Page 77 of Gap Control

I pushed myself up off the couch. "You don't understand. If I skip morning skate, the entire team falls apart. Like a Jenga tower, only sweatier."

"Uh-huh."

I got as far as lacing one skate before I stood, and the room decided it wanted to be a carnival ride. I blinked. The walls swayed left. My knees buckled.

Mason caught me mid-tilt. "Okay, hero." He gently tugged the skate off and set it aside. "You're benched."

"That's insulting. I'm a first-line forward."

"Fine. We'll put you on the injured reserve."

He helped me shuffle back to the couch and tucked a blanket around me. It smelled like fabric softener and Mason.

I closed my eyes. "This doesn't mean I'm officially sick."

"Sure. You're officially aggressively horizontal."

Mason tucked the blanket tighter around me, treating me like a flight risk.

"Don't smother me.".

"You're smothering yourself with attitude." He walked off toward the kitchen.

I let my head sink back against the arm of the couch. The cushions felt firmer than usual. The furniture was judging me for being pathetic.

Mason returned a minute later, arms full—tea, obviously, but also a bottle of electrolyte water, a thermometer, and a tub of menthol rub smelling of eucalyptus.

I narrowed my eyes. "Do you think I'm a koala and live in one of those trees?"

"It's Vicks. You're supposed to rub it on your chest."

"Oh good, we're doing old-lady cures now."

"I don't see you making any other suggestions."

"I have one." He handed me a thermometer. "Let me die in peace."

Mason ignored the comment as he uncapped it.

I gave him a suspicious look. "We're not doing this the real way, are we?"

"No, TJ. We're not eighties cartoon characters. Under the tongue, please."

I sighed, but obeyed.

While I held it in place, Mason opened his sketchbook and started a quick pencil line, head down, focused.

The scratch of a pencil on paper was the only sound for a few minutes, rhythmic and unhurried, like he'd done this beside me a hundred times before.

I watched him through watery eyes, heard the thermometer beep, and handed it over.

"100.7. Low-grade. You'll live."

"Tragic."

He didn't laugh. He reached over and gently pressed the back of his fingers to my forehead. His touch was soft, reassuring.

I held still.

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