Page 83 of Gap Control

"The best quotes are mashups, Lambert. Like your defensive zone coverage—beautiful chaos." Coach Mac turned back to me, beaming. "Point is, Ryker, you're pedaling away from that volcano tonight, and it's magnificent."

Before I could respond to the questionable wisdom, hands grabbed me from three different directions.

"Oh no," I managed, before Lambert, Monroe, and Mercier—still dripping with post-goal adrenaline—hoisted me clean off my skates.

"Victory parade!" Monroe announced, his voice cracking with laughter as they carried me like a trophy. My skates dangled uselessly, and I had to grip Lambert's shoulder to keep from toppling backward into Mercier's chest protector.

Coach Mac clapped his hands together, delighted. "Yes! This is team chemistry! This is brotherhood! This is probably a workers' comp claim waiting to happen, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it!"

They paraded me in a wobbly circle around the locker room.

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

They finally set me down, and I steadied myself against a wall, catching my breath.

Coach Mac appeared beside me. "You know what I learned in my third year pro?" he said, his voice surprisingly gentle beneath his caffeinated enthusiasm. "The crowd's nice and all, but the real magic happens when you've got people who stick around after the lights go down."

He clapped me on the shoulder. "Now get back out there and keep pedaling away from that volcano, son. We've got hockey to play."

I looked at him. "Coach, that metaphor doesn't—"

"Details, Ryker. Details are for people who don't believe in bicycle volcanoes."

The chant faded, and we readied ourselves for the third period.

***

The media scrum after the game was the usual circus. Reporters clustered around like pigeons fighting over breadcrumbs, microphones thrust forward, cameras clicking in rapid-fire staccato.

I'd been through the routine dozens of times—the practiced answers, diplomatic non-responses, the careful navigation between saying something meaningful and something that could be twisted into tomorrow's controversy. Usually, I could sleepwalk through it.

Tonight felt different.

Maybe it was the hat trick, but the usual armor of bland professionalism felt thin. Raw.

A young reporter—college-aged, probably an intern, with nervous energy radiating from her like heat waves—pushedthrough the crowd and shoved a microphone toward my face. Her press badge readLewiston Tribunein faded letters.

"Mason Ryker, I'm from theLewiston Tribune," she said, slightly breathless. "Amazing performance tonight. What would you say has changed for you this season?"

It was a standard question. The kind I could answer in my sleep: Team chemistry, hard work in practice, focus on fundamentals.

Still, something about the way she asked it—earnest, direct, like she actually cared about the answer—made me pause.

What had changed?

Images flashed through my mind. TJ sprawled across my couch in that ridiculous shimmery hoodie, legs tangled in a blanket, arguing with the TV during a cooking show rerun. I thought about how he ate peanut butter toast like it was a religious experience, getting crumbs on every surface and somehow making it endearing.

He saw me. Not the careful, controlled version I showed the world, but the messy, uncertain person underneath. And somehow, impossibly, he liked what he found there.

"Being seen by the right people changes everything," I heard myself say.

The reporter blinked, her pen hovering over her notepad. "Could you elaborate on that? Who are the right people?"

The cluster of microphones pressed closer, sensing something more interesting than the usual post-game platitudes. I saw other reporters leaning in, phones recording, eyes sharp with the possibility of a story.

I was already stepping back, away from the too-bright and intrusive circle of attention. "That's all for tonight." I pushed through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned how to disappear when necessary.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was probably Brady, ready to talk about damage control. I ignored it.

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