3 - Michael
Michael
The carpet in the Chicago Hilton was the kind of thick, soul-sucking shag that made every step feel like walking through wet sand.
I adjusted the collar of my suit jacket, the charcoal wool stiff against my neck.
Most of the guys had ditched their ties the second we touched down at O’Hare, but I couldn't bring myself to loosen the knot.
It felt like the only thing keeping my professional composure from fraying.
I headed for the elevator, my mind already cataloging the sequence of the evening: a light high-protein dinner, twenty minutes of foam rolling, and an early lights-out. My body didn't recover the way it used to, and the windy city air had a bite that seemed to settle right into my joints.
The elevator doors slid open on the fourth floor, and a wall of cologne and loud laughter hit me before I could step inside.
"Look at this," Tucker said, his arm draped over Cash’s shoulder.
They both wore shirts unbuttoned halfway down their chests, faces already flushed with the high of being young and talented in a city that wanted to buy them drinks.
"Grandpa’s heading down for his nightly glass of warm milk before bed. "
"It’s barely nine, Landry," Cash added with a grin as he checked his reflection in the mirrored elevator wall. "We’re hitting that spot in River North. Grayson’s already got a table. Move your feet or lose your seat."
We stepped into the car, where Landon was tapping out rhythms on the brass railing. “A little overdressed, don’t you think?”
"We have a game tomorrow.” My tone left no room for questioning where my head was at. "The Blackhawks aren't exactly a charity case this year. This win is more than points."
Tucker rolled his eyes, a theatrical groan escaping him. "It’s November, not the Finals. Loosen the tie, Grandpa. You’re going to give yourself a stroke before the first intermission."
"I’ll stick to the plan," I replied, staring at the floor numbers as they ticked down. "Someone has to be awake for the morning skate."
"Suit yourself." Cash stepped out as the doors opened into the lobby, his stride full of a confidence that used to come just as easily to me. "Don't wait up. We might be late for our curfews."
They moved toward the revolving doors in a pack, a single organism of navy pea coats and expensive watches.
I watched them go, the lobby’s gold-leaf ceiling suddenly feeling cavernous.
On paper, it was third line versus first, but it felt more like I was on a different planet.
To them, I was a cautionary tale, a reminder of a shelf life they hadn't started calculating yet.
The hotel bar was a quiet, dim space tucked behind a forest of potted palms. It wasn't The Leaky Faucet. The lighting was too warm, the music too polished. I took a seat at the far end of the counter, the cool leather reminding me I was definitely a long way from the dive bar in San Antonio.
The bartender approached, but my mind drifted back to a certain roadside shoulder. I thought about the way the humidity had curled the hair at the nape of Kayla’s neck, and how her son had looked at me as if I were an intruder in a world I could barely navigate.
"Bourbon. Neat," I said to the bartender. "And a menu. I'm staying in tonight."
I pulled my phone from my pocket and stared at the blank screen.
There was no one to text, no one to check in with.
Just a game tomorrow and a body that felt every season in its bones.
And as the sounds of the Chicago nightlife started to bleed in from the street, I’d never felt more like a footnote in someone else’s championship story.
My drink arrived, the liquid a deep, honeyed amber that caught the low light of the overhead lamps. I turned the glass in a slow circle, watching as condensation streaked the sides. The bar itself was all dark wood and velvet, a cocoon of expensive quiet that almost muffled everything else. Almost.
"That looks like a drink for someone who’s thinking too hard."
A woman had claimed the stool two down from mine.
She was unsurprisingly beautiful, wearing a silk blouse the color of a bruise and a smile that suggested she was used to getting what she wanted.
Her bright green eyes tracked the movement of my hands, thankfully giving me time to set my expression into something other than surprise.
"I didn’t realize there was any other way to think," I said, my voice losing some of its edge. I signaled the bartender. "Another one for the lady. Whatever she’s having."
"A French 75," she told him, then turned to face me entirely. "And thank you. I'm Elena. Are you always this focused, or do I just have bad timing?"
