Page 36 of Gap Control

It made me crazy because I couldn't stop thinking about when he said, "Not when it's you."

I kicked off one skate and glanced over again. He was rolling tape between his fingers, eyes fixed on the blade of his stick.

Lambert sat beside me, popping the last piece of his protein bar. "So what's the vibe? You and Ryker keeping it casual? Or are you measuring for tuxes?"

I snorted. "Do we look like tux people?"

"You look like people who would accidentally adopt a dog together."

Mercier leaned over. "You want an honest take? You guys have the vibe.Whatever the vibe is, you've got it. I showed the photo to my wife. She made a sound I can't describe without losing masculinity points."

"Why are we still talking about this?" I asked, pretending I wasn't secretly listening for Mason's reaction.

Nobody answered.

Mason stood slowly and crossed to the stick rack. Walked past me. He didn't look at me, but his hand brushed mine, fingertips along my thumb knuckle.

I froze.

I couldn't decide whether it was a big moment or nothing. Maybe it was everything.

Because he didn't pull away fast, and when he reached the rack, he stood there for an extra breath, just breathing.

He grabbed his stick, adjusted the tape, and left the room without a word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Lambert said something. Monroe laughed.

I didn't hear it. I'd stopped thinking about my teammates, the press, and the fans. I was thinking about Mason's fingertips.

I wondered whether maybe I wasn't the only one wondering what came next.

I hadn't meant to end up outside Coach's office. I needed to walk and push some thoughts out of my head.

The hallway was quieter than usual. Everyone else had peeled off to the trainers' room, the lounge, or a few solo minutes post-practice on the ice. I leaned against the wall and stared at a flyer someone had taped up—something about flu shots and team wellness. It was the kind of notice no one reads unless they're avoiding something.

Yeah. Guilty.

I heard the door click open behind me.

Carver stepped out, talking with Coach. His sleeves were rolled up, notebook in hand, eyes sharp. He looked good and relaxed, like retirement treated him well, and consulting was all the hockey he needed. He was a guy who'd been through all of it and wasn't trying to pretend otherwise.

He spotted me immediately.

"Well, well," he said, mouth tugging into a smirk. "Nice to have you batting for our team."

I blinked. "What?"

Carver gestured vaguely in the direction of the locker room. "The hug. The quote. The whole charming chaos of it all."

I laughed weakly. "Oh. That."

"That. Don't worry—I'm not judging. Only surprised. In a good way."

I looked down at my sneakers. One lace was untied.

"I didn't plan it. I just—I don't know. Panicked. Made a joke. Then the internet did its thing."

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