Page 100 of Gap Control

Watching as the glow from the screen cast long shadows across a face that deserved better.

By the time I was ready for bed, the team had released a new version of theForging Aheadtrailer. The sketch was gone, like it never existed.

The following morning the locker room was quieter than usual. Not tense, muffled around the edges. Everyone knew something was off, but they couldn’t quite name it. Or, maybe they could, and no one wanted to be first.

Mason hadn't said much since the viral eruption. He didn't post anything or reply to any of the comments.

He left his sketchbook at home. That hit the hardest. He always brought it, even when he didn’t use it. Said it helped his hands stay sharp.

I found him in the hallway outside Coach’s office, phone pressed to his ear, leaning against the wall.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was headed toward the trainers’ room when his voice—quiet and low—cut through the hum of vending machines and HVAC.

“No, I understand. Totally. Yeah, I figured with the schedule change and everything…”

A pause.

“…no, I get it. No worries.”

He ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket.

I waited until he turned around.

“Was that about the scout from Duluth?”

“Scheduling conflict. They’re not coming.”

He said it like he believed it, or like he needed me to.

I didn’t answer right away.

Mason shrugged. “It happens.”

And that was it. No rant. No sarcasm. Not even a sigh.

He brushed past me and headed toward the ice, gear bag slung over one shoulder, and helmet tucked under his arm.

If you didn’t know him, you’d think nothing had happened at all.

I did, and it had.

I stood there for a long moment, watching him disappear across the blue line.

I'd seen how his face had gone blank during that phone call. How he'd stood there afterward, staring at the wall.

The thing that made him most himself—the sketching, quiet observation, and how he saw beauty in ordinary moments—had become a liability. Because of me. Because of us.

That's when I started walking toward the media office.

I didn’t plan it. Not really. I just kept moving past the weight room and the hallway where the team’s glossy promo banners lined the walls. Past the photo of me from last year that everyone kept saying made me look taller.

The media team had taken over a conference room next to the press box. Two laptops open, one monitor playing rough cuts, and a whiteboard covered in arrows and timestamps. Someone had drawn a cartoon stick figure with Lambert’s hair. I didn’t knock.

They looked up. Startled, but not surprised.

“Hey, TJ,” one of them said, the younger guy—Marcus, I think. “Everything okay?”

“Not really."

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