6 - Kayla
Kayla
The Leaky Faucet was drowning in a post-game swell, the kind of heavy, humid crowd that smelled like stale smoke and beer.
I moved in a blur of muscle memory, my hands working the taps while my brain ran a frantic background tally of the seventy-five gluten-free cookies currently hijacking the industrial ovens in the back.
I had bribed the line cook, Marco, with a case of premium IPAs and a promise to cover his closing side-work for a week. It was a gamble, but I was desperate. Gabe’s school group chat was a firing squad, and I wasn't about to be the one pinned against the wall.
I was mid-pour on a double stout when Stacy, one of the floor servers, leaned over the bar. Her eyes were wide, and she looked like she’d just seen a ghost.
"Kayla, the batch in the bottom oven is starting to smell a little... crispy. Marco wants to know if he should pull them or if 'gluten-free' means they’re supposed to look like charcoal," she whispered, her voice carrying just a bit too far over the low rumble of the jukebox.
I felt the blood drain from my face. "Tell him five more minutes. And tell him to keep the timer quiet."
"What timer, Kayla?"
The voice vibrated with a specific kind of corporate disappointment that made my stomach do a slow, nauseating roll. I didn't have to turn around to know it was Miller, my manager. He was a man who lived for the strict adherence to "Company Resource Management."
I finished the pour and handed the stout to a regular, my smile feeling like it was held up by scotch tape. I wiped my hands on my apron and turned around. Miller stood by the service well, his arms crossed over a chest.
"Step over here," he said, gesturing to the end of the bar where the shadows were deeper but the patrons were still well within earshot.
"Miller, look, it’s just a small batch. The ovens were empty anyway—"
"I don't care if the ovens were hosting a tea party for the Queen of England," he snapped, his voice dropping into a sharp, jagged whisper.
"You’re using company ingredients and company labor for a private bake sale.
Again, Kayla. This is the third time in as many months that I've caught you treating the kitchen like your personal pantry. "
"The sports expo is a big deal for Gabe, and I didn't have time—"
"Nobody has time," he cut me off, stepping closer. The light caught the sweat on his forehead. "You’re a hell of a bartender. The regulars love you, and you’re the only reason half these guys don't go down the street to the sports bar. But you’re on thin ice.
Thinner than those damn cookies. If I see one more non-menu item coming out of that kitchen, you can take your tips and find a bar that doubles as a bakery. Do we understand each other?"
I stared at a scratch on the mahogany bar, the heat of humiliation crawling up my neck. I felt small. Smaller than the girl who’d changed her outfit three times that afternoon. "I'm sorry, Miller. It won't happen again. I'll pay for the flour out of my tips."
"You're damn right you will," he muttered, turning on his heel and disappearing toward the office.
I stood there and closed my eyes, trying to force the lump in my throat back down. I needed this job. I needed the health insurance for Gabe and the cash that kept the lights on. With a steadying breath, I wiped my face using a damp cocktail napkin, and turned back to the center of the bar..
“Everything okay?”
Michael stood at the service station, his large frame casting a long shadow over the polished wood. He wore a dark jacket, his hair still damp from the post-game shower, and his blue eyes were fixed directly on me. Far too perceptive, far too quiet to be mistaken for a man looking to order a drink.
He’d heard every word. The "private bake sale." The "thin ice." The desperate, messy reality of a mother who couldn't keep her head above water without breaking the rules.
The air in the bar suddenly felt twice as thick. I reached for a clean glass, my hands trembling just enough for the crystal to clink against the shelf. I couldn't even manage a "What can I get you?" The words were stuck somewhere behind the shame of being caught in the middle of my own wreckage.
The glass in my hand felt slick, a cold sweat transferring from the bottle to my palm. Michael didn’t look away. He didn’t offer a pitying smile or a polite cough to break the tension. He just stood there, a quiet anchor in the middle of a room that suddenly felt far too loud.
"A round for the team," he said, his voice a steady rumble that bypassed the chaos behind me. "Whatever the heavy hitters are drinking tonight. And a club soda for me."
My hands moved on autopilot, reaching for the tap handles. The brass was cool against my skin. "I heard you guys pulled it off against the Jets. Big comeback."
