Page 73 of Gap Control

He looked at us. "You know what? Forget the scoreboard. We got beat tonight, yeah, but I saw effort out there. I saw sacrifice. I saw Lambert block a slapshot with his shoulder and smile like a damn lunatic."

Lambert, icing said shoulder, gave a thumbs-up.

Coach pointed at him. "That's the attitude. That's heart. You've probably got a bruise shaped like the state of Maine."

He took a breath and narrowed his gaze. "Listen. You're not robots. You're not stats in a spreadsheet. You're my guys. And my guys? We bounce. Tomorrow, we reset. Tonight? We sulk, but we sulk together."

He paused, looked like he was about to say something else, and waved it off. "Whatever. I'm gonna go find a protein bar."

He left, and the door swung closed. No one spoke for a few seconds. Then Lambert said, "I think it does look like Maine," and somebody laughed.

I didn't. Not yet. I just sat there with blood on my jersey, a bruise forming under my ribs, and a silent, irrational wish that the hotel pillows weren't so damn flat.

The front desk clerk didn't blink when TJ and I asked for one keycard. Apparently, the travel coordinator had already made the switch. We weren't pretending anymore, which meant we didn't have to sleep in separate rooms—despite Coach Mac delivering his now-infamous "no teammate hookups during regular season" speech, which ended with something like: "No sex. No choking. No exceptions."

We entered the hotel room and let the door thunk shut behind us. It was nothing fancy—the usual third-floor, off-the-highway double with patterned carpet and a grinding heater sound.

TJ dropped his duffel by the foot of the far bed and turned toward me. "Which one do you want?" He gestured at the two identical mattresses—one under a humming light fixture.

I didn't hesitate. "The one with you."

His face twitched between a grin and a blink of disbelief, but he didn't ask if I was sure. He nodded. "This one's ours."

I sat carefully on the edge of the bed, ribs aching under my hoodie, lip throbbing in that steady heartbeat-pulse way that always made injuries feel worse at night. TJ crouched beside his bag and pulled out the team-issued first aid kit. The zipper was busted, and it rattled like it had coins or screws inside.

"Let's see the damage." He moved toward me.

"Are you medically licensed?" I asked.

"I passed Advanced Band-Aid Application with honors."

He stood in front of me and tilted my chin up with two fingers. His touch wasn't highly practiced, but he was careful. I tried not to flinch as he wiped away dried blood.

He squinted at the cut. "You know, this isn't too bad." He pulled out his phone. "I'll add it to my collection. It's got gritty playoff run battle scar vibe."

"Hot?" I asked, half-teasing.

"Yeah. Kinda."

The heater chose that moment to kick off, leaving only the sound of our breathing. TJ's hand lingered on my jaw.

"You're not bad at this," I said.

"At what? Amateur medical cosplay?"

"At being here. With me."

TJ swallowed. His thumb brushed just below the cut. "I'm only good at it when it's you."

While we settled in, TJ found a terrible movie on the TV and got sucked in by the sheer audacity of the dialogue.

We barely watched it. We were lying shoulder-to-shoulder on the hotel bed, propped against the thin pillows.

The air in the room smelled faintly of leftover pizza and hotel soap. A heater kicked on with a rattle every ten minutes.

I pressed a finger gently to my lip. Still sore. The cut had stopped bleeding, but it throbbed whenever I smiled too hard or breathed funny.

Turning toward TJ, I said, "If I didn't look like I lost a fight with a blender, I'd kiss you right now."

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