Page 61 of Gap Control

I pressed my forehead to his cheek, braced myself with one hand on the mattress, and let go—once, twice, and then I was coming, hard, all over the mess we'd made together. It hit him, his ribs and belly, and he laughed, running his hands up and down my back like he was proud of himself for making me erupt.

I collapsed on top of him, heart pounding, the world gone soft and floaty, and for a minute, there was nothing but our breathing. He was the first to speak.

"That was…"

I turned my head. "Yeah."

He looked up at me. "We're not faking this anymore, are we?"

"No," I brushed his damp hair back from his forehead. "Not even close."

"Good."

We stayed like that for a long time. Quiet. Breathing the same air.

I didn't ask what came next. I didn't need to. TJ was here, and he wasn't running.

Chapter thirteen

TJ

The ballroom had mirrors on every wall, fake chandeliers overhead, and hors d'oeuvres that looked like something you'd serve a Barbie doll on a first date.

I'd gone with the gray suit. It had seemed safe at the time—midnight blue felt too dramatic, and black made me look like a cocktail waiter. The problem wasn't the color. It was the fit. Slightly too snug in the shoulders, like someone tailored it for a more optimistic version of me.

We were in Lewiston's top event venue for the League's Community & Visibility Night—officially a feel-good mixer for players, sponsors, and fans. Unofficially, it was a chaos buffet. Every team had players in attendance.

There were cameras. There were social media managers. There were laminated press packets and themed drinks with pun names likeHat Trick HighballandThe Enforcer.

Brady shoved a Forge-branded pin into my lapel as I walked in. "Try not to accidentally propose to anyone tonight."

"I make no promises."

I immediately spotted Lambert talking to a guy from Bangor. Monroe was flirting with someone from the caterers. I hadn't found Mason yet.

He came in through the side entrance, chatting with Brady and holding a glass of something fizzy. His suit was navy, crisp, and tailored to fit his vast shoulders. His tie was a deep gold that looked expensive. He wasn't even trying and looked like someone who'd inherited an estate.

My mouth went dry.

I wasn't the only one who noticed. The room shifted a little in his direction. Subtle but real.

I watched as two fans leaned in to whisper, one pointing—not at Mason's face, but at me.

Ah. The Rykson Effect. Still trending.

I turned to a guy I barely knew from Augusta and tried to focus on small talk. He was nice and rambled about coaching clinics, offseason plans, and something about opening a gym. I nodded in all the right places.

It was hard to listen because a new player had cornered Mason across the room. Big guy. Quebecois accent, if I remembered right, he was a defenseman from somewhere east of nowhere, with a jawline sharp enough to injure and an attitude that suggested he'd never heard the word "subtle."

He smiled too much and angled his body toward Mason. When he said something and Mason laughed, my jaw clenched.

Next came the touch. A hand on Mason's arm, quick and light, possibly harmless, but I knew that move. I'd used that move.

I took a long sip of my drink and pretended it didn't taste foul.

Beside me, Lambert raised an eyebrow. "You good, or are you imagining that guy slipping on a waxed floor and cracking his tailbone?"

"Both," I said. "Multitasking."

---