16 - Kayla
Kayla
The morning air at the municipal rink was crisp, cutting through the fog with the scent of shaved ice and fried dough.
The parking lot had been transformed into a carnival for the Surge for Schools charity drive.
Brightly colored stalls lined the perimeter, hawking everything from oversized foam fingers to artisanal churros that smelled like heaven and cardiac arrest.
I tore off a piece of a warm, salt-crusted pretzel, savoring the doughy heat. Beside me, Gabe was vibrating. He hadn’t stopped shifting his weight from foot to foot since we’d pulled into the lot.
"Mom, seriously, the open skate started ten minutes ago," he groaned, his hockey bag slung over one shoulder like a heavy burden he was dying to carry. "Everyone’s already out there. Tyler, Leo... even that kid from Northside who thinks he’s a god."
"The open skate is four hours long, Gabe.
Relax," I said, taking another deliberate bite of the pretzel.
"And let’s not forget that you are technically still grounded.
The only reason your skates are even in this zip code is because the proceeds go to the youth center.
Consider this a supervised field trip from your room. "
Gabe rolled his eyes so hard I thought he might see his own brain. "At this point, I am the youth center, Mom. I’m a charity case. Have some pity on me and let me go. I’ve been staring at the same four walls for three days."
The surliness was there, sure, but so was that raw, desperate itch to be on the ice. It was the only place where he didn't feel like a kid in a cramped apartment with a mother who worried too much.
"Fine," I sighed, waving a hand toward the rink entrance. "Go. But if I see you doing anything more dangerous than a basic power-turn, you’re back in the car."
He took off at a gallop, his sticks clattering against his side as he disappeared into the swarm of teenagers near the gate. I followed at a much more sedate pace, finishing my pretzel and trying to ignore the way my stomach tightened as I approached the main arena.
The Surge were out in force. They were the stars of the show, dressed in their practice jerseys, looking like titans among the local kids. As I skirted the edge of the boards, I ran into a cluster of them near the player’s bench.
"Well, if it isn't the Queen of the Faucet," Landon called out, leaning his elbows on the glass.
He grinned, his eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief.
"Tell me you brought a cooler, Kayla. We’re out here doing manual labor for the children.
We need to stay hydrated. A couple of cold ones would really help the community spirit. "
"You’re in a public rink at noon, Landon," I shot back, not missing a beat. "The only thing I’ve got for you is a lecture on professional conduct and a half-eaten pretzel. Want a piece?"
"Brutal," Mason chuckled, bumping Landon’s shoulder. "See? I told you she wouldn't break character just because we're in the sunlight."
I offered them a sharp, practiced smile and kept moving, but I knew the gravity of the room was already shifting. I could feel him before I saw him.
Michael stood apart from the others, leaning against a support pillar near the glass. He wasn't joking around with the guys. He was watching the ice, his expression unreadable until he caught sight of me. He pushed off the pillar and drifted toward me, his movements slow and deliberate.
"Kayla," he said. His voice landed softly beneath the shouting of the kids and the scrape of blades on ice.
"Michael," I replied curtly. I kept my eyes on the rink, watching a swarm of ten-year-olds chase a puck like a pack of hungry wolves.
"I’m sorry. Again," he said. "I know I’ve said it four times in text, but I wanted to say it where I could see you. I let the clock get away from me. I let the moment get away from me."
"You can stop apologizing," I said, my voice flat and final. I turned to look at him, keeping my arms crossed tightly over my chest. "I’m not mad at you anymore, Michael. I’m mad at myself. I knew better than to go against my own rule. I let my guard down because I wanted things to be easy, and that’s a luxury I don't have. "
Michael shifted, his brow furrowing. "Your rule? You mean the one where you treat everyone like a potential threat to your son’s GPA? Kayla, that isn't a rule. It’s a death sentence. You’re burying yourself alive in that apartment."
I felt the heat rise in my neck, a sharp, stinging anger that had nothing to do with the cold air of the rink. I turned on him, my eyes narrowing into daggers. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he said, standing his ground. "You’re so busy protecting him from the world that you’re forgetting to let him live in it. One late night isn't going to ruin his life."
