Page 98 of Gap Control

I leaned back against my stall, still catching my breath from practice, and let the noise roll over me. My phone sat silent in my bag—no notifications, no Brady texts about damage control,and no reporters sliding into my DMs. Last week's big hockey news was all about a goalie fight in Duluth and a mascot falling through a stage in Nashville.

We survived Thanksgiving with turkey sandwiches, off-brand cranberry sauce, and a stack of rom-coms at my place. Mason fell asleep halfway throughWhile You Were Sleeping, head on my shoulder, mouth slightly open. He snored once. I didn't move.

Now, he was across the room, sitting on the floor with one leg stretched out and the other bent, adjusting his skate blades. Someone tossed a towel too close to his sketchbook and got the death glare for it.

I nudged his shin with the toe of my skate. “You doing Secret Santa?”

He looked up. “Yeah. Why not?”

“No concerns about drawing Mercier and ending up with six pounds of unmarked protein powder?”

“Honestly, that sounds useful.”

“It would be if he labeled anything. Last year, Monroe thought he was making a shake and ended up eating half a jar of pre-workout.”

Mason didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to. His hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. I tried not to stare.

Mason dropped his skate tool, and I bent to hand it back. Our fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away. Neither did I.

Coach had a post-practice surprise. He herded us all into the video room. The overhead lights buzzed. Monroe sat cross-legged on the floor sorting through protein bars.

Mercier gave him the side-eye.

"What?" asked Monroe. "The boxes exploded in my gear bag."

Coach pointed his remote, and the latest version of theForging Aheadtrailer appeared on the screen. Dramatic music.Cuts of us skating like we were headed into battle instead of the second half of the season.

I barely glanced up—until the narrator said Mason’s name.

I was locked in.

A flash of the locker room. Two players walking past. And there, pinned to the board behind them, barely in frame but unmistakable if you knew what you were looking for, was Mason’s sketch.

It was quick. Maybe a second. No focus pull and no commentary. There.

Monroe sat up. “Hey, that’s yours, right?”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

Lambert leaned forward on the couch. “They didn’t even explain it. Should’ve been a full segment.”

“They probably weren’t supposed to show it at all,” Mason said.

I walked over, careful not to step on Monroe’s protein bar collection. Mason popped open a lime seltzer.

“It looked good,” I said.

“It was half-finished.”

“You say that like it matters.”

He shrugged.

Back on screen, Mercier launched his glove into the air after a shootout win. The music swelled and then cut. Segment over.

No one said anything for a few seconds.

Mason took a sip from his can and didn’t comment on the trailer again.

---