22 - Kayla
Kayla
The American Airlines Center was a cavern of hostile green light and deafening noise, a far cry from the quiet, wood-paneled safety of the Leaky Faucet.
Sitting three rows behind the Surge bench, it was impossible not to feel like a pariah.
Every time the puck slammed into the boards, the vibration rattled my teeth, a physical reminder that the stakes had shifted from playoff run to destiny.
Beside me, Gabe leaned so far over the railing I had to keep a white-knuckled grip on the back of his hoodie.
He wasn't the sulking teenager I’d dragged to Dallas.
Once the chill of the arena hit our lungs he became a live wire, his eyes tracking every black-and-silver jersey with a hunger that made me miss the son I had before puberty got him.
"Look at the gap Michael’s holding," he yelled over the roar of the crowd. "He’s forcing Hintz to the outside every single entry. They can't get a clean look."
He was right. With Grayson still sidelined, Michael’s leadership was more vital than ever.
He wasn't just playing, but conducting the game. I watched him through the glass, his movements a masterclass in controlled aggression. He’d pivot, his blades throwing up a spray of ice that caught the overhead lights like diamonds, and then he’d deliver a pass so crisp it sounded like a gunshot.
Whenever he rotated off the ice and slid onto the bench just feet from us, my heart made a treacherous lurch. The steam rose from his shoulders, beads of sweat rolling down the back of his neck. He looked exhausted and invincible all at once.
And every single time, before he took a squirt of water or listened to the coach’s instructions, his eyes found mine.
It was a quick, searing connection that made it feel like we were still in that cramped motel room. My skin still tingled where he’d brushed against me in the dark, and the chaste kiss I’d given his cheek felt like a brand I couldn't wash off.
"He’s out of his mind," Gabe muttered, dropping back into his seat as the first period whistle blew. The score was 1-1, a gritty, defensive stalemate. He looked at me sideways, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Mom?"
"Yeah, honey?"
"Is he... I mean, you guys were talking a lot last night. Is he just a 'friend' friend? Or is this, like, a thing?"
I felt the heat climb my neck, fiercer than the arena lights. "He’s just a friend, Gabe. I promise there’s nothing going on."
He snorted, a sound of pure skepticism. "You two don’t look like friends a lot of the time. The way he looks at you, anyway."
"Watch the game," I said, though there was no bite in it. The lie was getting harder to swallow, especially when the friend in question was currently standing on the ice for the second-period puck drop, looking like a god of thunder in hockey tape.
The next few minutes were a blur of high-speed collisions and near-misses. Dallas came out guns blazing, their forecheck relentless. I heard the Surge coach yell, "Collapse! Protect the house!" as the Stars cycled the puck with terrifying precision.
Michael was the anchor. He blocked a shot with his thigh that made me wince, the solid strike of the puck hitting padding audible even over the organ music. He didn't even limp. He just cleared the crease, shoved a Dallas forward out of his goalie’s sightline, and started the breakout.
"Go, Michael! Move it!" Gabe screamed, jumping to his feet.
Seeing Gabe cheer for him, not for the Surge, not for the sport, but for Michael… It tore my heart in two. It was the bridge I’d been praying for, built out of ice and secret driving lessons and shared waffles.
By the third period, the score was tied 2-2. The electricity in the building was borderline terminal. Every person in the stands was screaming, a wall of sound that closed us in completely.
With three minutes left, Michael took a pass at the point.
The Dallas defender lunged, trying to poke the puck away, but Michael used that fluid weight shift he’d tried to teach Gabe.
He stepped around the reach, walked the line, and let a wrister fly.
It was a seeing-eye shot, weaving through a screen of four bodies before hitting the top corner with a melodic ping of the crossbar.
The Surge bench erupted. Gabe screamed so loud his voice cracked, and I found myself on my feet, hands over my mouth, tears pricking my eyes. It was crazy how the excitement swept me up in a tangle of emotion.
Michael didn't celebrate with a flamboyant slide this time. He just high-fived his teammates and looked straight at our section. He tapped his gloved hand against his chest, and then pointed at us.
The final whistle blew with the Surge holding onto the 3-2 lead. The adrenaline was still burning in my veins as the players filed off the ice. When Michael passed our row, he stopped for a beat, drenched in sweat, face flushed, and a small cut bleeding on his lip.
He just looked at me, his chest heaving, and eyes filled with everything we hadn't said in that motel room. He reached over the glass and ruffled Gabe’s hair, a quick, masculine gesture, before vanishing into the tunnel.
"Have you bothered telling him he’s just a friend?" Gabe said, and started gathering his things.
I didn't have the energy to argue with him over this anymore. My heart was a mess of pride, fear, and a longing so sharp it hurt to breathe. We had won the game, but as I watched the empty tunnel where Michael had disappeared, I realized I was losing the battle to keep my heart guarded.
The road trip wasn't over, and neither was the feeling that, for the first time in fifteen years, I wasn't just surviving. I was falling.
The high of the win was a physical thing, a hum in the air that followed the crowd out of the arena and into the cooling Dallas night. Everywhere I looked, there were jerseys, mostly the deep green and black of the Stars, but a healthy, defiant scattering of Surge blue.
"Did you see that save in the second? The one where Michael literally tied up the winger’s stick so he couldn't get the rebound?" Gabe’s hands moved in rapid-fire gestures as we shuffled toward the exit. "That’s what he was talking about before. Gap control. It’s the difference between a goal and a whistle. "
"I saw it," I said, a smile tugging at my lips.
It was impossible not to be swept up in his excitement, especially when it felt like the first time in years we were speaking the same language.
"I also saw you screaming like a banshee when he scored. I’m pretty sure the person in front of us is going to need a hearing aid. "
"Whatever, Mom. It was a game-winner. In Dallas. Do you know how huge that is for the series momentum?"
"I'm starting to get the idea," I laughed, adjusting the strap of my purse.
The lights of the city were starting to blink on, competing with the stars in the clearest of skies.
"So, what’s the move for dinner? We could find a burger place, or maybe try that taco spot Michael mentioned?
I don't think I can look at another waffle for at least two weeks"
Gabe didn't answer. He had slowed his pace, his eyes darting toward the side of the arena where the player's entrance and the team buses were located.
"Gabe?"
"Hold on," he said, his voice suddenly sharp and focused. Before I could ask what he was doing, he veered away from the main flow of the crowd. He didn't look back, weaving through the groups of fans with a practiced, athletic agility.
"Gabe! Where are you going?" I called out, but he was already a dozen yards away, his neon-green hat a beacon in the sea of people.
I stopped near a concrete planter outside the main gates, letting the crowd flow around me like a river.
I sighed, leaning back against the cold stone.
I knew exactly where he was headed. He wasn't looking for food or a souvenir.
He was looking for the man who had spent the last six hours being his hero on the ice.
I settled in to wait, watching the shadows of the arena, wondering if Michael was ready for the kind of unfiltered, wide-eyed praise Gabe was about to unload on him, and wondering if I was ready for the look Michael would give me when he finally walked out of those doors.