"Michael. And your timing’s perfect." I offered a small, tired smile. "I'm in town for work, but could probably stand to focus on something else."
"Hockey," she said, her eyes dropping to the line of my shoulders before returning to my face. "You play for the Surge, don't you? The ones everyone says can't be beaten."
"The ones everyone says," I repeated, taking a measured sip of my drink. The burn was clean, settling in my chest. "Some of us are just trying to keep up with the legend."
Her laugh was a light, melodic sound that didn't feel forced. Didn’t make me feel as if she were looking for social media content. Elena reached out, her fingers hovering near the sleeve of my jacket, but never quite making contact.
"You don't strike me as someone who struggles to keep up.” Her long lashes kissed the skin under her eye as she dipped her gaze. “I’ve seen you play. You’re the one who knows exactly where the finish line is while everyone else is still looking for their shoes."
"Oh, I know where it is, just fine," I said, my thumb tracing the rim of my glass. "The problem is the line keeps moving the closer I get to it."
The conversation flowed easily for a while.
Dry observations about Chicago winters and the strange, transient life of a professional athlete.
She was charming, sharp, and the invitation in her eyes was as clear as the gin in her glass.
For a second, the idea of not going back to a silent hotel room held a certain pull.
It would’ve been easy. A few more drinks, a shared elevator ride, a temporary distraction from the ache in my back and the hollow in my gut.
But as she leaned in, the exquisite floral scent of her perfume hit me, and all I could think about was the smell of citrus dish soap and stale beer.
About a woman who drove around with a flat spare in her trunk and zero fucks to give.
I owed her nothing, of course, and could’ve worked around that. But there was still the Blackhawks…
Elena set her empty glass down, her gaze lingering on mine. "So, Michael. Is the plan still the early skate, or is there room for a late-night detour?"
I reached for my wallet, laying a few bills on the counter to cover the tab. "The plan is the plan. It was a pleasure, Elena. Truly. But I’ve learned that badly timed detours are hell to recover from."
"A gentleman," she sighed, though there was a twinkle of genuine respect in her expression. "A rare find in this zip code."
"We’re out there; I swear. You just have to know where to look."
I walked away from the warmth of the bar and the silk-clad promise of company.
The lobby was empty now, the gold leaf overhead looking cold under the night lights.
I stepped into the elevator alone, the silence of the rising car a familiar weight.
There was a game tomorrow. A legacy to protect.
And somewhere back in Texas, there was a bartender who probably hadn't thought about me once since I’d dropped her off at her kid’s school.
*
The United Center was a tomb of cold air and hostile noise. The puck dropped, and within five minutes, the Surge looked like they were skating through waist-deep slush.
"Move your feet, Landon!" I yelled from the bench.
He just stared at the play with glassy eyes, his face a shade of gray that didn't belong on a pro athlete. Next to me, Coach was a statue of vibrating fury, his jaw working a piece of gum as if he planned to grind it into dust.
"Michael, Shawn, get out there. Wake them up."
I hopped the boards, the transition a shock of frozen oxygen in my lungs.
But even with that, the purpose firing up my legs was way more than anything the other guys showed.
The Blackhawks were faster, hungrier, sniffing the blood in the water.
A Chicago winger tried to burn past me on the outside, but I angled him off, finishing the check with a shoulder that sent a jolt all the way to my teeth.
"Pick it up!" I yelled, digging the puck out of the corner.
I fed a crisp pass to Shawn. It hit his tape, but he fumbled the handle, the puck sliding harmlessly into the neutral zone. Chicago pounced. One pass, two, and the red light was strobing behind Hunter. 1-0.
The bench was a morgue during the first intermission.
"I bet you’re all feeling pretty happy with last night," Coach hissed, his voice a low, lethal rasp. "You’re supposed to look like you’re protecting a title, for fuck’s sake. Tucker, if I see you coasting on the backcheck again, you’re on the bus to the airport."
