Page 8 of Gap Control

I blinked. "Now?"

He shrugged. "You said it. People think it's true. Do we correct them, or let it ride?"

"Let it ride?" I repeated it to make sure I'd heard that it was an option.

"I mean… we could fake it."

Silence. It was a long, heavy silence, broken only by the soft, distant ping of another Instagram notification. "Do you want to pretend we're dating?"

"I'm not saying it's smart." Mason's expression was flat, unreadable. "But it might be easier than untangling it in public."

"You're serious?"

He nodded. "You already started the story. We might as well make sure we write the next chapter ourselves."

I had no idea what to say, but my mouth ran on autopilot, like it did half the time.

"Okay."

He looked at me, and then he smiled. It wasn't a big or loud one, but it was enough to make my stomach flutter.

"Guess we're dating now," he said.

Chapter two

Mason

"Guess we're dating now."

It came out easy, but nothing about what it implied was... easy.

TJ grinned like he'd just won something, maybe the big pot at Poker Night. "So, uh… do we fist bump? Shake on it? Or is there some fake boyfriend handbook I'm supposed to memorize?"

He did his best to joke. I knew that. I also knew he was nervous. In my two months with the team, I'd figured out that TJ was never subtle—his thoughts ran out of his mouth with all the elegance of a loose puck in a shootout. Still, somehow, most of the time he pulled it off.

I didn't answer partly because I worked hard to keep my face unreadable, and mostly because I didn't trust what would come out if I said too much too fast.

I was here to clean up a mess. Instead, I'd already agreed to extend it.

TJ was still talking, half to me, half to himself. "We probably need a story, right? Like, how long we've been fake-dating? Did we kiss on the first day of practice? Or was it less first-come,first-served, and we bonded over a team road trip? Did we share one of those sad little hotel breakfast yogurts? You hate yogurt, don't you?"

I did. I also hated how easily he'd read that on my face.

I didn't let people in. It wasn't a personality quirk—it was strategy. The less they saw, the less they could weaponize.

TJ? He talked to everyone. Listened, too. Not always well, but with heart. Like he wanted to be close, even when it terrified him.

I cut across his ramble. "This isn't a game."

He flinched a little, then shrugged. "Right. Yeah. I know that. I just—" He made a vague hand motion like he was trying to swat away a cloud. "It was either run with it or try to spin it, and honestly, I don't think I've got the energy to outpace the internet."

I wanted to be mad at him.

The best I could do was be tired.

I glanced around his apartment. Cluttered. Personal. Messy in a way that made sense if you stared long enough.

A hockey stick leaned against the wall by the fridge. A ratty sweatshirt draped over a kitchen chair. A pair of running shoes sat by the door, one laced, one not.

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