"Oh, I’m sorry," I hissed, stepping closer until I could see the flecks of gray in his eyes.
"Are you seriously questioning my parenting methods right now?
The man who has spent the last few decades living in hotels and chasing a rubber disk?
The man who doesn't have a single soul depending on him for their dinner or their future? You have no idea what it’s like to be the only person standing between a kid and the edge of the world.
Don't you dare tell me how to build my walls. "
The moment was taut, a wire pulled to the breaking point. Michael looked like he wanted to reach out, to argue, to defend his logic, but the air was suddenly punctured by a massive, unified roar from the ice.
"Yeah! Let's go!"
The sound was deafening, the kind of cheer that only happens when someone pulls off something spectacular. Michael and I both snapped our heads toward the rink.
Near the far circles, Gabe was a blur of motion. He’d intercepted a pass, executed a lightning-fast toe-drag that left two defenders tangled in their own skates, and snapped a wrist shot that whistled into the top corner of the net before the goalie even moved his glove.
He didn't look at the other kids. He looked straight at the glass where we were standing, a brief, triumphant flash of white teeth visible beneath his cage before he turned to skate back.
"He's been practicing that move," Michael murmured, the tension in his voice replaced by a sudden, involuntary pride.
I didn't answer. I just watched my son, my heart a confusing mess of anger, fear, and a pride so sharp it hurt. I had built the walls to keep him safe, but watching him out there, I realized the world was already finding a way in.
The whistle blew, but the ringing in my ears was the sound of my own heart thumping against my ribs. On the ice, Gabe was already circling back, his jersey flapping like a cape, the lean muscle of his legs driving him with a fluid power I hadn't realized he possessed.
"Did you see that?" Michael’s voice was no longer a low, cautious rumble; it was bright, sharp with the kind of adrenaline usually reserved for a game-winning goal in the finals.
He stepped closer to the glass, his breath fogging the cold surface.
"Kayla, did you see the way he shifted his weight?
That wasn't a lucky bounce. That was a high-level read. He manipulated the defender’s gap and exploited the high-blocker side before the goalie even set his feet. "
I leaned back against a cold metal railing, trying to maintain my scowl. "He’s a teenager with too much energy, Michael. Don't make it sound like he’s performing heart surgery."
"In this rink? It is surgery," Michael countered, turning to me with a grin that was dangerously infectious. He looked younger in the harsh fluorescent light of the arena, less like a weary veteran and more like a kid who had just seen a magic trick. "He’s got vision. Natural, unteachable vision. You put that kid in a proper development program, get him some power-skating drills to refine that stride... God, Kayla, he could actually have a shot. I’m talking Tier 1, maybe even a look from the scouts in a couple of years. "
The standoffish mom in me wanted to shut him down. I wanted to remind him that Gabe’s "development program" currently consisted of me working double shifts so he could have decent skates and a helmet that actually passed safety standards.
"Don't do that," I said, my voice tight. "Don't start building castles in the air. We live in a two-bedroom apartment above a bar, not a scout’s highlight reel. And besides, even if he did hit it big, it’s delusional to think this is your 'in' with him."
Michael’s smile faltered, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "My 'in'?"
"You think if you talk hockey with him, or tell him he’s a superstar, he’s suddenly going to stop being a prickly, defensive wall of angst?
" I let out a dry, hollow laugh. "Michael, the kid doesn't even like me, and I’m the one who carried him for nine months and pays for his data plan. He’s not looking for a mentor. He’s looking for a target. "
"That's not true, Kayla," Michael said softly, his enthusiasm settling into something more grounded, more observant. "He loves you. It’s written all over him, even when he’s being a brat."
"It feels true most of the time," I admitted, the words slipping out before I could catch them. I looked away, focusing on a stray puck sliding across the neutral zone. "It feels like I'm a roommate he’s counting down the days to escape from."
Michael didn't push. He just stood there, his presence a warm weight beside me. "Well, if he goes pro, you won't have to worry about the rent. You could retire. Move to a beach. Buy a fleet of those fancy SUVs you see in the suburbs."
"I'm not a beach person," I muttered. "And I don't think I’d know how to 'retire.' My hands would probably start shaking if they weren't holding a tray or a rag."