21 - Michael
Michael
He knew. And he knew that I knew.
The silence lasted until we hit the outskirts of New Braunfels. I could practically hear the gears turning in his head, the teenage calculation of whether I was about to drop the hammer on his Saturday night excursion and ruin his life.
"So," I said, my voice cracking the quiet like a slap shot. "Gabe. You’re quiet back there. Usually, you’ve got at least one complaint about my taste in music by now."
I caught his eye in the mirror. He looked pale, his fingers twisting the straps of his backpack. "Just tired. I hate waking up this early."
"Long night?" My tone was carefully neutral. I glanced at Kayla. She was staring out the window at a passing Buc-ee's billboard.
He flinched. It was a micro-movement, but it was there. I let the silence hang for a beat, letting him sweat, letting him realize that I held the nuclear codes to his relationship with his mother. Then, I reached out and tapped the touchscreen on the dash.
"Tell you what," I said, looking back at the mirror with a small, conspiratorial tilt of my head. "Driver picks the route, but the MVP of the project build picks the playlist. Gabe, plug in. "
He looked at me, then at the back of his mom’s head, then back at me. I gave him a slow, steady wink. Your secret is safe. For now.
The tension didn't just leave the car; it evaporated. Gabe lunged for the cord. "Finally. If I have to hear one more song about a guy losing his dog in the rain, I’m jumping out at the next exit."
"Hey!" Kayla protested, finally laughing. "That music has soul, I’ll have you know."
"It has a funeral vibe, Mom," he said, his fingers flying across his phone.
A heavy, distorted bass line suddenly thundered through the speakers. Some high-octane hip-hop track that made the rearview mirror vibrate. It was aggressive, loud, and exactly what a fifteen-year-old boy used to feel like a king.
"Now we're talking," I said, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.
"You like this?" Kayla asked, looking at me with genuine surprise. "I figured you for a strictly 'Classic Rock' or 'George Strait' kind of guy."
"I contain multitudes, Kayla," I teased, stealing a glance at her.
The morning light was hitting her face, softening the hard lines of the 'protective mom' mask she wore so often.
She looked relaxed. She looked... happy.
"Besides, you can't get hyped for a game listening to a mandolin.
You need something that makes you want to skate through a brick wall. "
"See, Mom? Michael gets it," Gabe chirped. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the center console, effectively bridging the gap between the front and back seats. "Hey, Michael, did you see that hit Gudas laid out last night? The one in the Florida game?"
And just like that, the floodgates opened.
For the next three hours, the car was a chaotic, wonderful bubble of found-family energy.
We debated the best NHL jerseys (Gabe insisted on the Reverse Retros, I stayed loyal to the classics), argued over the best road-trip snacks (Kayla lost the battle for organic apple slices against our united front for 'nacho cheese Bugles'), and sang—terribly—to a 2000s pop-punk throwback that Gabe claimed was vintage.
I found myself watching Kayla in the periphery.
She was leaning back, her shoes kicked off, laughing as she tried to defend her love for sentimental movies against Gabe’s relentless teasing.
Every time our eyes met, there was a heat there, a lingering, gooey connection that had survived the bar, the rink, and the silence.
"You're surprisingly good at this," she whispered to me while Gabe was occupied trying to film a TikTok of a particularly ridiculous roadside attraction near Waco.
"Good at what? Driving?"
"Being a person," she said, her voice soft and sincere. "I thought pro athletes were all… I don't know, ego and protein shakes. But you're good with him, Michael. You make him feel like he's part of the team."
"He is part of the team," I said, and I meant it.
We pulled into a greasy-spoon diner near Hillsboro for brunch which, according to Gabe, meant a burger the size of his head and a milkshake. We sat in a vinyl booth that smelled like maple syrup and old memories.
"So, the plan for Dallas," I said, sliding a fry across the table toward Gabe. "I’ve got to head to the arena early for the morning skate. You guys have the afternoon. There’s a spot near Dealy Plaza with the best tacos in the city, but stay away from the tourist traps."
"Are you going back to the hotel after?" Kayla asked.
"Team rules say I have to stay with the guys the night before a game," I said, feeling a genuine pang of regret. "But I’ll have tickets waiting for you at Will Call. Right behind the bench."
Gabe’s eyes went wide. "Behind the bench? Like, I can hear the chirping?"
"You’ll hear things that’ll make your mom cover your ears," I grinned.
