said echoed in my brain.

Start by not calling it a joke.

I'd called so many things jokes over the years. Crushes. Kisses. Almosts. It made people laugh and made me feel safe.

Nobody dug deeper when you were funny about it, but Mason wasn't funny.

He was quiet and clear. When he said, Not when it's you, he meant something real.

I thought about that first hug—how he'd leaned in once I did and how he didn't flinch. How we fit without even trying.

And now, all I could think was that maybe I don't want to return to pretending.

Maybe I never did.

The door opened behind me.

I knew the footsteps. Quiet, deliberate.

"Hey," Mason said.

I looked over my shoulder. He stood in the doorway, still in his practice gear but with his skates off and sneakers on. He'd messed up his hair, pulling his helmet off.

"Hey," I said back.

He let the door close behind him. We looked at each other. No cameras. No teammates. No audience.

Only us.

"You disappeared," he said quietly.

"Needed some air."

He nodded and sat down beside me on the bench. We breathed the cold air and watched cars pass out on the road.

I blurted, "Walsh asked me if I was in love."

Mason froze.

"In the interview. She asked if this was my first time in love, and I..." I barked out a hollow laugh. "I couldn't joke my way out of it. For the first time in my life, I had nothing funny to say."

Mason turned his head to look at me, but I kept staring at the crack in the sidewalk.

"What did you tell her?"

"Nothing. I froze." I swallowed hard. "But I think... I think she already knew the answer."

Another stretch of silence. Mason was so quiet I nearly missed his question. "Did she get it right?"

I finally looked up at his face. His eyes were storm-blue in the afternoon light, and there was something unguarded in them I'd never seen before.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "Maybe."

He held my gaze for a long moment. Then, his phone buzzed, breaking the spell. He glanced at it and sighed.

"Team dinner in twenty," he said, but he didn't move to get up.

"Right. Team dinner."

We sat there a few seconds longer, both knowing we should go inside but neither of us moving.

Finally, Mason stood. He paused, looking down at me.

"TJ."

"Yeah?"

For a second, I thought he would say something that would change everything. Something real.

"See you inside."

The way he said it—like he was saying something else entirely—made me think maybe I wasn't the only one who didn't know how to answer Walsh's question.