30 - Kayla
Kayla
The drive to Northside High should have been a victory lap.
The sun was beating down on the hood of my car, the San Antonio sky a relentless, mocking blue, and my son was sitting in the passenger seat amped with the kind of caffeine-fueled energy only a fifteen-year-old post-sleepover could possess.
"I’m telling you, Tyler’s older brother has the insane rig," Gabe was saying, his hands moving animatedly as he described the gaming marathon I’d missed while I was counting lemon crates at the bar.
"We were up until three. The frame rate on that space sim is actually buttery.
I didn't even know graphics could look like that. "
I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white. My skin still felt over-sensitive, the ghost of Michael’s touch lingering on my thighs, my neck, my soul. He wasn’t the only one who barely got any sleep last night, and it was beginning to catch up with me. My brain was sludge.
"That sounds fun, honey," I said, my voice sounding tinny to my own ears. "But you know what Michael says about those sims. If the physics don't match the friction of the ice, it’s just pretty lights. It ruins your muscle memory for the real thing."
The silence that followed was instantaneous. It wasn't a quiet pause; it was a vacuum that my heart lurch.
Gabe stopped mid-gesture. He slowly turned his head to look at me, his dark eyes narrowing behind his messy bangs. "What?"
My heart performed a slow, sickening roll in my chest. "I—I just meant, he’s mentioned it before. About the training apps and things."
"No," Gabe said, his voice dropping an octave, losing all that boyish excitement. "He didn't mention it before. He told me on the ice that sims were fine as long as the refresh rate was high. When did he say that other stuff, Mom? When did he tell you that?"
I swallowed hard, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. I searched for a lie, a quick, easy exit, but my brain was a scrambled mess of copper-river salmon and hotel sheets. "He... we were talking. About your training. It’s whatever. It’s nothing."
We had agreed to tell him together. We had a plan. A sit-down, a rational conversation, a right way to do this. But the lack of sleep and the weight of the secret had made me sloppy.
"When?" Gabe pressed. He shifted in his seat, squaring his shoulders toward me. "I was at Tyler’s last night. You were at the bar doing inventory. When did you talk to Michael?"
I turned onto the long stretch of road leading to the school’s athletic complex. My blinker clicked rhythmically, sounding like a ticking bomb. I couldn't do it. I couldn't look him in the eye and layer another lie on top of the ones that were already suffocating us.
"He came by, Gabe," I said softly, my voice trembling. "After I finished up. We... we went out."
"You went out," he repeated. The words were flat, toneless. "Like, to get a burger? To talk about my grades?"
"No," I breathed, pulling into the school parking lot but keeping the car in motion, circling slowly toward the rink entrance. "Like a date. We’re dating, Gabe. Michael and I are seeing each other."
I expected him to lose his shit, or go completely silent and shut me out. I didn't expect the laugh that erupted from him—a sharp, ugly sound that made me flinch.
"Oh, man," he said, shaking his head, staring out the windshield with a look of profound disgust. "I am such an idiot. I’m a total loser."
"What? Gabe, no—"
"No?" He turned on me then, and the raw fury in his expression stole the air from the car.
"The extra coaching? The fake-ass mentorship at the arena?
The help with my science project and the 'just be yourself' crap with Maya?
None of that was for me, was it? He was just playing the long game.
He was just being the nice guy so he could get in your pants. "
"That’s not true!" I pulled the car into a space and slammed it into park, twisting in my seat to face him. "Michael cares about you. He’s been so careful, so intentional about making sure you were okay with him being around—"
"Of course he was intentional!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "He’s a pro, Mom! He knows how to work a play! He manipulated me. He used me to get to you, and you were stupid enough to let him."
“Hey—”
“I can’t believe I thought he was for real.”
"It wasn't like that," I pleaded, reaching for his arm, but he flinched away as if my touch burned. "He wanted to tell you today. We wanted to do this right. He’s staying, Gabe. He’s not like the others. He’s the one who insisted we be honest—"
"He’s exactly like the others!" Gabe’s eyes were brimming with tears now, hot and angry.
"Why would you do this again? You know how this ends. He’s going to play the Finals, and then he’s out of here, or he’s going to get bored of playing happy family with the bartender and her screw-up kid, and he’s going to leave.
And I’m going to be the one who has to watch you cry for months while I try to figure out why the only guy I actually trusted lied to my face. "
"He didn't lie about wanting to help you—"
"It was all a bribe, Mom. Don't you get it?" He grabbed his gym bag from the floorboard, his movements rushed and violent. "Every drill, every conversation... it was just a down payment on you. He didn't want to be my friend. He wanted a trophy. And you gave it to him."
"Gabe, please, just listen for one second—"
"I’m done listening," he spat, his hand on the door latch. "I have a game to play. I have to go out there and play the sport he taught me while I try not to throw up thinking about the two of you together. You said you’d never let another guy mess with my head again. You promised."
