Page 30 of Gap Control

We had a game to play.

Mason and me.

Chapter six

Mason

The clock bled seconds. Every one dragged its skates across my nerves.

1:14. 1:13.

My legs burned, but I stayed low, stick on the ice, tracking their winger as he wound up for something dramatic. I caught it on my blade, absorbed the shot into my pads, and sent the puck spinning along the boards.

He cursed.

I didn't look back.

Thirty seconds left, up by one. Everyone behind the glass was on their feet, noise rising to a roar. I didn't hear specifics—only the rhythm of my breath, scrape of my skates, and the sound of bodies closing in.

"Twelve!" Mercier shouted.

That was enough.

I pivoted and stayed in their center's lane, cutting off the angle, crowding him against the boards. He shoved. I held. He wasn't getting past me.

Five seconds.

Then I heard TJ—his blades cutting across the ice, fast and reckless. He stole the puck clean and flipped it high into open space, buying us the last few seconds we needed.

The buzzer blared.

The bench erupted.

I didn't even make it to Mercier before I was swallowed by a tangle of gloves and shouting and celebratory punches to the shoulder.

And TJ.

He wrapped his arms around me without hesitation, like it was what happened now—full-contact happiness.

His glove thudded against my back. "Hell yes, Ryker. That was beautiful. Like poetry, but violent."

I was still catching my breath. His body was warm and solid against me. Almost familiar.

He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes. "You always block shots like that, or was that for me?"

"You're always watching."

That got a laugh—loud, open, real. His head tipped back, helmet askew, hair damp and wild.

For one dizzy second, the whole arena faded. All I saw was the curve of his grin while heat swirled around us.

I let go first. Peeled off my gloves. Skated toward the bench with nonchalance like the moment hadn't meant anything.

I still felt his shape in my arms. And I wasn't sure I wanted to forget it.

After the game, the Manchester hockey bar had everything I expected: scuffed wood floors, sticky menus, and framed jerseys taking up all available wall space. A couple of TVs played sports highlights with the sound off. The place smelled like fried food, old beer, and lemon cleaner that was losing the fight.

Most of my team had already claimed a large, round booth. Monroe was in the middle of a wings situation. Lambert hoverednear the jukebox, waving his hands at the screen just before picking something loud and terrible.

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