14 - Kayla
Kayla
The floor of my living room had officially become a hazardous waste site.
Cardboard scraps, stray wires, and half-dried globs of hot glue created a minefield between the sofa and the TV.
In the center of the wreckage sat Gabe, hunched over a skeletal mess of plastic tubing and a battery pack that looked like it had been through a war.
"Gabe, if you just stabilize the base with the duct tape first, the hydraulic arm won't collapse every time you touch it," I said, trying to keep my voice in the 'supportive mom' register despite the fact that my lower back was screaming.
"The tape adds too much weight, Mom. It’s physics," Gabe snapped, not looking up. He shoved a piece of tubing into a joint with enough force to make the whole structure groan. "You’re thinking about it like a craft project. This is engineering."
"Engineering usually involves things staying upright," I countered, reaching for a rogue AA battery. "And 'physics' says that if the center of gravity is off, the whole thing is going to—"
Crunch.
The plastic arm folded like a lawn chair. Gabe let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob and shoved the entire model away from him. "Great. Now the seal is broken. It’s trash. The whole thing is trash."
"It’s not trash, it’s a setback. We just need to reset the—"
"I don't need a reset, I need you to stop hovering!" he shouted, his voice cracking in that jagged way that always signaled the end of his tether. "You don't know how the pressure valves work, and you’re just making me frustrated."
The sting of his words was familiar, a dull ache I’d learned to live with, but it didn't make the friction any easier to sand down. I opened my mouth to deliver a lecture on gratitude and tone, but a heavy, rhythmic thud at the door cut me off.
I scrambled up, wiping a streak of silver spray paint off my palm onto my jeans.
When I swung the door open, Michael was standing there, looking far too composed for the level of chaos he was about to enter.
He was wearing a plain black hoodie and jeans, carrying a small cardboard box that rattled when he moved.
"I was in the neighborhood," he said, his eyes crinkling in that way that made my pulse do a traitorous little skip. Then he looked past me at the living room floor. "Or maybe I just heard the structural integrity of a science project failing from three blocks away."
Gabe stiffened, his shoulders hiking up to his ears. "What’s he doing here?"
"He’s a friend, Gabe. Be polite," I said, stepping back to let Michael in.
Michael didn't miss a beat. He didn't wait for an invitation to the floor; he just shucked his boots, padded over in his socks, and sat down cross-legged a few feet from Gabe’s disaster zone. He didn't touch anything. He just looked.
"Hydraulic lift?" Michael asked quietly.
Gabe gave a curt, reluctant nod. "Pascal’s Law. Or it was supposed to be, before the valves started leaking."
"Pressure's a tricky thing," Michael murmured, reaching into the box he’d brought.
He pulled out a roll of industrial-grade electrical tape and a small tube of specialized sealant.
"Usually, when a play breaks down on the ice, it’s because someone tried to force a pass that wasn't there. You’re forcing the seal, Gabe.
You gotta let the tension settle before you lock it down. "
Gabe glared at the sealant. "I tried that. It didn't work."
"Try it with a brace," Michael suggested, picking up two popsicle sticks and aligning them with surgical precision against the weak joint. "Hold that right there. Don't push. Just hold."
To my absolute shock, Gabe didn't argue. He reached out and held the sticks.
I took the opening to escape to the kitchen, my heart thudding with a mix of relief and a strange, bubbling warmth.
I started assembly-lining snacks—hot chocolate with the good marshmallows and a plate of sliced apples and peanut butter.
When I navigated back into the room, balancing the tray, the atmosphere had shifted.
The shouting had been replaced by a low, rhythmic murmur.
"What’s with the snacks, Mom?" Gabe asked, his eyes never leaving the model as Michael carefully applied a bead of sealant. "Trying to show off the catering skills for the guest?"
"It’s called hospitality, Gabe. Eat an apple," I said, setting the tray down.
"Hospitality usually involves people you actually invited," Gabe muttered, but he reached for a slice anyway. He looked at Michael. "So, you just happened to have industrial sealant in your car?"
"I’m a hockey player," Michael said, his tone dry and effortless. "My life is held together by tape and medical-grade glue. You learn to keep a kit." He looked at the model, then at Gabe. "Okay, let go. Slowly."
