Page 1 of Gap Control

Chapter one

TJ

We'd barely made it to the locker room before Coach started grinning like we'd just handed him a vintage bottle of Scotch and a playoff seed.

"Hell of a win, boys," MacPherson called over the noise. His compliments always sounded vaguely threatening, with their military cadence, which might explain why we'd won in the first place.

I had my jersey off and my shoulder pads somewhere on the floor, but my skates were still on. I wasn't ready to come down from the high yet. Not with the game still buzzing in my blood and my hands shaking in a good way.

"Ryker," Coach added, sharp and quick, "those blocks in the third? Textbook."

A few stalls down, Mason Ryker didn't flinch. Just kept peeling off his gloves like he was defusing something sensitive and mechanical. He never looked up when Coach praised him—never smiled, either. Just... processed and moved on.

If MacPherson ever called anything I did "textbook," I'd engrave it on a plaque and hang it above my bed.

The locker room smelled like it always did—sweat, disinfectant that never fully won the war, and that damp rubber tang from the flooring. Our goalie, Mercier, was still huffing like he'd just run stairs. Someone's music thumped quietly from a corner, probably Monroe's playlist again—vaguely country and vaguely sad. I might need to put my old-school boombox back into action.

I looked back at Mason. "Hey, Ryker—you realize you saved our asses out there, right?"

He looked up at me, eyes steady and a little too clear. He had that kind of gaze that made you feel like he was actually listening and not waiting for his turn to speak. Just... taking it in.

"Team effort," he said.

"Sure it was. And I'm six feet three."

That earned the smallest shift in his expression. Not quite a smile, but something.

He stood, tall and unbothered, and something about how he moved—fluid but cautious, like he knew exactly where his body ended and the rest of the world began—made me feel weirdly off-balance.

I reached out to clap him on the shoulder. Standard teammate gesture. No big deal.

Then, my hand stayed there.

And next, somehow, I was pulling him into a hug. TJ Jameson, veteran Forge center, and Mason Ryker, first season winger, squeezing each other tight.

He stiffened for a beat. Barely long enough for me to notice. He exhaled and eased into it. His shoulder pressed into mine. His chest moved with mine. I sniffed—a mix of clean laundry and winter air. It was the kind of scent that made me want to breathe it in again.

We laughed, caught up in the emotion of victory, riding the high—and—

CLICK.

"Got it!" Brady, our wet-behind-the-ears social media guy, announced. "Nice one, boys. That's great content."

Mason stepped back. Not fast or awkward. Like it hadn't been anything at all.

I let my arms fall to my side. The air had a distinctive chill without him.

"Social media gold." Brady stared at the viewfinder of his camera. "You guys photograph well together."

I should've said something. I usually did. Made a joke, tossed off a line, and laughed it off before anyone had time to get uncomfortable.

This time, I didn't.

Instead, I stood there in half-undone skates and a sweat-soaked base layer, watching Mason return to his stall and resume peeling off his gear like nothing had just happened.

Like something hadn't just shifted under my feet.

Like I wasn't still thinking about how he'd leaned in, just enough.

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