Page 11 of Gap Control

This was my space. Clean. Uncluttered. A bookshelf with everything alphabetized, a couch with sharp corners, and a throw folded neatly over the back.

My hockey gear lived in a bin in the hall closet—Febreze'd, aired out, bag zipped. No dishes in the sink. No mystery stains on the counter. No evidence of anything other than structure.

Living this way had always been enough until today.

Until TJ's crooked grin, dumb mug, and half-eaten takeout sitting on the coffee table.

I stood too fast, put the mug down too hard, and crossed to my bedroom like something urgent might be waiting there.

There wasn't.

Only the same tidy room, blackout curtains drawn, even though the sun hadn't fully set. I changed into sweats, folding my jeans over the back of the desk chair, lining up the seams.

I flopped on the bed and grabbed my laptop from the nightstand.

I wasn't planning to scroll through social media. I intended to draft a statement. Staring at the familiar glow, I opened a blank document.

What do you want, really?Those were the first words that came to mind, but I quickly deleted them.

It would have made sense to turn the computer off then. Instead, I ended up scrolling through the team's video archive.

The clip I found wasn't recent. It was two seasons ago, and TJ's hair was longer, floppy, wilder. He looked younger. Not softer. Even more chaotic.

The video was labeledTJ Jameson Post-Win – Lewiston at Augusta.One of those throwaway clips. Under two minutes long. Our familiar locker room was the backdrop, and a Portland TV reporter held a microphone.

I hit play.

TJ was in full post-game mode—wavy dark hair damp with sweat, a faint flush across his cheekbones, and mouth moving faster than his thoughts. "Look, I'm just saying, if I score twice and nobody gives me egg rolls, what are we even doing here?"

Laughter off-camera.

He grinned, leaning forward like a comic delivering a punchline. "No, seriously. Mercier gets a shutout, and people act like he walked on water. I do back-to-back goals, and all I get is a half-eaten granola bar and an accidental elbow from Whitaker."

More laughter. TJ basked in it. Played to it.

Someone off-camera asked, "Any thoughts on that second goal? Looked like it surprised even you."

TJ opened his mouth fast, ready to joke. Then, he stopped.

It was only for a breath. You'd miss it if you weren't looking. Like a skip in the coverage.

His eyes darted away from the mic, down and to the left—classic tell. His shoulders dropped a fraction. The mask slipped for a few seconds, and he didn't catch it in time.

The smile came back, big and easy.

"I mean, come on." He tapped his chest with mock pride. "This is what I do. Trip over a loose puck, black out, and score anyway. Classic Jameson magic."

The reporter laughed. So did TJ.

I just sat there on my bed, staring.

That pause. It was a moment when his face lost all that light.

I'd never seen it before. Two months with the team, and it didn't happen.

But now, I couldn't pack it up and forget it.

The performance had slipped, like someone tired of playing himself.

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