Page 99 of Gap Control

He hadn't watched it. Not really. That said enough.

We left the arena in comfortable silence. By the time we settled in at my place, Mason had his sketchbook out again.

He was sketching on the couch. Nothing big, just the edge of a scene—part of a locker, the arc of a helmet strap, and lines forming and dissolving as he adjusted weight and angles.

I scrolled through my phone, half-watching some movie on the TV. My feet were on the coffee table. Mason’s toes were tucked under my thigh.

It was a normal evening—the good kind of normal.

Then I saw the moment from the trailer again. Someone on social media had grabbed a still fromForging Ahead, brightened the sketch, and posted it with the caption: "Okay but why did no one talk about this??? This art is insane."

I smiled, scrolling through the replies. Hundreds of likes. People zooming in, tagging friends. Someone wrote, "let this man paint the Sistine Chapel of Hockey." Another added fire emojis to a screenshot.

"You're going viral," I told Mason.

He kept sketching. "Didn't sign it."

"Doesn't matter. They know."

I kept scrolling, warm pride spreading through my body. More reposts. More praise. I wasn't ready for the change in tone.

"Wait is this the same guy from all those relationship posts?"

"Pretty sure this is that fake dating thing everyone was talking about"

"Talented but also sus timing lol"

My thumb slowed. The comments were shifting, getting longer and more speculative. People dug through post histories and connected dots. The art praise was still there but buried now under theories and hot takes.

Finally, I hit the one that made my stomach drop:

"Forge Center's Gay Boyfriend Makes Him Pretty Pics ??"

I kept scrolling, hoping it was just one asshole. It was a thread.

"Honestly feels like he's using hockey guy for clout. Like draws one picture and suddenly he's an artist? Meanwhile actual artists are struggling—"

"This. The whole thing screams desperate wannabe. Bet he never drew anything before he started fucking the hockey player."

My hands shook. They weren't satisfied with attacking Mason's relationship with me—they were attacking what made him uniquely him. The part of him that existed before hockey, before me, and before any of this noise.

Mason didn’t ask.

He didn’t have to.

I set the phone down slowly. I wanted to punch something, or delete the internet, or both.

“They’ll move on,” he said, voice flat.

“They never should’ve moved here in the first place.”

He shrugged. “It’s not new. They’re bored. They’ll find something else.”

I noticed that he didn't pick up his pencil again. His sketchbook was still open on his lap, but his hands were empty. One rested against the page, and the other curled under his thigh like it might stay there.

I wanted to fix it. I wanted to rewind the day and cut the trailer myself and tear that post off the internet with my bare hands.

Instead, I sat there. Not touching him. Not pushing.

---