Page 35 of Gap Control

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 floppedonto 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—towardhim.

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.

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