28 - Kayla #2
"He is okay," Michael murmured. "But he needs to see you okay, too. He needs to see that happiness isn't a limited resource. You having something for yourself—having us—doesn't take anything away from him."
I turned in his arms, my hands finding the lapels of his suit jacket. "Is that what this is? An us? Because Gabe was very clear, Michael. He doesn't want a boyfriend in the picture. He wants a friend. He thinks boyfriends just... leave a mess."
Michael’s expression didn't flicker. He didn't flinch at the challenge. He just tightened his hold on my waist, pulling me so close I could feel the rhythmic thud of his heart against my own.
"I’m not just some guy passing through town for a season, Kayla," he said, his voice dropping into a gritty, absolute certainty.
"I know what he needs. He needs a man in his life who doesn't run when the water gets choppy. He needs someone who’s going to push him on the ice and call him out on his bullshit off of it. And if that means I have to be the 'friend' for a while until he realizes I’m not going anywhere? Then that’s what I’ll be. "
He tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him. "But I’m not doing it for the hockey. I’m doing it because I want the life that comes with it. I want the morning coffee with you. I want the arguments about the bar. I want the mess. But I need to know if you're brave enough to want it, too."
The reckoning hit me then, a tidal wave of realization. I had built a fortress around my life with Gabe, thinking I was protecting him, but I had really just been hiding. I was terrified that if I reached for something for myself, the whole structure would collapse.
"I'm scared, Michael," I admitted, the words breaking as they left my throat. "I’ve spent so long being the only one holding the line. I don't know how to let someone else stand next to me."
"You don't have to know how," he whispered, his lips grazing mine in a touch so tender it made my soul ache. "You just have to let me. Just for tonight, stop being the protector. Just be Kayla."
He kissed me again, a slow, deep exploration that felt like a bridge being built across a chasm.
It was a promise of stability, a vow written in the mist and the heat of a San Antonio night.
As his hands slid up to cup my face, I realized that my personal happiness wasn't an insult to my son—it was the foundation he’d been waiting for me to build.
I leaned into him, finally letting the control slip away, letting the "Seattle" rain wash away the guilt.
We moved back toward the fire, our bodies entwined, the conversation shifting from the heavy to the hopeful, as we talked about the Finals, the summer, and a future that didn't feel like a lie anymore.
But as we settled back onto the sofa, the firelight dimming, the quiet moment of growth was shattered. My phone didn't just vibrate this time; it let out a persistent, high-pitched ring that meant it wasn't a text. It was a call.
And it wasn't from Gabe. It was from his friend's mother.
"Hello? Sarah? Is everything okay? Is Gabe—"
"Oh, hi, Kayla! Sorry to call so late," Sarah’s voice chirped, sounding entirely too calm for the catastrophe I had already choreographed in my head. "The boys are having a blast, and they were wondering if it would be okay if Gabe just crashed here tonight? They’re mid-marathon on some space game, and I figured it’d be easier than you having to come out in the humidity to get him. "
I let out a breath so long and shaky it felt like my lungs were deflating. My knees actually gave a little, and I had to lean my hip against the iron railing. "Oh. Yeah. No, that’s... that’s perfectly fine, Sarah. Thank you. Just tell him to be ready by ten tomorrow, okay?"
I ended the call and slumped back against the railing, the cool mist of the Seattle setup finally registering on my skin again.
Michael was watching me, a knowing, lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He hadn't moved; he just leaned back on the sofa, looking entirely too relaxed for a man who had just watched me nearly have a coronary.
"See?" he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble. "The world didn't end. The ceiling is still intact. He’s eating pizza and playing video games, Kayla. He’s totally fine."
"I know, I know," I muttered, tucking a stray hair behind my ear, my face flushing with a mix of relief and lingering embarrassment. "I just always expect the other shoe to drop. It’s a reflex."
"Well, consider the shoe officially stayed on the foot." He stood up and walked over to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me back into the heat of his personal space. "Now, where were we before the 'inventory meeting' interrupted us?"
The rest of the night was a slow, beautiful blur.
Without the ticking clock of Gabe’s curfew hanging over my head, the air felt lighter.
We finished the wine, talking in low voices about everything and nothing—the way the ice feels during a power play, the books I used to read before I started reading ledgers, and the quiet, shared dreams that usually stayed tucked away in the dark.
Every touch felt intentional. Every kiss was a little deeper, a little more certain. By the time we made our way back down to the street, the San Antonio heat felt less like a burden and more like a warm embrace.
The drive back to my apartment was quiet, the city lights streaking across the windshield of Michael’s car. When he pulled up to the curb outside my building, he didn't immediately kill the engine. He turned in his seat, reaching out to cup the back of my neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
He leaned in, and the kiss was electric—a heady mix of the night’s cool mist and the lingering sweetness of the wine. My hands found his shoulders, pulling him closer, my heart doing that familiar, erratic dance.
"I should go," I whispered against his lips, though I made no move to open the door.
"You probably should," he breathed, kissing me again, harder this time.
He pulled back, his eyes dark and unreadable in the shadows of the cab. He stared at me for a long beat, his hand still anchored in my hair. Then, instead of reaching for the door handle or waiting for me to hop out, he reached for the gear shift.
The Jeep roared back to life, the vibrations thrumming through the floorboards.
"Michael?" I blinked, looking at the dashboard and then back at him. "What are you doing? I live right there."
He didn't look at the apartment building. He put the Jeep in drive and looked at me, a predatory flash in his gaze.
"Close the door and strap back in."
"What? Why? Where are we going?"
He reached over, his hand resting firm on my thigh as he began to pull away from the curb, merging back into the late-night traffic.
"I’ve changed my mind," Michael said, his voice dropping into a gritty, decisive growl. "This date isn't over."