Page 65 of Gap Control

Mason didn't come near me until the buffet line. He stepped up beside me like it was nothing. Like we weren't on the edge of becoming something people would talk about in the past tense someday.

Our hands brushed once. Barely. Pinky to knuckle, and then his thumb tapped mine.

I glanced over. He didn't say a word, but he smiled.

It was just for me. Small. Certain. Steady.

And that's when I knew we were going to get caught, not by accident or due to a mistake.

Because neither of us was going to stop it.

After the last speech and the final round of photos, we slipped out through the side exit, quiet as ghosts. The valet line was chaos, so I stood with my hands shoved deep in my pockets, staring out at the line of headlights inching toward the curb.

Mason was beside me, not touching or talking. He was close enough that our coats brushed when the wind shifted. Close enough that I could still feel the echo of his hand on my back from when he'd guided me out the door like we were already a thing.

Someone had seen us disappear. Someone always did. Someone would mention how we came back a little rumpled and a little too pink in the cheeks.

As the valet pulled up with his car, I leaned in close and whispered, "It's gonna be public."

He nodded. Not a maybe. Not a someday. A fact, and I wasn't scared, as I thought I would be. Not anymore.

Chapter fourteen

Mason

With just under three minutes left, we were down by one, and my lungs burned like I'd swallowed fire.

Coach didn't need to yell. The bench knew. We felt it in the shift patterns, the shorter rotations, and how Mercier stood a little taller in the net. No one said "this matters," but it was in every pass, every pivot, and every glance toward the clock.

We were facing a top-ranked team. Regional media covered the game, and we'd packed the arena. TJ, skating two lines over from me, had his game face on—a kind of controlled chaos that meant he was one play away from doing something spectacular or getting a minor penalty for being overexcited.

We cycled back into the zone with enough time for one clean push. I passed it up the boards and cut across center, dodging a guy who looked like he could bench-press a Zamboni.

Then, the moment.

TJ picked the puck up on the far side, toe-dragged like a magician, and dished it back through traffic. It deflected once—Lambert got a stick on it—and then bounced off a skate. It was coming toward me. Fast. Wide.

I didn't think. I pivoted, caught it on my backhand, and chipped it past the goalie's shoulder, right into the upper left corner.

Goal light. Horn. Noise shaking the Colisée's foundation.

TJ tackled me at center ice. We slid over and hit the glass, helmets clacking. He yelled something I couldn't hear over the crowd, grabbed my face cage with both hands and shook it, then pressed his forehead against mine like we'd just won the whole damn championship.

"You're a wizard," he shouted, eyes bright. "A sexy, emotionally distant wizard!"

I laughed. We went into overtime. No goals.

It was down to the shootout. Three shooters in, we were still tied.

TJ skated out. He didn't look at the goalie or glance back at the bench. I saw his smirk from across the ice.

He scored. We won, and the crowd erupted.

TJ skated toward me, fast. I didn't brace in time. He leaped into my arms, legs off the ground. He was a human cannonball of joy, and I was his landing pad.

We crashed backward onto the ice and stayed there for a second, laughing. Our teammates piled around us in celebration.

Someone yelled, "Damn, Ryker—taking this couple goals thing literally?"

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