27 - Michael
Michael
The silence of an empty NHL arena had a specific weight to it. Because it wasn’t really quiet, the way a library was hushed but active. This was different. This silence held the hum of ten thousand ghost cheers trapped in the rafters, mixed with the sharp, metallic scent of perfectly chilled ice.
I stood at center ice, the Surge logo huge and intimidating beneath my skates.
Gabe was ten feet away, not moving. He just stared up at the retired jerseys hanging from the ceiling, his mouth slightly open.
He looked small in the vastness of the bowl, a skinny kid in a neon hoodie and borrowed breezers, dwarfed by the stage he’d spent his whole life dreaming about.
"Don't just stand there catching flies, Gabe," I called out, the sound echoing off the empty glass. "The ice is the same dimensions as the rink in your hometown. Only difference is the quality of the flood."
Gabe blinked, finally looking at me. "Michael... this is insane. I’m actually standing on it. Like, where they scored that OT winner against Vegas?"
"Right about where your left skate is," I said, kicking a puck toward him.
"Keep your head up. We’re starting with the 'Cloverleaf'.
Tight turns around the dots, acceleration through the neutral zone.
I want to see your edges. If you play your cards right, kid, this ice could be your home in a few years.
Don't let the seats intimidate you. They’re just plastic until people sit in them. "
He nodded, a sharp, focused movement, and took off. I watched him work. The kid was a natural; he had a fluid, effortless stride that reminded me of Grayson in his early years. He hit the first turn, his blades carving a deep, satisfying hiss into the fresh sheet.
"Nice!" I shouted as he looped back toward me. "Now, transition to the backhand. Keep your center of gravity low."
As we moved into a passing drill, hard, crisp saucer passes that rattled off our sticks. The conversation started to flow. Being on the ice stripped away that teenage defensive shell he usually wore. Here, we were just two hockey players.
"So," I said, catching a fast one from him. "How’s the grounding going? Your mom still got you on lockdown?"
Gabe groaned, the sound bouncing off the glass. "It’s brutal. No phone is like... I don't even know what time it is half the time. And I have to help her prep the bar every afternoon. Do you know how many lemons I’ve sliced in the last three days? I smell like a citrus grove."
"Serves you right," I told him, firing the puck back with a bit of extra zip. "You lied to her, Gabe. Slicing lemons is a light sentence compared to losing her trust. You're lucky she’s letting you breathe, let alone be here today."
"I know, I know," he muttered. He executed a perfect 360-degree spin and fired a shot that pinged off the crossbar. "I’m staying clean. I even started doing that extra credit for history. It sucks, but... I don't want her to look at me the way she did when the Principal called."
We moved to the face-off circle for some puck-protection drills. I leaned my weight into him, showing him how to use his hips to shield the puck from a bigger defender. It was physical work, and we were both breathing hard within minutes.
"Hey, Michael?" Gabe asked, bracing himself against my shoulder as we battled for a loose puck.
"Yeah?"
"There’s this girl. Maya. She’s in my trig class." He stopped fighting for the puck and looked at his skates, suddenly very interested in a scratch in the ice. "She actually talked to me yesterday. Asked if I was really training with you. I think she... I don't know. How do you even do it?"
I stopped, leaning on my stick, and nearly burst out laughing. Me? Giving dating advice? It was the blind leading the blind through a minefield.
"Advice on girls? You're asking the wrong guy, Gabe," I said, shaking my head.
"I don't have 'game.' I never did. Even back in the day, I was the guy who spent Friday nights watching tape while the rest of the team was out. I’m thirty-two years old and I still don't know the right thing to say half the time. "
"Shut up," Gabe scoffed. "You're a pro. You're the captain. You have to be smooth."
"Kid, I’m about as smooth as low-grade sandpaper," I admitted, thinking of Kayla.
"I only found the courage to ask your mom out because the guys on the team wouldn't stop chirping me about it.
And even then, I almost blew it a dozen times.
I would have stayed in the 'friend zone' forever if I hadn't been backed into a corner where I had to tell her the truth or lose her.
My 'game' is basically just being too tired to lie anymore. "
Gabe looked genuinely surprised. It was the first time he’d seen the cracks in the "Pro Athlete" facade, the reality that I was just as clueless as he was when the skates came off.
"Really?"
"Really," I said, skating over to ruffle his hair, which was sticking out of his helmet in sweaty clumps. "Look, if she’s the right girl, you don't need a script. Just be yourself. If she likes the guy who’s obsessed with defensive rotations and smells like a locker room, then she’s a keeper. If you have to pretend to be someone else to keep her interested, you’re just gonna tire yourself out. "
Gabe processed that, a small, thoughtful nod following. "Be myself. Even if 'myself' is a history-nerd hockey player who’s currently grounded?"
"Especially that guy," I said, dropping another puck. "Now, let’s see that slap shot. If you want Maya to keep talking to you, you'd better make sure you're leading the league in scoring by playoffs."
He grinned, the most genuine one I’d seen yet, and wound up for a shot that echoed through the empty arena like a cannon blast. For the first time, it didn't feel like I was mentoring a project. I was just hanging out with a friend.
I stayed out on the ice with Gabe for another twenty minutes after the formal drills ended, just trading light trick shots and watching the way the Zamboni lights caught the spray of our skates. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the heavy steel door by the tunnel creak open.
Kayla walked out, still in her work clothes but looking softer than she had during the week. She didn't call out; she just hoisted herself up onto the players’ bench, resting her chin on her hand as she watched us.
"Mom’s here," Gabe said, leaning on his stick. He followed my gaze, and for a second, the cocky teenager vanished, replaced by a kid who was actually paying attention. "She looks... I don't know. Different."
"Different how?" I asked, gliding slowly toward him.
"Just less like she’s waiting for the ceiling to collapse," he said. He looked at me, his eyes surprisingly clear. "She’s happier, Michael. I’m glad we’re friends. Like, for real. It’s cool having you around for more than just the hockey stuff."
The word friends hit me with a familiar, dull thud. It was a step up from “okay guy," but it was still a fence I was itching to jump. I glanced at Kayla. She was smiling at us in a way that made my chest tighten. She looked like she belonged in this arena, in this life.
I looked back at Gabe. We were far enough away from the bench that our voices were lost in the cavernous hollow of the stands. It felt like the right moment to see where the landmines were buried.
"I’m glad too, Gabe," I said, my heart starting a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs. "And, look... about your mom. I really care about her. If I were to—" I cleared my throat. "If I wanted to be more than just a friend. To her, I mean. What would you think about that?"
The shift in the air was instantaneous. The easy camaraderie of the practice session evaporated, replaced by a sudden, sharp chill that had nothing to do with the ice.
Gabe didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just stared at me, his grip tightening on his stick until his knuckles turned white.
The kid who had been asking me for dating advice thirty minutes ago was gone, replaced by the protective, cynical young man who had seen too many "items" come and go through the Leaky Faucet.
"Don't," Gabe said, his voice dropping into a flat, hard register that made my blood run cold.
"Gabe, listen—"
"No, you listen," he snapped, leaning in so only I could hear. "My mom doesn't need a boyfriend, Michael. She needs a good friend. Someone who actually sticks around when things get shitty."
He looked over at Kayla, then back at me, his eyes burning with a sudden, fierce resentment.
"Boyfriends? They just fuck shit up and leave her with the mess. I’ve seen it happen. I’m the one who has to help her pick up the pieces every single time. So if that’s what you’re planning? Don't. Just be her friend, or get out of it now."