"Something like that." He leaned one elbow on the bar, his gaze dropping to the way my fingers tightened around the tap. "Seventy-five cookies. That’s a lot of baking for one person."
The heat in my cheeks flared again, sharper this time. There was no hiding the truth now; the conversation with Miller had been a public execution. I set the first pint down on a coaster, the foam settling in a perfect, ivory crown.
"It’s for the Sports Expo at Gabe’s school.
Apparently, gluten-free is the new gold standard for the booster club.
" I tried for a dry laugh, but it came out sounding brittle, like dead leaves.
"And my kitchen at home has an oven that runs twenty degrees cold on the left side. It was a tactical error."
"Tactical errors happen when you're trying to cover too much ground." Michael reached for the club soda, his thumb tracing the rim of the glass. He didn't look at the game on the overhead TV or the crowd of fans trying to catch his eye. "How many more do you need?"
"All of them. Miller killed the operation.
What's in the oven now is the last of it, and Stacy says they’re currently transitioning from 'edible' to 'carbon.
'" I grabbed another glass, the clink of the crystal sharp against the wood.
"I'll be lucky if I have twenty that don't look like hockey pucks. "
I felt his scrutiny. Not the judgmental weight of the manager, but something slower. More deliberate. He looked at the gold hoops swinging near my jaw, then back to my eyes.
"Does he always talk to you like that?" Michael asked. His tone wasn't aggressive, but there was a hardness in his eyes that made the air between us feel heavy.
"Management. You know how it goes. He likes the sound of his own authority." I focused on the next pour, watching the golden liquid swirl. "Besides, he's right. I crossed a line. It’s not the first time I’ve tried to multitask my way out of a corner."
"Being a mom and keeping a job like this isn't exactly a low-stakes game." He took a slow sip of his soda, his presence expanding until the rest of the bar seemed to recede into a blur of neon and noise. "How long have you been doing the balancing act?"
"Since Gabe was in diapers." The honesty slipped out before I could filter it.
Usually, I kept the 'single mom' talk for the back room, away from the guys looking for a carefree night.
But Michael didn't seem as though he was looking for an escape.
He was actually listening. "I’ve spent fifteen years trying to be in two places at once. Most days, I end up failing at both."
"I doubt that." He leaned in a fraction closer. "You shouldn't let people like Miller push you around. You're better than that. I can see it in the way you run this place."
A scoff escaped me, sharp and reflexive. "I'm a bartender with late rent and a kid who needs new skates every six months, Michael. 'Better than that' doesn't pay the bills. I keep my mouth shut because I have to."
The condensation on the team’s beers began to pool on the wood, the heads of foam slowly dissipating into flat, golden circles.
The drinks were getting warm. Across the room, I could see Hunter and a few other players glancing toward the bar, but Michael didn't budge.
He stayed anchored to the counter, his attention locked on me like I was the only play that mattered.
A flicker of Gabe’s warning from earlier today sparked in the back of my mind. You get that look. Was I being stupid? My track record was a graveyard of bad timing and men who mistook my resilience for an invitation to leave.
I looked at Michael and felt a wave of sheer exhaustion.
I was barely keeping the balls juggled as it was.
My life was a carefully curated house of cards, held together by willpower and caffeine.
Adding a man like him, with his spotlight and his quiet gravity, felt like bringing a hurricane into a cardboard box.
I didn't need a complication. I needed to finish my shift, go home, and figure out how to bake fifty more cookies before tomorrow.
But as the silence stretched between us, the black work shirt in my closet felt a thousand miles away, and the weight of his gaze was the only thing keeping me upright.
"Landry! You planning on playing for the Faucet next season, or are you actually going to bring those drinks over?"
The shout came from the booth, where Landon was leaning halfway into the aisle, waving a hand like a stranded castaway. A chorus of whistles and rhythmic table-thumping followed from the rest of the team.
Michael’s shoulders bunched as he offered a sheepish half-smile. He didn't look at the team; he looked at me, his gaze lingering for a second too long before he gathered the tray.
"Duty calls," he murmured.
"Go. Before they start a riot," I said, already turning to the sink to plunge a set of dirty rocks glasses into the soapy water.