Page 84 of Gap Control

Some truths weren't meant for public consumption. Some things belonged in the quiet spaces between two people, morning conversations over coffee and late-night confessions whispered into the dark.

The locker room was pure pandemonium.

Someone—probably Monroe—had upended an entire cooler of ice water over Lambert's head, and now Lambert was chasing him around the benches with a wet towel, both howling like teenagers. Mercier sat in his stall, still half-suited in goalie gear, grinning so wide his face looked like it might crack.

Coach MacPherson stood near one of the benches, arms spread wide like he was conducting an orchestra of chaos. "Gentlemen!" he bellowed over the noise. "We're three points from a playoff spot, and Ryker here reminded everyone why they invented hat tricks in the first place!"

More cheering erupted. Someone threw a sock. Lambert managed to snap Monroe with his towel, producing a yelp that could probably be heard in the parking lot.

I sat in my stall, gear half-off, trying to process the organized insanity surrounding me. My jersey clung to my shoulders, damp with sweat and melted ice. My legs were wobbly from the exhaustion that came from giving everything and having it matter.

The chaos was infectious. Watching my teammates lose their minds over three goals I'd happened to score made me smile. For once, I didn't feel like the odd man out, the guy who watched celebrations from the edge of the circle. I was part of it. Part of them.

"Mason."

I looked up to find TJ leaning against a locker, hair dark with sweat and sticking up at impossible angles. His cheeks wereflushed pink, and that crooked smile was back—the one that made my stomach do complicated things.

"Hey," I said, pulling off my shoulder pads and dropping them beside my stall.

He pushed off and walked over, weaving between the ongoing towel war and Coach's increasingly elaborate victory speech. Up close, I saw how his eyes were still bright with adrenaline.

"Remind me to add this episode to my comic," he said, voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. "Florence Nightingale Scores a Hat Trick."

I snorted. "You better draw me hotter than that last one."

"Not possible." His grin widened. "That one had your game face."

"My game face is not—"

I didn't get to finish the protest because TJ stepped closer and wrapped his arms around me.

I hugged him back, probably tighter than necessary, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo mixed with hockey sweat and laundry detergent. The noise of the locker room faded to background static.

When TJ finally pulled back, his hands lingered on my shoulders. The space between us crackled with electricity.

"Good game," he said.

"Thanks," I managed, though the word felt inadequate for everything churning between us.

He stepped back, running a hand through his disheveled hair, and grinned. It was the now-familiar expression that managed to be cocky and shy at the same time.

"My place?" I asked.

"Definitely."

My apartment felt different when we walked through the door—warmer somehow, more alive. Maybe it was the lingeringadrenaline from the game, or how TJ immediately kicked off his shoes and made himself at home.

It was no longer the intensely orderly space I inhabited before TJ. The surfaces told our story: takeout containers from last night's dinner still stacked on the kitchen counter, and my sketch pad open on the coffee table next to a mug with coffee rings staining the wood.

It was evidence that someone lived here. And he had a boyfriend.

TJ flopped onto the couch with theatrical exhaustion, one arm flung over his eyes. "I'm physically and emotionally exhausted from watching you be amazing for three hours. My heart can't take much more athletic excellence. I'm a flu patient for Chrissake."

"You were on the ice for most of the game," I pointed out, settling beside him.

"Irrelevant. I was busy having feelings about your feelings. Very draining work."

I reached over and tugged his arm away from his face. "What kind of feelings?"

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