Gabe released the sticks. The arm held. It didn't wobble, didn't groan. It sat there, perfectly aligned.
"Whoa," Gabe breathed, the angsty teenager mask slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal the kid who still liked when things worked.
"Organization beats effort every time," Michael said, leaning back on his elbows. He looked at the snacks I’d brought, then up at me. "Thanks, Kayla. The marshmallows are a nice touch. Very professional."
I leaned against the doorframe, watching them.
Michael had a way of exerting a quiet, steady discipline that I lacked.
I was all nervous energy and 'we can do it' platitudes; Michael was all 'measure twice, cut once' and calm logic.
He didn't talk down to Gabe. He talked to him like a teammate who was struggling with a drill.
"You’re pretty good at this," I said softly.
"I’ve spent fifteen years following a playbook," Michael replied, his eyes meeting mine over the wreckage. "Everything is just a series of small problems. You just have to tackle them one at a time."
"Whatever," Gabe chirped, grabbing his hot chocolate. "He’s just better at following instructions than you are, Mom. At least he didn't try to use duct tape on a pressure valve."
"I heard that!" I laughed, feeling a sudden, sharp pinch of gratitude.
For the next hour, I watched the two of them bring order to the chaos.
Michael had a dry, understated humor that seemed to bypass Gabe’s usual defenses.
When Gabe made a snarky comment about Michael’s 'old man' knees cracking as he shifted positions, Michael just told him that the cracks were actually the sound of wisdom escaping.
By the time the model was standing upright, functional, and actually looking like a piece of engineering, Gabe looked exhausted but satisfied. He didn't thank Michael, but he didn't tell him to leave, either.
"I have to call Tyler," Gabe said, moving to his bedroom. He stopped at the hallway, glancing back at Michael. "Thanks for the glue. I guess."
He vanished down the hall, leaving me alone with Michael in a room that felt suddenly very quiet and very small. I looked at the scraps of cardboard, the empty snack plate, the traces of a man who had walked into my chaos and made it make sense.
"You're a lifesaver," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I was about ten minutes away from a total meltdown. Both of us."
"He's a good kid, Kayla," Michael said, standing up and brushing the dust off his jeans. "He just wants to be the one in control. I know the feeling."
He looked at me, his presence filling the living room, and I realized my firm boundaries hadn't just taken a hit. They were currently lying in pieces on the floor, right next to the discarded popsicle sticks.
The living room was quiet now, the energy of the construction phase replaced by the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Gabe’s door clicking shut.
Michael stood in the center of the debris, looking less like a professional athlete and more like a man who had finally found a place to exhale.
"He’s got your stubbornness," Michael said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It’s a formidable defensive strategy."
"Tell me about it. I’ve been trying to break through that zone for three years," I sighed, finally sinking onto the sofa and patting the cushion next to me. "But thank you. Really. You didn't just save a science project, Michael. You saved my sanity for at least one evening."
He sat down, but he didn't lean back. He looked restless, his large hands clasped between his knees. "I’m glad I could help. Honestly, it was a welcome distraction. Things at the arena... they're getting complicated."
I tilted my head, studying the tension in his jaw. "Because of Grayson?"
"Because of the vacancy he left," Michael admitted, his voice dropping. "Coach pulled me aside before I left tonight. With Grayson out for the foreseeable future, the room is a mess. They need a captain, Kayla. They need someone to wear the 'C' for the rest of the run, and Coach wants it to be me."
I blinked, the weight of that statement settling over us. "Michael, that’s incredible. That’s exactly what Coach said you were. A leader. Why do you look like he just handed you a bill instead of a badge of honor?"
"Because I’ve been here for five minutes," he snapped, then immediately softened his tone. "Tucker, Cash, Mason… they’ve bled for this city. They’ve hoisted trophies together.
Bringing in a guy from the outside and pinning a captain’s patch on him?
It’s a recipe for a mutiny. I’m not sure I’m the guy they want to follow when the chips are down. "
I looked at him, and saw the man who had walked a stranger home in a circle, the man who had stood up to a drunk without throwing a punch, and the man who had just spent two hours patiently guiding my moody son through Pascal’s Law.
