9 - Michael #2
"Thick as flies," she said, walking toward me. She hopped up onto a training table, swinging her legs. "They’re currently debating whether you’ve lost your clutch gene or if you’re just distracted by the heat. It’s very dramatic. Very Shakespearean."
I let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "They aren't wrong about the distracted part."
"I saw the game, Michael," she said, her voice dropping the playful edge. "It was one play. A bad bounce and a moment of hesitation. It happens to the twenty-year-olds, and it happens to the Hall of Famers."
"Not in Game 1. Not when the team already thinks of me as a guest." I walked over to the water cooler, the cold liquid hitting my throat like a blessing. "I let Hunter down. He stood on his head for sixty minutes, and I gave the game away on a silver platter."
"Hunter’s fine," she said firmly. "He’s probably at the bar right now telling the guys to shut up and move on. He knows what you bring to the ice, and so does Coach, even if he’s currently screaming at a wall in his office."
She slid off the table and came over to me, her eyes clinical but kind.
She tapped my shoulder, the one I’d been favoring since the board battle in the second period.
"You’re carrying too much. And I’m not talking about the kettlebells.
You’ve got the weight of Seattle, of the trade, and whatever’s going on with that bartender all jammed into one jersey. It’s making you heavy."
I stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I’m a physio, Michael. I read bodies for a living.
Yours is screaming at me about internal conflict.
Also, the guys talk. Everybody knows about the bartender.
" She leaned back against the cooler. "Look, you’re the best thing that’s happened to this second line in years.
You gave them a spine. Tonight was a fluke because you’re human.
Tomorrow, you get to decide if you’re going to let one mistake define your season, or if you’re going to show these kids why you’re still standing when the rest of your draft class is playing golf. "
I looked at the darkened gym, the silence finally starting to feel like peace instead of a penance. Casey wasn't blowing smoke; she was giving me the only thing I needed—a perspective that wasn't colored by a box score.
"The press will be gone in twenty minutes," she said, heading for the door. "Go home. Sleep. And for the love of God, stop swinging those weights. You’re making my job harder."
"Thanks, Casey," I said, my voice finally steadying.
"Don't thank me. Just make it right in Game 2."
She vanished into the hall, the door clicking shut. I stood there for a long time, the bustle of the arena finally fading. I wasn't okay yet. The loss still stung, and the friend label still felt like a bruise. But the air didn't feel so thin anymore.
The gym had done its job. The physical burn and Casey’s talk had quieted the mental noise, leaving me with a hollow, crystalline clarity.
By the time I showered and navigated the back exits of the arena, the vultures had moved on to their late-night deadlines.
The city air was thick and humid, hanging over the asphalt like a damp wool blanket. And home lost all priority.
I pulled up a block away from The Leaky Faucet just as the neon signs flickered out, casting the street into a sudden, flat darkness.
The sidewalk was littered with the remains of the night.
Discarded flyers, a crushed beer can, the lingering scent of a crowd that had arrived hungry for a win and left starving.
I sat waiting, watching for the heavy oak doors to swing open.
Finally, Kayla stepped out, shoulders hunched against the night air.
She looked exhausted, her hair starting to escape the loose knot she’d tied it in, her heavy bag slung over one shoulder.
She looked exactly how I felt: like someone who had spent the last eight hours holding back a flood with a teaspoon.
I climbed out of my car, the metal of the door clicking shut with a sharp, lonely sound that echoed off the brick buildings nearby.
"Bar’s closed, Landry," she said without looking up, her voice weary but familiar. "And the taps are dry. If you're looking for a post-game wake, you're late. Miller already locked the safe."
"I'm not looking for a drink."
She stopped, her hand frozen on the strap of her bag as she finally met my eyes. The streetlamp overhead cast long, orange shadows across her face, highlighting the fatigue etched into the corners of her mouth. She looked at my damp hair, and the tension I couldn't quite bleed out of my jaw.
"I saw the game," she said softly. The bite was gone from her tone, replaced by a quiet, grounding empathy that hurt worse than Tucker’s chirping. "Tough bounce at the end. The guys were in here earlier. They weren't exactly singing your praises."
"I imagine not." I stepped closer, stopping at the edge of the curb. "I needed to clear my head. The gym didn't quite finish the job."
"So you came here? To a closed bar?" She let out a small, tired huff of a laugh. "You really are a glutton for punishment, Michael. Or maybe you just like the smell of stale beer and regret."
"I came here because I didn’t want to be alone tonight." I looked down the long, empty stretch of sidewalk heading toward the residential pockets of the East Side. Her car wasn’t here, which meant she planned on walking or taking a cab. But the shadows in this part of town grew teeth after 2:00 AM.
“Are you walking home?”
She looked at me and nodded.
"It's late. Let me take you."
Kayla hesitated. I could see the armor sliding back into place, the I can handle it mantra forming on her lips. She opened her mouth to give me the standard brush-off, the one she’d practiced for years.
“Thanks, but I like the walk. Clears my head.”
“Then I’ll walk with you,” I said, willing to do whatever to keep her company for a few minutes longer.
“Michael—”
"Strictly platonic," I added, holding up a hand. "No complications. Just a friend making sure another friend doesn't have to look over her shoulder for however many blocks. That’s all."
She studied me for a long beat, searching for the catch. When she didn't find one, the tension in her shoulders finally snapped. She let out a long, shuddering breath that felt like a surrender.
"Okay," she murmured, adjusting the heavy strap of her bag. "And if you try to analyze my parenting or the Surge's power play, I'm tripping you into the first puddle we find."
"Deal," I said, stepping up onto the sidewalk beside her.