Page 17 of Gap Control

"And please, please, no spontaneous poetry."

I saluted him with the protein bar. "No promises."

I found Mason near the stick rack after most of the team had cleared out. He was taping his stick and didn't look up when Istopped beside him, which was fair. If I were him, I might still be pretending I didn't know me.

"I, uh… just wanted to say sorry," I started. "About the practice stuff. And the podcast thing. I know it's a lot."

He kept taping, calm and methodical. "You said there'd be rules."

"Yeah, I did."

"And then you did a fan podcast and suggested themed couples' skate night."

I bit my lip. "In my defense, glitter works for all occasions."

Mason snorted.Snorted. It was the tiniest sound, but I clung to it like I was rock climbing.

"I wasn't trying to make it worse. I just thought leaning in would make it easier. You know? If I act like I meant to do all this, maybe it will stop feeling like I set a dumpster fire and accidentally proposed in front of it."

He paused his taping.

"Is that what this is? Dumpster fire with a side of accidental proposal?"

I squinted at him. "Metaphorically. I haven't bought a ring or anything. Should I buy a ring?"

"Please don't."

"Noted."

We stood there for a second, breathing in the silence between us. The hallway buzzed faintly with the vending machine hum and the far-off echo of Monroe singing something off-key in the showers.

"I just don't want you to regret this, all of it, and me."

Mason's hands went still on the tape. When he finally looked up, something in his expression was different. Unguarded.

"You think I'd regret you?" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "TJ, you're the first thing that's felt real to me in—"

He stopped. Caught himself. The walls slammed back up so fast I almost missed the moment they'd been down.

"Ask me again tomorrow," he said.

And then he was gone.

I stayed there, holding onto the silence he left behind.

By the time I got home, I was half-hoping the internet had moved on to something else. Like a team dog adoption or a player who could sing opera. Something wholesome.

My phone buzzed against my thigh.

I ignored it.

Then it buzzed again. And again. One long buzz. Another short one.

With a sigh, I pulled it out and blinked at the screen: fourteen notifications, two missed calls, one text message.

Brady:For the love of god, no themed skate proposals tomorrow.

Something else caught my eye. It was a hand-drawn sketch with full color and soft lines. Mason and I were standing side by side in our Forge warmups—nothing dramatic, nothing flashy. He was looking at me, and I was laughing. Between us, our fingers brushed.

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