12 - Kayla
Kayla
The Friday night rush at Faucet was a living, breathing thing.
It smelled of spilled lager, aftershave, and the crazy energy of a city that loved its hockey team.
I was a blur behind the bar, my hands moving with a life of their own as I filled buckets with ice, snapped caps, and dodged the spray of the soda gun.
Michael was there, as he always was now, occupying the stool directly across from my service well. He was the eye of the storm, a calm, broad-shouldered anchor in a room full of chaos.
"You’re late with that double IPA, Kayla. The champions wait for no man," Tucker yelled from the corner booth, slamming his hand on the table in a rhythmic beat.
"The champions can wait thirty seconds for me to finish this martini. Good thing you’re sitting, or you might trip over your own ego," I shouted back, not even looking up as I strained the drink into a chilled glass.
Michael chuckled, leaning his forearms on the dark wood. "You’ve got them trained well. It’s like a lion tamer dealing with particularly loud house cats."
"House cats with multi-million dollar contracts," I muttered, sliding a napkin toward him. "What can I get you, Landry? Or are you just here to take up space and look pretty?"
“You think I’m pretty?” He batted his eyelashes stupidly.
“I like what you’ve done with your hair, yeah. The top knot’s sitting a little higher tonight.”
"I'll take a water for now,” he said with a laugh. “I’m pacing myself."
“There’s pacing, and then there’s square. Water isn’t pacing. It’s the other one.”
He watched me work, his eyes following the movement of my hands. "You look like you're in a good mood tonight. Did Gabe finally clean his room, or did you find a twenty in an old pair of jeans?"
I paused, bottle of bourbon mid-pour, and felt a strange, fluttering lightness in my chest. "Actually, our talk the other night... it got me thinking. About my five-year plan."
Michael arched a brow, a slow, curious smile tugging at his mouth. "Oh? Did we move the timeline up to four years? Progress."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," I said, zipping over to the tap to pull a Guinness for a regular. I talked over my shoulder as the dark stout settled. "I just realized that maybe I’ve been a little extreme. Cutting myself off completely doesn’t make any sense. Gabe’s fifteen. He’s out with his friends half the time anyway, acting like I’m an embarrassing accessory.
Maybe it’s time I took a little of that freedom back. "
The look that crossed Michael’s face was like a sunrise on a clear day. It was pure, unadulterated light, a mix of surprise and something that looked dangerously like hope.
"Kayla, that’s— that’s the smartest thing I’ve heard all week," he said, his voice dropping into that warm, intimate rumble. "You deserve to have a life that isn't just shifts and laundry."
"Kayla, we’re backing up over here," Miller said as he squeezed past me to check the keg lines. He gave me a pointed look, his eyes darting to Michael and then to the row of waiting customers. "Conversation is for break time. Drinks are for now."
"I'm on it," I said, pivoting to grab a handful of tumblers. I looked back at Michael, the playful glint returning to my eyes. "But don't get too excited, Landry. If I do decide to dip my toe back in the dating pool, I'm looking for someone... safer. More stable."
Michael’s smile faltered just a fraction. "Stable? I’m stable. I have a 401k and I’ve never missed a car payment."
"I mean someone safe for Gabe," I said, leaning over the bar so only he could hear. "Someone with a steady nine-to-five. Someone who doesn't travel half the year or get into fistfights for a living. I need a positive influence. A 'dad' type, not a 'star' type."
Michael let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "Wait. Are you dating this guy, or is Gabe? Because last I checked, you’re the one who’s supposed to be having the glass of wine."
"It’s a package deal." I brushed him off, though I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "He has to fit into the life I’ve built. I wouldn't even know where to begin choosing someone just for me. Honestly, I can’t even remember what my type is anymore. It’s been so long."
Michael didn't say anything for a second. He just looked at me, that steady, intense gaze of his pinned to mine. Then, slowly, he raised a hand and pointed over my shoulder.
"If you're looking for your type," he said softly, "it’s right there."
I turned around, expecting to see some guy in a flannel shirt walking through the door. Instead, I found myself staring into the giant, gold-rimmed mirror that ran the length of the back-bar, nestled between the rows of whiskey and gin.
Reflected in the glass, right next to my own image, was Michael. He was leaning on the bar, looking at my reflection with a look so tender it made my throat ache. He caught my eye in the mirror and gave a tiny, playful wave with two fingers, a smug little smirk playing on his lips.
I rolled my eyes, though my heart was doing a frenzied tap-dance. "Get out of here, Landry. You’re a menace to my productivity."
"I'm a service to your memory," he countered, sliding off the stool as Landon came over to drag him back to the booth.
"Come on, Romeo! The wings are here and you’re missing the highlights." He shoved Michael’s shoulder, giving me a wink. "Sorry, Kayla. We’ll try to keep the old man focused on the team for at least ten minutes."
"Please do," I said, waving them away with a damp rag. "He’s getting in the way of the paying customers."
Michael laughed, allowing himself to be led away, but he looked back over his shoulder one last time before sliding into the booth with the rest of the team.
I stayed where I was for a beat, the damp rag forgotten in my hand.
I caught my own reflection in the mirror again—the flush in my cheeks, the way my eyes were a little brighter than they had been an hour ago.
I looked at the empty stool where he’d been sitting and then at the loud, boisterous group of athletes in the corner.
I had spent fifteen years being the girl who didn't have a type because she didn't have the time.
I was the girl who lived for the boy in the hoodie and the shifts at the Faucet.
But as I watched Michael throw his head back and laugh at something Tucker said, I realized the problem wasn't that I’d forgotten my type.
