Page 82 of Gap Control

He looked at me—really looked—and the air between us shifted.

"That I didn't imagine this. You. The art. The part where I like you more than I should admit."

I opened my mouth, ready with a joke, but I thought better of it.

Instead, I said, "Yeah, well. You deserved it."

He didn't say anything. Just leaned and brushed a hand over the side of my face. No kiss or joke. Just that.

And somehow, it meant more than either.

Chapter eighteen

Mason

The puck slid past the goalie's glove like it was heading home, and for one suspended second, the arena held its breath.

Then the world exploded.

Sound crashed into me from every direction. My skates barely touched the ice as I glided backward, stick raised, watching the goal light blaze red behind the net.

Hat trick.

My first hat trick in a Forge jersey, and the crowd had lost its collective mind.

Bodies slammed into me from all sides. Lambert appeared first, grabbing my stick and thrusting it skyward like we'd just won the league championship. His mouth was moving—probably something about destiny or teamwork or how I owed him dinner—but I couldn't hear anything over the thunder rolling down from the stands.

Someone's glove smacked the side of my helmet, rattling my cage. Mercier had somehow made it all the way from the net, still in full goalie gear, skating awkwardly but with purpose. Hecrashed into our pile with zero grace, arms spread like he was trying to gather all of us into one massive hug.

Monroe appeared next, shouting words that got swallowed by the noise, his face split in a grin so wide it looked painful.

It wasn't familiar territory. I'd scored goals before, plenty of them, but never like this. Never with an entire building on its feet and my name echoing off the rafters in a chant.

"Ry-ker! Ry-ker! Ry-ker!"

Through the chaos of bodies and noise, I located the bench. Found him.

TJ leaned against the boards, helmet tipped back, that crooked smile spreading across his face like he couldn't contain it. It was his first game back from sick leave, and Coach took it easy on him.

He wasn't celebrating with the exaggerated gestures of our teammates—no fist pumps or stick waving. Only that smile, aimed directly at me, and somehow more electric than the entire arena's worth of cheering.

For a second, everything else faded. The crowd, the teammates still pummeling my shoulders, and the ache in my legs from thirty-seven minutes of ice time. There was only TJ, watching me like I'd done something worth remembering.

It wasn't a smile he wore for the cameras or the crowd. It was mine.

The ref's whistle cut through the celebration, signaling the face-off reset. Reality crashed back—teammates peeling away, the crowd settling into their seats, and the game clock still ticking down the final minutes of the second period.

As I skated toward center ice, TJ's smile stayed with me, carved into the space behind my ribs where all the essential things lived.

The gap between periods buzzed with controlled chaos. Equipment scattered across benches, steam rising from sweatyjerseys, and the distant roar of the crowd still vibrated through the cinderblock walls.

Coach MacPherson emerged from the direction of his office, clipboard in one hand and what looked like a gas station energy drink in the other. He spotted me pulling off my helmet, and his face lit up.

"Ryker!" He marched with military precision over to me. "Son, that was beautiful. Like violent poetry."

He paused, taking a long gulp of his energy drink, then gestured wildly with his clipboard. "You know what this reminds me of? That motivational quote I read this morning. 'Success is like a bicycle—you have to keep pedaling or you'll fall into a volcano.'"

Lambert, passing by with his water bottle, raised an eyebrow. "Coach, I think that might be two different quotes."

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