8 - Kayla #2
Gabe walked in, his hoodie pulled low, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't look like a kid, but a shadow moving through a room full of giants. My heart did a painful stutter-step.
"Gabe?" I didn't care that I was mid-pour. I shoved the bottle back into the speed rail and leaned over the mahogany. "What are you doing here? It’s nearly one in the morning."
"I forgot my charger at school. Need yours," he muttered, not looking at the sea of pro athletes staring at him.
"You don’t need a charger when you’re meant to be asleep," I snapped, the embarrassment of the managerial 'cookies' incident still fresh enough to make my voice sharper than intended. "Go home. Now. We’ve talked about this."
"I'm fifteen, Mom. I don't need a bedtime." He finally looked up, his eyes defiant, sparking with that specific brand of adolescent lightning that signaled a storm was coming.
"In my house, under my roof, you have whatever I say you have. And that includes a bedtime." I pointed toward the door, my face hot. "Go. I’ll be home after closing."
Gabe scoffed, a barbed, shameless sound. He turned to leave, but his path was blocked by Michael, who had stood up instinctively when the tension spiked. He looked down at Gabe, his expression a mix of concern and that quiet, steady gravity he carried everywhere.
"Hey, kid," Michael said softly. "Maybe listen to your mom. The streets are—"
"Don't 'hey kid' me." Gabe stepped into Michael’s space. A scrawny kid looking up at a mountain of a man with absolutely zero fear and a surplus of spite. "You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. Stay out of my way, and go chase a puck or something."
The silence that followed was absolute. Michael stood frozen, his mouth slightly agape, genuinely stunned by the vitriol coming from a kid who hadn't even started shaving yet.
Gabe didn't wait for a reaction. He spun on his heel and vanished out the door, the bell jingling a cheerful, mocking tune in his wake.
The locker-room vultures didn't miss a beat.
"Whoa! Shut down by a sophomore!" Tucker roared, slapping the bar so hard his beer jumped. "Landry, I think the kid just put you on waivers!"
"He’s got his mother’s tongue, that’s for sure," Cash added, howling with laughter. "Better watch out, Michael. I think he’s got your scouting report figured out."
The mortification I felt made it impossible to look at Michael.
I grabbed a stack of dirty plates and retreated to the glass washer, the roar of the machine a welcome shield against the humiliation.
I threw myself into the work, my hands moving with a desperate speed.
Scrub, rinse, repeat. Hiding the fact that my kid was unraveling and I was failing to keep the walls of my life from crumbling.
Thankfully, the guys retreated to a booth and the moment was allowed to pass with no further comment.
I busied myself with menial tasks and repeat orders until the bar eventually began to thin out.
The Surge players, sensing the shift in the night, started to filter out.
One by one, they offered tips and half-drunk waves, leaving the place to return to its dim, quiet state.
Michael, however, stayed.
He waited until I was wiping down the far end of the bar, the neon 'Open' sign finally clicking off. Then he approached slowly, his hands buried in his jacket pockets. He didn't look like the predator on the ice anymore. He looked human. Vulnerable.
"Kayla," he said, keeping his voice easy. Careful.
"If you're going to stick up for Gabe, don't," I said, not looking up from what I was doing. "He's a child, but he thinks the world is his footstool and I'm just the person who polishes it."
"I wasn't going to stick up for him. I was going to ask if you were okay." He leaned on the bar, forcing me to meet his eyes.
I stopped scrubbing. The silence felt heavy, filled with the scent of lemon polish and the echoes of the night's chaos. "I'm fine, Michael. It’s just... life. You know?"
He took a breath, a deep, steadying pull of air.
"I know. And I know you’ve got a lot of balls in the air.
I see how hard you’re working to keep everything upright.
" He paused, and for the first time since I’d met him, Michael Landry looked nervous.
"The guys were right about one thing tonight.
I haven't had the balls to say it. But I’d like to take you out.
No bars, no hockey talk. Just a dinner. Somewhere away from all this. "
The offer was warm, it was sincere, and it was exactly what a part of me had been screaming for since the moment he stepped into the Leaky Faucet.
But I looked at the door Gabe had stormed out of. I thought about the thin ice I was on with Miller. About the fifteen years of armor I’d built, plate by agonizing plate.
"Michael," I started, my voice catching. I set the rag down, my hands trembling despite myself. "I can't."
He didn't flinch, but I saw the light in his eyes dim just a fraction.
"I’m not in that space," I continued, forced myself to keep his gaze.
"My life is a construction zone right now.
Between Gabe and this job and just... trying to breathe, I don't have room for a dinner or whatever that might lead to.
I don't have the energy to be the version of myself that a man like you deserves. "
I reached across the bar, my fingers briefly brushing the back of his hand. It was the first time I’d touched him outside of a transaction. Instead of pulling away, he stayed put and stared at the barely there contact.
"You’ve been a good friend to me,” I said. “A real one. And honestly? I could really use a friend more than I could use a complication right now. Can we just be that?"
Michael looked down at where my fingers had touched him, then back at me. He gave a slow, somber nod. He didn't push or try to charm his way past the 'no.' He just accepted the boundary I’d drawn, even if it clearly cost him something to do it.
"A friend," he repeated, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "I can do that. I’m pretty good at playing defense."
He tapped the bar twice, a silent salute, and turned toward the door. As he walked out into the night, I felt a strange, hollow ache in my chest. I’d done the right thing. The responsible thing.
So why did it feel like I’d just lost the biggest game of my life?