Page 13 of Gap Control

I tried to laugh. It came out more like a wheeze.

I opened my car door and stepped out into the morning air. Cold, crisp, sharp enough to wake me up. My breath clouded in front of me as I hoisted my gear bag and headed for the entrance, hoodie sleeves pulled down over my hands.

"Fake boyfriend," I mumbled to myself. "Fake boyfriend who's not in over his head. Totally fine."

I reached for the arena door and hoped, really hoped, that the rest of me would catch up.

I wasn't the only guy early. Monroe spotted me first. He stretched one leg up on the bench like he was about to do jazzercise and said, way too loud, "Morning, lover boy."

I froze mid-step, then kept walking like it was fine. Like that nickname wouldn't echo in my brain for the next ten years.

Mercier was inspecting his goalie mask. "Big day, huh? Hearts and headlines. Very romantic."

I dropped my gear bag with a thud, raising my voice just enough for everyone to hear. "Okay, can we not turn my poor life choices into an ESPN special?"

Monroe grinned. "Too late. You're trending in Canada."

Mercier smirked. "Only parts of Canada."

I gave them a look, which I hoped saidI'm too tired to be the team's entertainment today, but was more likely read asplease someone, drag me into a supply closet until this all goes away.

Lambert held up his phone, scrolling with one thumb. "Did you see the post from that one account—the one with the glittery heart transitions? It says, 'Ryker looks at TJ like he's the only stable Wi-Fi signal in a snowstorm.'"

I blinked. "That's oddly specific."

"It's weirdly sweet. I think you're someone's emotional support himbo now."

Across the room, Mason was already half-dressed, taping his stick with the quiet intensity of a man defusing a bomb.

He hadn't looked up.

My stomach fluttered.

I considered playing it cool. Maybe it was best to ignore everything, like I hadn't accidentally soft-launched a fake relationship on behalf of both of us. That lasted about six seconds.

I crossed the room and took the spot next to him—mine anyway, but it was double-loaded now. I offered the world's most casual shoulder bump. Just a nudge. Barely even a touch.

He glanced sideways at me.

"Morning."

"Morning," he echoed and then went back to taping. Same speed. Same focus.

I cleared my throat. "So. You're not, uh, mad?"

"You already asked me that yesterday."

"Right. Cool. Checking to see if the answer changed."

Monroe sauntered past, shirtless. "Hey, Mason—how do you like your eggs in the morning?"

Mason didn't blink. "Unfertilized."

I heard three simultaneous gasps.

Maybe it was just my imagination, or the fact that Mason was six-three and the lighting in the locker room always made me feel like I lived in a high school cafeteria, but when he stood next to me, I felt… smaller. Not in a bad way. Aware of the space he took up and how he moved through it.

He was halfway to the tunnel before I remembered I was supposed to be attached to him. I yanked on my jersey and skates fast enough to nearly lose a sock, then jogged to catch up.

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