Page 71 of Gap Control

Practice wrapped with Coach barking something about "teeth" again, and I skated off with my legs burning in that almost-too-much way.

It wasn't too much. It felt like maybe I was becoming the guy people looked to when it mattered.

And maybe Mason saw that, too.

I tossed my gear into my stall, towel-scrubbed the sweat off my face, and reached for my hoodie when I noticed something in my bag that didn't belong.

Folded paper. Sketchbook page. Tucked right between my gloves and elbow pads, like it had always been there.

I frowned and pulled it out.

It was a sketch. Pencil. Quick strokes, but confident. Me, still in partial gear—shoulders squared, chin tilted up, jersey clinging to the sweat on my chest. Hair messy. Expression intense. Focused.

Me, but like… the version of me I sometimes imagined I could be, if I got my shit together and stopped tripping over my own ego.

Below the sketch, in neat handwriting:

Heart of the Forge.

My stomach did something weird. Not bad. Not butterflies, exactly. More like a drop. Like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and realizing you kind of want to jump.

I looked around to make sure no one was watching. Lambert was deep in conversation with Monroe about skate sharpeners. Mercier had his headphones on. Mason was across the room, talking to Coach.

I folded the sketch gently—like it might smudge if I breathed too hard—and slid it into the inside pocket of my hoodie.

I didn't know what to say. So obviously, I decided I needed to saysomething.

Something dumb.

Somethingveryme.

I caught up with Mason in the parking lot just as he tossed his duffel into the backseat of his beat-up car. The cold bit at my neck where my hoodie didn't quite reach, but I barely felt it.

He straightened up when he saw me. His expression flickered—surprise first, then suspicion, then something warmer he tried to hide.

"So. I find this tucked into my gear like a secret admirer note, and I gotta ask—am I your muse now?"

Mason groaned. "I knew I should've put it in an envelope."

"Are you kidding? This is way better than an envelope. This is like finding out your teammate's running surveillance on your good angles."

"I don't do surveillance."

"You drew my stick tape pattern, Mason. You drew the tear in my practice jersey. That's either surveillance or you're weirdly obsessed with my equipment maintenance."

I could've kept going. I could've teased him about catching my "good side," or asked what kind of charcoal makes someone look that intense mid-shift, but none of that mattered.

I could've kept going, but he looked at me like he meant it. All of it.

The sketch. The words beneath it. The whole damn thing.

So, I kissed him.

Right there in the cold, with his breath curling into mine and the car's engine ticking behind him. Not rushed. Not for show.

I did it because I wanted to, and because he was there, and I was there.

He kissed me back.

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