Page 37 of Gap Control

Carver nodded. "And now?"

I shrugged. "Now I'm apparently dating the most emotionally unreadable man in hockey, and people keep tagging me in fan art where we're holding hands in space."

He laughed. "I've seen it. The one with the nebula in the background? It's weirdly romantic."

"Right? I look like Major Tom with unresolved feelings."

He leaned a shoulder against the opposite wall. "You okay with it?"

I hesitated. "I don't know. It's fake, but it's not, too. I mean—we agreed to pretend, but it doesn't always feel like pretending. And I can't tell whether that's just me getting caught up in it or…"

"Or if he's in it, too," Carver finished for me.

I nodded. "I've been out in bits and pieces, here and there. Nothing formal. No coming-out post. Some people figured it out. Others didn't ask."

"Been there."

"I always thought I'd do it for real if it ever happened. On purpose. When I was ready."

"And this wasn't that?" Carver raised an eyebrow.

I chuckled. "Nope. This was a spontaneous soft launch sparked by panic and post-game adrenaline."

He tilted his head. "And yet…?"

"And yet, it feels real sometimes. When he looks at me. When I forget we're not supposed to be like that."

Carver didn't say anything for a beat.

Then: "You ever told him that?"

I swallowed. "No. Not even close."

"You should."

"I don't know how."

"Start by not calling it a joke."

I stared at the floor again, that loose shoelace looking like a metaphor I didn't quite understand.

My voice was soft. "Thanks."

Carver pushed off the wall. "You don't owe the world a perfectly staged confession, TJ. You do owe yourself something honest."

He walked off, disappearing around the corner, acting like he hadn't just dropped a ten-ton truth bomb in the hallway.

I stood there for a long time after he left, then bent down and tied my shoe.

I didn't go back to the locker room right away.

Instead, I left the arena and sat on the short bench by the side entrance. My brain was working too hard to notice the cold.

I didn't pull up my hood or scroll my phone. I sat there, elbows on my knees, staring at the crack in the sidewalk where a weed always tried to grow in spring.

Everything Carver said echoed in my brain.

Start by not calling it a joke.

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