Page 14 of Gap Control

Fake dating. Easy.

All I had to do was survive practice without making it weird.

Have you met me?

I skated over to Mason during warmups like I had every right to be there.

I did, technically. We were teammates. Linemates sometimes, depending on the rotation.

I drifted closer and matched his pace. Not too close.

Mason didn't say anything. He had that locked-in look again, focused on his edges, and his arms loose at his sides. I, on the other hand, was thinking about his jawline and trying not to trip over my own skates.

Casual. Be casual.

"So," I said, breath puffing in the cold. "Do we have, like… a hand signal? For the fake relationship thing? Something subtle? Finger guns? Morse code?"

"No."

"Cool, cool. Just brainstorming." I tried to skate backward while talking because apparently I'm an idiot. "Maybe we could—"

Coach blew the whistle—time for the first drill.

I spun around fast, trying to make a clean pivot and look like I hadn't just been flirting badly with my fake boyfriend. My blade caught an edge. I windmilled my arms, clipped Mason's skate with mine, and sent us both into a graceless tangle of limbs and sticks.

He went down hard but controlled, rolling with it like he'd been expecting me to take him out eventually. I, on the other hand, slid past him on my ass and straight into the boards with a resounding thunk.

The entire team stopped skating.

"Jameson!" Coach barked. "What the hell was that?"

I untangled myself from my stick and scrambled upright, cheeks burning. "Sorry! That was me. Just… foot stuff. I mean—not feet! Just—skates!"

Mason was already back on his feet, adjusting his helmet with that infuriating calm. He looked down at me with an expression that might have been amusement.

I wanted to crawl into the Zamboni closet and live there.

"I'm gonna stop talking now," I added helpfully.

"Good plan." Mason skated off without breaking stride.

The drill started. Pass-and-pivot, and then a drive toward the net. Basic stuff. I ran it fine, mostly. Whenever I saw Mason out of the corner of my eye, I had to remind myself to focus.

Yes, we were pretending, but he looked good. He always looked good. Even in a helmet. Even with that stupid tape on his gloves and a scratch on his chin from the last game.

During a water break, Monroe sidled up next to me, bottle in one hand, mischief in both eyes.

"So, is this, like, one of those fake dating stories where you fall in love for real?"

I choked on my water. "What? No. No-no. I mean—no. It's fake. Strictly performance. A PR promo. It's essentially community theater on ice."

Lambert snorted. "Community theater? Dude, you took him down before the first drill. That's either method acting or you're more rattled than you're letting on."

"I am not rattled." My voice cracked slightly.

Monroe nodded sagely. "He's rattled."

"Completely rattled." Lambert gestured at me like aPrice Is Rightmodel. "Look at him. He's doing that thing where his eye twitches."

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