Page 67 of Gap Control

"I heard you on the bench. Right before I skated out. You said something."

I blinked. "I said, 'Don't trip on the blue line.'"

He laughed. "You're the worst."

I smiled. On screen, a replay of some NHL legend faked out a goalie so hard the poor guy spun in a circle. We watched three more shootouts in silence. Somewhere in the middle of the fourth, TJ slid sideways until his head rested in my lap.

"I'll move if this is weird."

"It's not weird." Honestly, it was, a little, but not in a bad way.

He stretched an arm across my thighs. His hoodie rode up a bit, exposing tight abs, and his hair was still damp from the post-game shower. I let my fingers brush the edge of his temple, slow and careful.

TJ grunted. "Okay. This is nice."

I don't know who moved first. Maybe we both did.

One minute, TJ's head was still in my lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles against my thigh. The next, we were under the blanket on my bed, jeans lost somewhere between the couch and the hallway.

We'd turned the TV off. TJ curled into me like it was instinct. Chest to chest, one leg slung across mine, his breath warm against my neck. My hand drifted up under the hem of his hoodie and found the soft skin at his waist.

"Still not weird?" he asked.

"Less weird by the second."

He shifted, just slightly, and our hips brushed.

He leaned back enough to look at me. "Okay if I kiss you?"

I nodded.

TJ kissed like he played: relentless, improvisational, shameless. His tongue flicked with the same confidence as his trash talk, but a weird tenderness was hiding underneath, like he cared if I liked it. Maybe more than he'd ever admit out loud.

His entire body was all jumpy energy—a coiled spring, buzzing under the restraint. I didn't know if it was nerves or anticipation, but it made me want to match him, move with him, and see where we could go.

He slid his hand under my T-shirt, palm splaying wide against my ribs, then higher to my chest. The touch was tentative at first, like he was waiting for me to flinch or shut it down.

I didn't. I let him take the lead. I was too busy rediscovering how good it felt to be wanted and let someone else set the pace.

TJ whimpered when my hand found the small of his back. He pulled away just enough to look at me, eyes searching, mouth swollen and red. "You're good at this," he said, a little breathless.

"I could say the same." I tucked a stray curl behind his ear.

He kissed me again, not as slow this time, and the momentum pulled us right off the edge of the bed. We landed tangled on the floor, both laughing. He shoved at my shoulder, mock-aggressive, until I rolled back and brought him with me.

He straddled my hips and pinned my wrists, like we were grappling for a faceoff. "You ever had a boyfriend who could bench press you?" he asked, grinning.

"No boyfriends," I said, half a truth. "But I've definitely been benched."

He let go of my wrists and braced himself on either side of my head. Then, he leaned in and kissed my jaw, cheek, and the soft spot behind my ear. There was a smile on his lips.

He hesitated long enough for me to notice, then ducked his head. "Okay if I…?"

He didn't finish, but his hands slid down to the waistband of my boxers. I nodded, and that was enough.

He fumbled a little, more eager than coordinated, but eventually got us both out of our underwear.

TJ gripped both our cocks in his fist. The skin-on-skin sensation was like stepping into the path of a live wire, sharper than even the hardest check. He started slow, like he was figuring out the mechanics, a little shy and a lot curious.

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