Page 52 of Gap Control

Behind us, the shopping mall atrium was alive with noise—music bouncing off the skylights, kids shrieking in that pitch only preteens and malfunctioning air conditioners can reach. Fans milling around in Forge jerseys and winter jackets. There were handmade signs—laminated posters. At least two plush goats with the team logo duct-taped to their sides.

I adjusted my hoodie and scanned the space for Mason.

He was across the atrium, talking to a woman who looked like someone's retired gym teacher. She had a thick braid downher back and held a laminated scorecard from one of our away games. Mason nodded as he spoke.

His posture was perfect. He'd zipped his jacket all the way up. His hair, as usual, had somehow settled into a soft wave even though it was snowing sideways outside.

He looked good.

Like… really good.

And worse—he was comfortable. Like he belonged in the sea of chaos, selfies, and fans who couldn't stop giggling whenever we were within ten feet of each other.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and muttered to Brady, "If he gets any more wholesome, I will need to bite through something."

Brady checked his clipboard. "Try a churro. There's a food cart near the photo booth."

I started pacing in a small loop near our table. I looked over the autograph Sharpies in a rainbow mug and team swag in piles we weren't technically allowed to give away without clearance.

I passed a stack of commemorative stickers three times before Brady caught my sleeve. "For god's sake, do not burn through all your social energy before we even hit the meet-and-greet."

"I'm fine," I lied.

"You're vibrating."

"Pre-warmup jitters."

"This isn't a playoff."

I mumbled. "No, it's worse. It's a playoff with glitter glue and unlicensed fan fiction."

Brady raised one eyebrow. "You're scared because people like you."

"I'm scared because people are discussing our hypothetical wedding color scheme."

Brady jumped on my snark. "Lavender and navy. Mason wears a tie. You forget yours and show up in a jersey."

"Unbelievable."

"You'd cry during the vows and pretend it was allergies."

I stared at him. "How long have you been thinking about this?"

He ignored the question. "Remember: smile, keep your answers short, and no declarations of eternal devotion unless it's about the Forge. Please, try to stay close to Mason."

"Does he get a leash?"

He didn't dignify that with a response.

I turned my attention back across the room. Mason was heading toward me, hands in his coat pockets. He caught my eye and nodded once. Nothing showy or romantic. Only a small, steady signal in my direction.

The butterflies in my stomach fluttered.

I should have worn a jersey. It'd be easier than admitting I had no idea what team I was playing for anymore.

"Um. Excuse me?"

I turned toward the voice—a kid, maybe thirteen, stood a few feet away. He had curly hair tucked under a Forge beanie, cheeks red from the cold outside. He held out a worn puck like it was something sacred.

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