Page 43 of Gap Control

They knew I wasn't. It wouldn't help to lie.

I kept my head down, towel slung around my neck, half-hoping someone would stop me and ask if I wanted company. Maybe they'd suggest I come out for post-game food, beers, or whatever else was a strategy for metabolizing failure.

I didn't need an invitation. The Icehouse was our home bar, but it would be nice to have someone ask.

No one did.

All the other guys usually avoided the weight room after a game. It was time to let go and fall into real life before our next practice session. My real life hurt more than muscles overworked on a weight machine.

I stepped inside. The cinderblock-lined room smelled of rubber mats. The lights overhead buzzed softly. A few of them flickered in that strobe-y way that could probably cause seizures if you stared too long.

Walking past the leg press machine, I stopped in front of the rack of free weights. I grabbed two dumbbells without looking at the numbers. They were heavy enough to hurt, but not enough to pull something.

I turned away from the mirror to avoid looking at my eyes. I did one set, and then another.

My arms burned, and it still wasn't the right kind of pain.

I switched to the bench press. No spotter, but I wasn't going heavy enough to need one. I wanted it to be enough to make my chest feel like it might crack open and spill out every unsaid thing I'd tried to bury since Mason stepped away from me in the snow.

He'd kissed me. He had. That part was real.

And he'd run.

I should've seen it coming. To be honest, I had seen it coming, but knowing the car's about to hit you doesn't make the impact any easier to walk away from.

I racked the bar. Sat up too fast and saw spots.

Sitting for a second, I rested my elbows on my knees. Sweat stung the corners of my eyes.

I wiped my face with the towel.

My voice said, "Well, this is pathetic."

The room didn't answer.

I was talking to myself, like a guy in a sad movie who hadn't realized yet that he was the punchline.

That's when I saw him.

He'd tucked himself in the corner behind the resistance bands and the squat cage—barely visible unless you knew where to look. He had a hoodie pulled halfway over his face. Knees up, feet planted on the bench. A sketchbook balanced across one thigh, pencil moving in tight, precise arcs.

Mason.

Two guys, one broken game, same stupid idea about where to lick our wounds.

My lungs forgot how to work for a second.

I froze mid-step, not because I meant to snoop or spy, but because… hell, I'd never seen him like this.

Not on the ice or in the locker room. Not even that day he kissed me and left me standing like someone who'd just leaned in for a high-five and gotten a punch to the chest instead. He was so quiet.

And still. Not calm. Like a lake before a storm—nothing moving on the surface, but you couldfeelthe churn underneath.

His pencil scratched against the page, rhythmic and efficient. He didn't see me. Or maybe he did and didn't care.

Since when did he draw?

I shifted my weight to the other foot, and the sole of my sneaker squeaked against the rubber mat.

---