The problem was that my type had just walked into my bar, bought me seventy-five cookies, and started making my five-year plan look like a really lonely way to live.
"Kayla—the Guinness," Miller shouted from the other end.
I snapped out of it, diving back into the rhythm of the night, but the introspection followed me like a shadow. I wasn't just working anymore. I was waiting. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
The night had shifted into that crazy, late-hour fever where the air in the bar felt recycled and the bass from the jukebox thrummed in the soles of my shoes.
The Surge boys were still tucked into their booth, a loud island of high-fives and expensive denim, but the rest of the floor was a chaotic sea of Friday night warriors.
I stepped out from behind the mahogany fortress to clear a cluster of abandoned longnecks from a high-top near the small, makeshift dance floor.
The transition from the safety of the bar to the open floor always felt like stepping onto a battlefield without armor.
I balanced the empty bottles against my hip, my fingers hooked into the necks, weaving through the swaying bodies with the practiced grace of a bike messenger.
I was halfway back to the service gate when a hand clamped onto my upper arm and stopped me in my tracks.
"Hey, hey, looks like the barkeep’s taking a break," a voice slurred in my ear.
I didn't have time to brace myself before I was yanked into a clumsy, jarring twirl.
The world spun in a blur of neon streaks as the guy pulled me into his space.
He was tall, smelling of cheap whiskey and sweat, his eyes glazed with the kind of confidence only a tab over a hundred dollars could provide.
"Just a dance, honey," he grinned, his grip tightening.
"I’m working," I said, keeping my voice level, the professional mask firmly in place. I kept the bottles balanced, my elbow tucked in to keep them from shattering against his chest. "Let go of the arm. I have glass in my hands."
"Come on, don't be shy. You’re the prettiest thing in here."
But he didn't let go. Instead, his other hand traveled down, heavy and familiar, splaying across the small of my back and sliding lower. The fun customer act died instantly. My skin crawled, and a cold spike of adrenaline replaced the warmth of the shift.
"Hands off," I snapped, trying to wrench my arm back. "I said let go."
"I'm a paying customer, sweetheart. Don't be—"
He never finished the sentence. A shadow eclipsed the neon light above us, and suddenly, the hand on my arm wasn't the only thing holding on. Michael was there as if he’d simply materialized like a storm front.
His presence was so encompassing it seemed to suck the oxygen out of the immediate radius.
Michael’s hand wrapped around the guy’s wrist in a crushing squeeze that forced the man’s fingers to pop open like a broken toy.
"The lady said let go," Michael said. The warning in his voice settled at the base of my spine.
"Hey, man, we're just having a—"
Michael didn't argue. He stepped into the guy’s personal space, his chest a wall of solid muscle that forced the drunk to stumble backward.
With a deceptively smooth movement, Michael hooked an arm under the guy’s elbow and began steering him toward the exit with the efficiency of a bouncer who’d seen and heard it all.
"You're done for the night," Michael said, his eyes fixed on the door. "Walk out, or get carried out. Your choice."
I didn't wait to see the finale. I turned, my heart hammering against my ribs, and ducked back behind the bar. I set the bottles down with a trembling hand, the glass clinking sharply.
Miller appeared at my side a second later, his brow furrowed. "Kayla? You okay? I saw the scuffle."
"I'm fine, Miller," I said, grabbing a towel and obsessively wiping the dry counter. "It’s handled"
"You sure? You look shaken up."
"I'm fine. Really. Just get me a fresh bin of ice." I threw myself back into the rhythm, burying the shaky feeling under the weight of a dozen drink orders.
Ten minutes later, the door swung open and Michael walked back in. He didn't go back to the booth with the guys. He walked straight to my service well, his breathing steady, his expression guarded. He looked at me, scanning my face for cracks in the armor.
"He's in an Uber," Michael said, leaning on the wood. "I made sure the driver knew exactly where to drop him."
"Thanks," I said, not meeting his eyes as I polished a glass. "You didn't have to do that. I've handled difficult customers before."
"Well, I helped you with that one.” He waited until I finally looked up. The intensity in his gaze was gone, replaced by a weary, protective softness. "I hope you’re not looking for dating prospects in places like this. The pickings are substandard to say the least."
I let out a shaky, half-hearted laugh. "Well, do you have any tips? It's not like I have time to go out and paint the town red. My social life consists of PTA meetings and the fifteen minutes between my shift ending and my eyes closing."
Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, stiff envelope.
"Start with this," he said, sliding it across the bar toward me.
I picked it up, my thumb catching on the embossed gold logo of the San Antonio Surge. I pulled the contents out and felt my jaw drop.
Two box-seat tickets. Game 5. Center ice. The kind of seats that cost more than my monthly rent and usually required a secret handshake to acquire.
"Michael, I can't take these," I whispered, staring at the tickets. "These are... these are insane."
"They aren't for a date," he said, holding up a hand before I could protest. "Consider it a friendly gesture. Bring Gabe. He likes hockey, right? Let him see the game from the glass. Let him see what it actually looks like when the stakes are high."
I looked at the tickets, then back at him. He was giving me an out, a way to accept the gift without the weight of an obligation. But more than that, he was giving something to Gabe. He was looking at the boy I lived for and finding a way to reach him.
"He’ll lose his mind," I admitted, a genuine smile finally breaking through the night's tension. "He doesn’t just like hockey; he’s obsessed."
"Good," Michael said, sliding off the stool. He tapped the wood twice, the familiar signal of his departure. "Tell him to watch the second line. I might have a few more tricks to show him."
He turned and walked toward the door, leaving me standing there with the golden tickets in my hand and a feeling in my chest that no five-year plan could ever account for.