Page 41 of Gap Control

I don't remember what started to change things. It might have been a comment that lingered too long or a laugh that sounded meaningful.

We stood close, and I inhaled the fading scent of his cologne, like a pine forest in the distance. He said something about my tape job being too precise, and I said something back about attention to detail being underrated.

And then he kissed me.

Soft and sure and completely without fanfare, like it was the most natural progression in the world. I kissed him back without hesitation and without any of the careful gap control that usually governed my interactions with teammates.

It was quiet and uncomplicated and precisely what I hadn't known I'd been wanting. Until the next morning.

I remember Nate's laugh cutting through the familiar ambient noise of the locker room like a blade. His words were loud, practiced, and performed for an audience. He said, "Don't read into it, boys. Mason's just like that—detail-oriented. It doesn't mean he's soft, but he needs to learn that not everything has to mean something."

He delivered the line to the entire room, but I knew it was meant primarily for my ears. He'd already filed what happened between us under the label "misunderstanding."

It was important to him to clarify, publicly, that whatever intimacy we'd shared carried no weight and changed absolutely nothing about the architecture of our professional relationship. It was a casual dismissal—a preemptive strike against speculation.

He didn't look at me for the rest of the morning unless we were running drills and the situation demanded eye contact between teammates.

I learned crucial information that day about the difference between wanting and being wanted. How someone could kissyou like you mattered and then treat you like you'd imagined the whole thing.

I was quiet after that. Stopped lingering after practice. Stopped assuming that physical closeness meant emotional availability. Stopped reaching for things I couldn't be certain were being offered.

Now, sitting in my car with snow sliding down the windshield after kissing TJ, I recognized familiar feelings. It was the specific variety of stupid that came from hoping when hope was a luxury I couldn't afford.

Except this time, I'd been the one to initiate the ridiculous behavior. I started the kiss, and he liked it. Karma. Now, I was the one running and making it hurt.

I could survive being alone. I'd trained for that. But being seen—and still left standing there? That would break me.

I couldn't handle the risk.

If it was real—if what I'd seen in TJ's eyes was genuine—I had something precious and fragile. If it wasn't, well, I'd just taught myself the same lesson in a different classroom, with me as the teacher, dragging us through brutal lessons.

I didn't drive home immediately.

Instead, I took the long way, driving past shuttered storefronts with advertisements for businesses that had died quiet deaths. I rolled past the old brick laundromat toward the sound I couldn't hear yet but already sensed in my bones.

Lewiston Falls.

There was a small turnout carved into rock—wide enough for three cars if everyone parked with consideration for their neighbors. I pulled in crooked, like someone who'd forgotten how parallel lines worked, and killed the engine.

The river ran dark at the edge of dusk. The falls were a study in beautiful violence—water throwing itself against granite with reckless energy.

I exited the car, and the wind immediately cut through my coat. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and walked to the railing meant to deter jumpers.

I didn't lean against it. I stood and let the cold hit me full in the chest.

The sounds around me were nearly overwhelming—the thunderous crash of water against stone, the whisper of wind through bare branches, and the distant hum of traffic winding through Lewiston.

I didn't hear any human voices—no teammates calling my name.

It was only the falls and me, with the growing certainty that I'd just ruined the best thing that had happened to me in months, maybe years.

When I finally turned back toward my car, my fingers were stiff with cold. My knuckles ached when I reached for the door handle.

I didn't turn the heat on immediately. I didn't turn on the radio, check my phone, or do any of the small things people do to fill the silence when it becomes unbearable.

I drove.

When I reached TJ's neighborhood, I'd almost convinced myself it was a mistake. I was only passing through on my way to somewhere more sensible.

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