Page 85 of Gap Control

"The kind where I wanted to climb over the boards and tackle you myself after the second goal. The kind where watching you smile made me forget how to breathe properly."

"TJ—"

I couldn't get any more words out. He was already reaching for me, fingers curling around the back of my neck, pulling me down until our mouths met.

The kiss started slow, almost tentative, but then TJ made that soft sound low in his throat, the one that went straight to my gut, and suddenly, slow wasn't enough.

I pulled him closer, or maybe he tugged on me—either way, we ended up tangled together on the couch, TJ's legs bracketed my hips, his hands curling into my hoodie. He tasted sweetand slightly electric like the sports drink he'd been nursing all evening.

Halfway through the kiss, he started laughing.

It wasn't mocking or nervous. Pure, unfiltered joy bubbled up between us and made me smile against his mouth.

"What?" I asked, pulling back to stare into his eyes.

"Nothing, it's just—" He grinned, cheeks flushed, hair sticking up in several directions. "Hat trick hero makes out with his fake boyfriend on a Tuesday night. My life got weird."

"Your life was already weird."

"Fair point." He kissed me again, quick and sweet. "But this is good weird. This is the kind of weird I want to keep."

Something in my chest cracked open at that. The careful walls I'd spent years building, the distance I maintained between myself and anything that might hurt, crumbled under the weight of TJ's honest affection.

"You really commit to your bit," I said, voice rougher than I intended.

"I'd win an Oscar for best supporting fake boyfriend," he murmured against my jaw, "if I weren't so into you."

Instead, I kissed him harder and poured everything I couldn't articulate into my tongue dancing with his.

TJ responded enthusiastically, his hands sliding under my hoodie, fingertips tracing the muscle lines across my stomach. His touch was warm, slightly calloused from years of stick handling, and everywhere he touched came alive.

"Bedroom?" It was a suggestion that sounded like a question.

"Fuck, yes."

We untangled ourselves from the couch and stumbled toward the hallway, hands still on each other, unwilling to break contact for longer than necessary. TJ walked backward, trusting me to guide him, and nearly took out the lamp on the side table.

"Graceful," I teased.

"Shut up. I'm distracted by your—" He gestured vaguely at my general existence. "All of it. It's very distracting."

In the bedroom, we fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter. TJ's hoodie got stuck when he tried to pull it over his head, arms trapped above him, muffling his complaints emerging from beneath the fabric.

"Help!"

I tugged the hoodie free, and he emerged with his hair even more disheveled, looking thoroughly rumpled and absolutely perfect.

"Better?"

"Much." He reached for the hem of my shirt. "Your turn."

Getting undressed became a comedy of errors—TJ's belt refused to cooperate, my jeans got tangled around my ankles, and at one point, we both got stuck trying to navigate the logistics of removing socks while horizontal.

But somehow, the awkwardness made it better. More real. Less like a performance and more like two people figuring each other out and laughing at the ridiculous parts.

When we were finally skin to skin, the laughter faded into something quieter, more intense. TJ traced his fingers over the scar on my shoulder from a bad check three years ago.

"You're beautiful," he said, so quietly I almost missed it.

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