He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't give me a chance to bridge the canyon that had just opened up between us. Gabe shoved the door open and scrambled out, the heavy thud of his hockey bag hitting the pavement.
He slammed the door with a force that rocked the entire car, a final, punctuated note of fury that echoed in the quiet cabin. I sat there, frozen, watching his retreating back as he lugged his gear toward the rink, his head down, shoulders shaking.
I had wanted my personal happiness. I had wanted to believe Michael Landry was the exception to every rule I’d ever written.
But as I watched my son disappear into the building, I didn't feel happy.
I felt like I had just traded my son's heart for a night of Pacific Northwest mist and empty promises.
The bleachers at the Northside’s rink felt like a bed of nails. Usually, the cold of the rink was a comfort, a familiar chill that sharpened my focus, but today it just seeped into my bones, making the guilt under my skin feel like ice water.
I sat alone, three rows up from the glass, watching the warmup.
Gabe wasn't just skating; he was punishing the ice.
Every stride was a violent dig, every shot he took at the empty net was a wild blast that rattled the plexiglass with a sound like a gunshot.
He didn't look toward my usual spot. He didn't give the quick, subtle nod that usually told me he knew I was there.
The game started, and within the first three minutes, the new Gabe—the one Michael had spent weeks molding into a disciplined, tactical player—was gone. In his place was a raw, reckless shadow of the kid he used to be, only angrier.
"Gabe, watch the lane!" his coach screamed from the bench.
Gabe ignored him. He chased the puck into the corner, not to win possession, but to initiate contact. He leveled a Dallas Jesuit winger with a hit that was late and dangerously high. The whistle blew instantly.
"Two minutes for charging!" the ref barked.
Gabe didn't skate to the box. He stood over the fallen player, his chest heaving, his visor fogged. When the ref grabbed his arm to lead him away, Gabe shoved the man’s hand off.
"Don't touch me!" his voice carried over the crowd, sharp and trembling.
I buried my face in my hands for a second, my heart hammering. This is my fault. I’d shattered his world right before he had to step into the one place where he felt in control.
By the second period, the game was a disaster.
Gabe was playing hero-ball, trying to deke through three defenders at once, losing the puck, and then taking a slashing penalty in frustration.
He was a ticking bomb. Every time he skated past the bench, the coach was in his ear, but Gabe just stared straight ahead, his jaw locked in that stubborn line that reminded me too much of his dad.
He was a blank wall of anger, and there was no getting through to him.
"He’s going to get hurt," a dad two seats over muttered to his wife. "Kid’s playing like he wants to break someone or himself."
The prophecy fulfilled itself with six minutes left on the clock.
Gabe caught a suicide pass in the neutral zone. A Dallas defender, twice his size, saw the opening. A disciplined Gabe would have chipped the puck deep and avoided the contact. But this Gabe tried to drive through the boy completely.
The collision was sickening. It was the hollow, wet crack of a body hitting the boards at full tilt. Gabe went down hard, his left shoulder taking the brunt of the impact against the edge of the open bench door.
The rink went silent. He didn't get up. He didn't even try to roll over. He stayed curled on the ice, his right hand clutching his left shoulder, his body shaking with the kind of silent, agonizing tremors that made a mother’s soul scream.
"Gabe!" I was on my feet, stumbling down the bleachers, my vision tunneling.
I scrambled through the gate, the ice slick under my boots as I ran toward the circle where the trainers were already kneeling. Gabe let out a low, guttural moan, his eyes squeezed shut, his face white as a sheet.
"It’s out," he gasped, his voice thin and reedy. "Mom, it’s out."
"Shh, baby, I'm here," I whispered, kneeling in the slush, reaching for his hand. He flinched away, even in his agony, and the rejection felt like a physical blow to my chest.
Then, I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on the wood-slatted walkway behind the bench.
"Gabe? What happened?"
I turned my head to find Michael standing there, still in his clothes from the night before, his face etched with fear. He looked like he’d run from the parking lot, his tie pulled loose, his eyes searching for the kid he’d called a natural just twenty-four hours ago.
"Michael," I said, somehow furious and confused at the same time.
He stepped onto the ice, his hand reaching out toward me, toward Gabe. "He texted me to invite me to the game last night. I thought—"
"Leave," I said. It was a cold, hard command that cut through the noise of the medical staff.
Michael stopped, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What? Kayla, let me help. I’ve seen this injury a dozen times, we need to get him to the—"
"I said leave!" I stood up, stepping between him and my broken son. I didn't see the man who had brought me Seattle rain. I saw the complication. I saw the reason my son was lying in the ice, clutching a shoulder that might never be the same. "Neither of us want to talk to you right now.”
"Kayla, please…"
"Go!" I shoved his chest, my hands shaking. "Just leave us alone."