As we walked back to the car, the sun was high and the Texas heat was starting to bake the asphalt. Gabe ran ahead to the gas station to grab a Gatorade, leaving Kayla and me alone for a moment by the passenger door.
The air between us suddenly pulled tight, the humor of the car ride settling into something deeper. I reached out, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. I didn't pull away this time.
"Thanks for coming," I said. "I know it wasn't easy to trust me again after the park."
"I'm glad we came," she breathed, her eyes searching mine. She looked like she wanted to say more—maybe about the bar, maybe about the dance with Tucker—but she just smiled. "You're a complicated man, Michael Landry."
"I'm just a guy trying to stay in the game," I said.
We hit the road again, the Dallas skyline shimmering like a mirage on the horizon. Gabe was back to his music, but he wasn't hooded anymore. He was looking out the window, tapping his fingers to the beat, occasionally asking me about the defensive pairings for the Stars.
I looked at the two of them… the woman who made me want to be better and the kid who was currently my biggest secret and my biggest project. For the first time since I’d been traded to San Antonio, I didn't feel like a guest. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Even if I was technically an accomplice to a teenager's midnight run.
"Dallas, here we come," Gabe shouted as we hit the 635 loop.
"Lock in, boys," I said, gripping the wheel. "It’s game time."
A few minutes later, I pulled the Jeep into a sprawling, gravel-pitted diner parking lot just north of Waxahachie.
"Pit stop," I announced, killing the engine. "Last chance for real caffeine before we hit the city traffic."
Gabe unbuckled with a sudden, sharp energy. He didn't head for the door. Instead, he leaned over the center console, his eyes fixed on the steering wheel like it was the Holy Grail.
"Hey, Michael. Since we’re in a private lot and it’s basically empty... can I drive? Just to the other side?"
Kayla, who had been reaching for her purse, froze. "No. Absolutely not. Never."
"Mom, come on!" Gabe groaned, his voice hitting that specific teenage frequency of pure agony. "I’m fifteen. I’m literally months away from a permit. You’re being so overprotective it’s actually stifling my development as a functional human."
"Functional humans don't wrap five-ton trucks around diner signs," Kayla shot back, stepping out of the Jeep and smoothing her jeans. "The answer is no, Gabriel. Not today, not in this car, not in this lifetime."
She looked at me, a silent warning flashing in her eyes that said Don't you dare side with him.
"I'm going in to get a stack of those world famous waffles to go," she said, pointing a finger at both of us. "If I come out and this car has moved so much as an inch, you’re re-grounded and walking the rest of the way to Dallas."
We watched her march toward the diner, the bell chiming as she disappeared inside. The silence in the cab was heavy. Gabe slumped back into the seat, looking like I’d just told him hockey had been banned.
I looked at the empty expanse of the lot. It was at least three acres of flat, unobstructed gravel. Then I looked at the kid. I still needed his approval. I needed him to know I wasn't just his mother’s shadow.
"Swap with me," I said quietly.
Gabe’s head snapped up. "What?"
"You heard me. Move. Before she gets to the syrup station."
We scrambled. Gabe tumbled over the console with the grace of a caffeinated squirrel, landing in the driver's seat with a look of pure awe. He gripped the leather-wrapped wheel at ten and two, his feet barely hovering over the pedals.
"Okay, easy," I cautioned, sliding into the passenger seat and keeping my hand near the center brake. "Shift it into drive. Keep your foot on the brake. Slow... slow... there you go."
The Jeep lurched forward with a gravelly crunch. Gabe’s face was a mask of intense, terrifying focus. He steered us in a wide, wobbly circle near the back fence, the engine purring.
"This is insane," Gabe whispered, a huge, lopsided grin breaking across his face. He glanced at me, his expression shifting into something more serious, more vulnerable. "Hey... thanks, Michael. For this. And for... you know. The other night. Not telling her about the alley."
I leaned my head back against the headrest, watching him navigate a particularly large pothole. "Don't thank me yet, kid. I'm not doing it because I think you’re a rebel. I'm doing it because I’m giving you a pass. One pass."
I turned my head to look at him, my voice dropping into that lower register that usually made rookies sit up straighter.
"But don't make it a habit. You want a career?
You want to wear a pro jersey? You keep your nose clean.
The scouts don't just look at your PPG; they look at whether you’re a liability off the ice.
You get into trouble, you're a ghost. You understand? "