Page 87 of Gap Control

The locker room reeked of disinfectant fighting a losing war against the post-practice sweat of thirty guys. Most of the team had already cleared out—Monroe's off-key humming still echoed from the showers, and I heard Lambert arguing with someone about protein powder in the hallway.

Mason had bolted ten minutes ago. Emergency dentist appointment, something about a crown that had been giving him hell since the Augusta game. He'd tossed me his car keys on the way out.

"Grab my backup mouthguard from my bag?" he'd called over his shoulder. "It's in the side pocket. And maybe those energy bars, if you see them. And my old gloves—time for their retirement."

So there I was, elbow-deep in Mason Ryker's meticulously organized gear bag, trying not to disturb the precise ecosystem he'd created. Everything had its place—tape rolls nested by size, undershirts folded with military precision, even his spare socks arranged by thickness.

I found the mouthguard first, still in its plastic case, tucked next to a packet of gum so old the wrapper had gone soft. The gloves were big, so they were easy, too, but when I reached for the energy bars underneath his folded base layer, my fingers brushed something that definitely wasn't cardboard-wrapped protein. It was paper: thick paper, the kind meant for art.

I pulled it out carefully, half-expecting it to be team meeting notes or a play diagram Coach had handed out. Instead, my brain short-circuited.

It was me.

Not a photo. A sketch. Charcoal on cream-colored paper, unfinished but unmistakably me. Mid-stride, stick in hand, jersey clinging to my chest. I'd turned slightly toward something outside the frame, jaw set, eyes focused with an intensity I rarely saw in mirrors.

Sweat flew from my brow in dark, confident strokes. Mason had caught the exact moment when everything clicked—when hockey became instinct instead of thought.

I sat on the bench, holding my face in my hands.

The sketch was rough around the edges. Mason had started to shade the curve of my shoulder but hadn't finished. My left skate was barely more than an outline. Somehow, those unfinished parts made it even more honest. More real.

I'd been photographed plenty—team headshots, action shots for the website, candid moments Brady captured for social media. This was different. It wasn't documentation. It was an observation. Someone watched me move and preserved what they saw in their mind.

I traced where Mason's hand had smudged the charcoal with my thumb. In my head, I saw him working, hunched over the paper in his apartment, trying to get the angle of my stick just right.

The weirdest part? Unlike Brady's attempts to get in our faces, the picture wasn't invasive. I wondered whether I was supposed to be embarrassed or pissed that he'd been studying me without my knowledge. I couldn't go there. It would mean getting past the warm sensation spreading through my chest, knowing Mason wanted to capture me.

It wasn't a portrait. It was more like a glimpse.

I folded the sketch carefully, sliding it into my coat pocket like it might disintegrate if I handled it wrong. I suddenly realized I needed to move. I needed air and to talk to someone who wouldn't ask the obvious questions.

Twenty minutes later, I was in my car, scrolling through my contacts. My sister, Peggy, picked up on the second ring.

"Please tell me you're not calling to ask what temperature to cook chicken again."

I spoke twice as fast as usual. "I need to see you. Today. Somewhere between here and Boston."

"You okay?"

"I don't know."

"Text me an address. I'll be there in two hours."

The diner sat at the intersection of two forgotten highways, the kind of place where truckers and traveling salespeople crossed paths with locals who'd been ordering the same breakfast for thirty years.

I texted Peggy the address with a simple "Meet me here at noon. Bring your appetite, and I'll bring my emotional baggage."

I spotted her through the grease-streaked window before I even parked—auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun, oversized cardigan that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget, and fingers wrapped around a coffee mug.

The bell above the door jangled when I pushed inside. Peggy looked up and immediately started laughing.

"TJ! Did you get dressed in the dark?"

I glanced down at myself. Gray hoodie with a ketchup stain near the hem, jeans that had seen better decades, and sneakers held together by athletic tape and pure stubbornness. "This is my signature look. Effortless disaster chic."

"Effortless, my ass." She stood to hug me, and I smelled expensive perfume mixed with the diner's ambient bacon grease. "You look like you've been living off protein bars."

"Accurate."

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