"Michael," I said, reaching out to brush his forearm. "Leadership isn't about tenure. It’s about who people look to when the lights go out. You’re already doing the job. You’re the one holding the line.
Don't apologize for being exactly what they need just because you haven't been here as long as the furniture. "
He looked at me, and for a second, the space between us felt charged with something far more potent than advice. "You’re a lot smarter than you let on, Kayla."
"I’m a mother," I joked, though my heart was racing. "I specialize in managing egos and preventing meltdowns."
Suddenly, the sharp, electronic trill of his phone shattered the moment. Michael jumped slightly, reaching into his pocket to dig the device out. As he twisted, his elbow caught the edge of the coffee table, and the hydraulic lift model we had worked so hard to stabilize.
The plastic arm didn't just fall, but it gave a sharp snap as the primary joint sheared off.
"Dammit," Michael hissed, silencing his phone without even looking at the caller ID. He shoved the device back into his pocket and dropped to the floor instantly. "I’m so sorry. I’m a clumsy idiot."
"It’s okay, it’s okay," I said, sliding off the couch to join him on the carpet. "It’s just one joint. We still have the sealant out."
We huddled together over the wreckage, our heads nearly touching as we tried to realign the tubing. It was a delicate operation, requiring four hands and a lot of whispered coordination.
"Hold that side... no, the other way," I whispered, laughing as our fingers tangled. "You’re a surgeon on the ice, Michael. Act like it."
"The puck doesn't usually leak blue dyed water," he countered, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Okay, apply the pressure. Now."
We were both grinning, the proximity making the air feel electric and light, when the hallway light flickered. Gabe stood there, his hoodie pulled up, watching us with an icy expression.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice flat.
"We’re just fixing a little snag, Gabe," I said, trying to keep the cheer in my voice as I sat back. "Michael’s elbow had a disagreement with the table."
Gabe didn't move. He looked at the model, then at the way Michael and I were sitting on the floor together, and his jaw tightened. "Don't bother. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not doing the hydraulic lift."
I froze. "What? Gabe, it’s finished. It’s perfect. It’s due on Tuesday."
"It's garbage," he spat, stepping into the room. "I just saw Tyler’s post on Instagram. He made a working robotic arm with a Raspberry Pi controller. My project looks like something a first-grader made out of trash. All my friends are going to see it and think I’m some pathetic kid who needs. .. help."
He threw a pointed, venomous look at Michael.
"Gabe, you worked hard on this," Michael said, his voice calm. "It’s about the mechanics, not the flash. Tyler’s project may be great, but yours shows the fundamental principles. It’s a solid piece of work."
"I don't care about the principles!" Gabe shouted, the surliness boiling over into a full-blown tantrum. "I want to do something cooler. I want to do something that doesn't look like my mom and her stupid friend spent all day gluing sticks together."
"Gabriel, that is enough," I said, my voice rising. "We are not starting over. You are going to take this model, and you’re going to be proud of it."
"Why don't you take it to work then, Mom?" Gabe snapped, then turned his fury on Michael. "And since you’re so good at giving advice nobody asked for. Why don't you go back to the arena and worry about your own failing career instead of trying to play dad in my living room?"
The air left the room. It was a low blow. Cruel and calculated in the way only a teenager can be.
"Gabe!" I gasped, horrified.
Michael stood up slowly, his face carefully blank, though I saw the flinch in his eyes. "Gabe, I’m just trying to—"
"I don't care what you're trying to do!" Gabe roared. He stepped forward and, before I could scream, he kicked the model. Hard.
The plastic shattered. The blue water sprayed across the carpet. The weeks of work, the hours of bonding, and the fragile peace Michael had built were reduced to a pile of wet plastic and splinters in a single second.
"There!" Gabe screamed, his chest heaving. "Now it's as broken as everything else!"
He spun on his heel and stormed out the front door, slamming it so hard the pictures on the walls rattled.
The silence that followed was deafening. I looked at the blue stain on the rug, then up at Michael, who stood there like a man who had just watched a game-winning goal get waived off. My boundaries weren't just gone; the whole house felt like it was crumbling.