The second period was a grind. I fought for every inch of ice, my lungs screaming as the pace accelerated. I caught a glimpse of Grayson, his face set in a grim mask, trying to carry the team on his back. He ripped a shot from the high slot that beat the Chicago keeper clean. 1-1.
"There we go! Keep the pressure!" Grayson shouted, slamming his stick against the boards as he skated past the bench.
But the energy just couldn’t stick. The Surge was reacting instead of anticipating.
On my next shift, I intercepted a cross-ice pass and broke toward the Chicago zone.
I didn't have the breakaway speed I used to, so I used my frame to shield the puck, driving hard toward the net. Someone’s stick hacked at my calves, a blatant trip the refs ignored.
I went down hard, sliding into the end boards.
"Get up, Landry!" Landon yelled from the circle.
I scrambled back to my feet, my breath coming in ragged stabs. We managed another goal early in the third—a greasy rebound that Mason poked in—but the Blackhawks answered with two quick strikes while our defense was caught puck-watching.
The final horn was a mercy. 3-2, Chicago.
I skated toward the tunnel, the sweat on my neck already turning to ice. The locker room was silent, save for the heavy, rhythmic thud of gear hitting the floor. Nobody was talking about River North now.
"Pathetic.” Coach stood with his arms crossed over his chest, not looking at anyone in particular.
But his eyes landed on Shawn for a second too long, and we all felt it.
“I’m not getting into what went wrong, because I’m sure you know.
Don’t talk to me. Don’t explain. Just stay out of my face until we’re back on home ice for practice. ”
I sat with my head down, watching the melted ice drip from my skates.
I’d given everything I had tonight, and it hadn't even moved the needle. A veteran on a team that thought they were untouchable, and the weight of the loss felt like a physical burden on my chest. I looked up and caught Shawn’s eye. He looked like he wanted to throw up.
"Worth it?" I asked, my voice flat.
He shoved his jersey into the laundry bin and walked toward the showers, leaving me alone with the sound of the Chicago fans still cheering through the walls.
The shower steam hadn't even cleared the room before the silence turned jagged. I was still cutting the tape off my socks when Landon slammed his locker door, the metal-on-metal bang echoing like a gunshot.
"You had to do it, didn't you, Seattle?"
I kept my focus on the stubborn adhesive, my heart still hammering against my ribs from the third-period sprint. "Had to do what?"
"Play the martyr. The 'old pro' who’s too good for a night out." He stepped into my space, smelling of expensive cologne and lingering resentment. "Coach didn't just guess we were dragging. He had help. He knew exactly where we were and what we were doing last night."
I dropped the tape and finally met his eyes. They were bloodshot and narrowed, looking for a target to bleed out the frustration of a 3-2 loss. "If you're looking for someone to blame for your slow feet, try a mirror. I was at the hotel all night and in bed by eleven."
"Yeah, in bed after you put a call in." Landon stepped closer, his chest heaving.
The rest of the room went still. No more sounds of guys tearing off their gear or whispering among themselves.
Even Grayson stayed quiet by the door, watching.
"You think because you've been around the block, you get to control this room? You're a guest here, Landry. A rental."
"I'm your teammate," I said, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "One who actually showed up for the first whistle. You’re taking it out on the wrong person."
"You're a rat." Landon spat the word out, his lip curling. He leaned in until I could see the pulse jumping in his neck. "You walked into a top tier team, so act like it. We don’t need a hall monitor looking for a gold star.”
“Landon—” Hunter warned, but he held up a hand to silence the goalie, his eyes never wavering from mine.
“If that’s what you’re about, then you'd best pack your bags and go back to Seattle. Nobody wants you in this jersey."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He grabbed his duffel and shoved past me, his shoulder catching mine hard enough to twist me back against the locker. I stood there, the cold metal pressing into my spine, while the rest of the Surge looked everywhere but at me.
And just like that, I wasn't a footnote anymore. I was the enemy.