Page 91 of Gap Control

She pulled out a business card and scribbled something on the back. "When your friend's ready—and he will be, they always are—bring me more. I've got contacts at the Maine College of Art and Design and a couple of Boston galleries that specialize in emerging artists."

She handed me the card. The front read "Elena Vasquez, Curator & Professional Art Troublemaker." The back had her cell number.

"You really think he's that good?"

"I've been doing this since before you were born. I can spot real talent from across a crowded room while half-drunk on cheap wine." Her smile turned fierce. "This friend of yours? He's got something. The question is whether he's brave enough to do something with it."

"Thank you." I stood, tentatively, trying to make sure my legs still knew how to work.

"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you convince him to show the world what he sees."

I walked out of the gallery in a daze, Elena's business card burning a hole in my pocket next to Mason's sketch. The afternoon had turned gray and drizzly, typical Maine weather that couldn't decide what season it wanted to be. I sat in my car for ten minutes, engine running, heat blasting, trying to process what had just happened.

He's got something.

The words echoed in my head during the entire drive back to Lewiston. Elena hadn't only been polite—she'd been genuinely excited about Mason's work. About Mason's talent and the possibility of seeing more.

My apartment felt different when I walked through the door—not empty, but expectant instead. Like it was waiting for something to happen.

Mason's practice gloves sat on my coffee table where I'd dropped them after dropping off his other gear. Black leather worn soft at the palms, fingers shaped by years of gripping and releasing hockey sticks. One thumb had been patched with athletic tape, and the padding along the knuckles had compressed into familiar grooves.

I picked up the left glove, turning it over in my hands. The leather was butter-soft where his palm had worn it smooth. It smelled like sweat and rosin.

These gloves had blocked shots, fought for pucks in corners, and celebrated goals. They'd touched my face when he kissed me on the ice.

The sketch lay beside me on the couch cushion, still half-folded in my makeshift protective cardboard. Elena sounded like she thought Mason possessed some artistic superpower I'd never noticed.

My phone buzzed against my thigh, an Instagram notification—probably someone liking an old post or Brady tagging me in another team photo. Instead of checking it, I opened my phone's camera.

The glove looked smaller through the phone screen, more vulnerable somehow. I adjusted the angle to capture how the leather caught the light.

I switched to my story settings and scrolled to "Close Friends"—a list of maybe twelve people who'd survived my periodic social media purges. Peggy, a couple of guys from juniors, Leo, Whitaker, Pike, and Carver. People who knew there was a me below my performances for strangers.

The photo uploaded with that familiar whoosh sound. Now came the hard part.

I stared at the blank caption box, cursor blinking like a heartbeat. Usually, I'd overthink it—craft something clever or self-deprecating and add hashtags that made it feel less personal. But sitting there with Mason's gloves in my lap and his sketch beside me, the words came without editing:

"He holds everything tighter than he lets on."

No hashtags. No explanation. No emoji to soften the edges.

My thumb hovered over the "Share" button for what felt like an hour, but was probably thirty seconds. It wasn't the same asour public charade—the posed photos and practiced smiles we fed the Rykson fans. This was smaller, quieter. Real.

I hit share before I could change my mind.

The story posted with another soft whoosh, and I set my phone face down on the coffee table.

Outside, Lewiston settled into its weeknight rhythm—distant traffic, the hum of someone's TV through thin walls, and the occasional bark of Mrs. Pflug's ancient beagle.

I'd spent years posting carefully curated versions of my life, turning every moment into content that might make someone laugh, double-tap, or share with their friends. This was different. Maybe I was tired of performing and ready to just... be.

Mason's glove was still in my hands when I finally turned off the lamp and headed for bed. I set it gently on the nightstand, close enough to smell that familiar mixture of leather and determination.

Tomorrow, I'd return it to him. Tonight, it felt like holding a piece of something I couldn't name yet. It was something that felt warm in my hands and stayed with me even after the light went out.

Chapter twenty

Mason

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