10 - Kayla
Kayla
The humidity of the city in the small hours wasn't just weather.
It was a physical weight, a warm, damp blanket that smelled of rain-slicked asphalt and the fading scent of diesel.
The city was winding down, the hum of activity near the arena replaced by the steady, rhythmic chirping of crickets in the overgrown lots.
Michael walked beside me, his large frame a silent, comforting barrier between me and the empty street. He didn't know where I lived, but was happy just following my lead, his hands deep in his pockets, his stride matching mine with an easy, unhurried grace.
"He’s at that age where he thinks he’s invented rebellion," I said, leaning into the strap of my bag as we passed a darkened auto-body shop. "Gabe isn't a bad kid. He’s just... he’s spent a lot of years watching me work. For everything. I think he’s decided if he acts like he doesn't need me, it makes it easier for both of us. "
"Independence is a survival mechanism," he murmured. He kicked a stray pebble, watching it skitter into the gutter. "I get it. I spent my twenties pretending I didn't need anything but a fast sheet of ice and a contract."
"And now?" I glanced up at him. The glow of a streetlamp caught the silver at his temples, making him look less like a star athlete and more like a man trying to find his bearings.
"Now the ice is getting smaller," he admitted, his voice dropping into that low, honest register that always seemed to bypass my defenses. "I look at guys like Hunter. He’s got the house, the wife in the stands wearing his jersey. I spent my whole career chasing a silver cup and a higher PPG, and I woke up this morning realizing I never actually built anything else. Everyone our age is already halfway through the book, Kayla. They have the families, the history. I’m just..
. here. A high-mileage rental with nowhere to park. "
There was a raw, quiet vulnerability in his words that caught me off guard. It wasn't a play for pity; it was the sound of a man realizing he’d traded his best years for a dream that didn't have a porch light waiting for him at the end of the night.
"You haven't missed the boat, Michael," I said, though my voice felt thin. "You just took a different route."
"Maybe. But the water's getting cold." He gave a small, self-deprecating tilt of his head. "I look at you, even with the challenges of work and a surly teenager, and I can't help but feel like I'm the one who’s been on the outside looking in."
I wanted to say something profound, something that would bridge the gap between my messy, overworked reality and his gilded loneliness, but my stomach chose that exact moment to let out a loud, traitorous growl that echoed off the brick wall beside us.
I froze, my face heating up instantly. "Oh, God. Ignore that. I’m so sorry."
Michael’s laugh broke the heavy gloom of his confession. "Was that you, or is there a localized thunderstorm I didn’t know about?"
"I haven't eaten since noon," I muttered, shielding my face with my hand. "Stacy burned the staff meal, and I can't look at another basket of pretzels without wanting to cry. I was planning on a very sad bowl of cereal when I got home."
Michael scanned the street, his eyes landing on a neon sign two blocks up that buzzed with a flickering pink energy. Los Alamos Deli it was thundering, an urgent demand against my ribs.
I looked up at him, my eyes locking onto his, and found a heat there that made the night air feel like ice water.
His thumb didn't pull away, the pad of his skin pressing against the sensitive curve of my mouth. His gaze dropped to my lips, pupils blown wide, and for a split second, the five-year plan felt like a lie I’d told a stranger.
My breathing went shallow, my lips parting just enough to let out a shaky exhale that brushed against his skin.
The electricity was a live wire between us, a magnetic pull so strong I could feel my heels wanting to lift off the ground.
We were kidding ourselves. That was becoming more and more obvious.
But then the spell snapped. Michael’s thumb twitched, and his gaze was suddenly ripped away from mine, his brow furrowing as he looked at the building directly behind me.
"Wait," he said, the intensity in his eyes replaced by a sudden, jarring confusion. He looked at the street sign, then back at the building, at the familiar dark-wood entrance we had just spent forty-five minutes walking away from. "Why are we back at the bar?”
I bit my lip, the ghost of his touch still tingling there.
"We walked in a literal three-mile circle," he said, gesturing to the dark windows of the bar. "I thought... I thought we were going to your place. I thought I was being the chivalrous guy walking you home."
I shifted my bag on my shoulder, a small, sheepish smile playing on my face. "My apartment is actually the second floor of the bar. The entrance is in the alley."
He stared at me, his mouth hanging open as the realization hit him. "You let me walk you for an hour... to a place we were already standing at? I felt like a hero, Kayla. I was narrating my own protector movie in my head."
"You looked so determined," I laughed, the tension breaking into something light and playful. "And honestly? I didn't have the heart to tell you. I was enjoying the conversation too much to let it end after thirty seconds. It wasn't a waste, Landry. Not for me."
Michael let out a huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at the sidewalk, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his collar. "I’m a total dufus. Supposed to be a vet, but I can't even navigate a single city block without getting played."
"It was a very scenic three miles," I teased.
I stepped in close again and rose up on my tiptoes to press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, my skin lingering against the stubble of his jaw just long enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
"Goodnight, Michael. Try not to get lost on the way to your car."
I turned before I could see his reaction, heading for the shadows of the alleyway.
I climbed the metal stairs, the clang of my boots echoing in the quiet night, and didn't look back until I reached the top landing. When I finally glanced down, he was still standing there on the sidewalk, staring up at my window like a man who had just realized the long game was going to be a lot more complicated than he’d imagined.