Page 66 of Gap Control

Monroe, probably. I didn't care. I didn't let go of TJ, and he didn't let go of me either.

The locker room was pure bedlam. Someone cranked the speakers the second the door shut behind us, and the bass thumped like a second heartbeat.

Lambert was shirtless, swinging his jersey like a victory flag. Mercier was in full goalie gear and somehow still dancing. Brady—who had no business hobnobbing with the players in the aftermath—stood on the bench with a phone in one hand and afoam Forge hat in the other, filming everything like we were a rock band at the end of our encore.

In the middle of it all was TJ. He had his helmet off, hair flying in multiple directions. He grinned like a man who'd just pulled off a magic trick and still wasn't sure how he'd done it.

He found me, crossed the room in four strides, and launched himself into my arms again. We staggered back into the lockers, laughing.

"Okay," I wheezed. "That's enough tackle for one night."

He climbed down and looked at me. His eyes were still wild with post-win energy. "Never," he said, dramatic as hell. "You're my good-luck charm. You scored the tying goal, and I finished the shootout. This is fate."

I rolled my eyes, but I didn't push him away. Not even when he shifted enough for his knee to slide between mine.

From across the room, Monroe shouted, "You two wanna cool it before someone sues for whiplash?"

Lambert offered support. "Let 'em have their moment. They're the face of the franchise now."

Brady asked, "Can we get a quote? Something spicy for the caption?"

TJ tilted his head like he was posing for a magazine cover. "Fine. Here it is: he passed me the puck, and I passed him my heart."

The room groaned. I shoved at his shoulder, but he barely moved.

"This is your fault," I muttered.

"What is?"

"You. Us. The sparkly hoodie. The memes. The public kissing. All of it."

He grinned. "Yeah, but you're the one who keeps leaning in."

That shut me up. He was right. I did. I leaned in every time.

By the time we got to my place, it was almost midnight. TJ had half a bag of gummy bears in his hand.

"You sure you're cool with me crashing here?" he asked, kicking off his sneakers by the door.

"I've got a whole couch just sitting there, feeling unloved."

He snorted. "You're not actually gonna make me sleep on the couch, right? After I single-handedly secured us a win with my charm and elite-level hand-eye coordination?"

I locked the door behind us and turned. "You shot the puck once."

"Precisely. Perfect accuracy."

He wandered toward the living room while I flipped on the lamp over the kitchen counter. The soft yellow glow spilled across the floor. I grabbed two waters from the fridge and followed him.

TJ had already taken over the couch. He'd pulled off his socks, flung himself into the corner cushions like he lived there, and queued up a YouTube playlist on my TV.

"Best NHL shootouts of all time." He patted the cushion beside him. "For educational purposes."

I handed him a water and sat. He cracked the bottle, took one sip, and leaned sideways until his head bumped my shoulder.

His voice was soft. "Hey, that goal tonight?"

"Yeah?"

---