16 - Kayla #2
"Then what?" Michael pushed, his elbow nudging mine. "If Gabe hits the NHL and hands you a blank check, what’s the dream? No more Leaky Faucet. No more Miller breathing down your neck. What does Kayla do when she’s not being a superhero for everyone else?"
I tried to shrug it off. "I don't daydream, Michael. It’s a waste of mental energy."
"Indulge me. One fantasy. Professional curiosity."
I looked at him, seeing the genuine interest in his eyes, and felt a sudden, terrifying crack in my resolve. The "gooey center" I’d been trying to freeze over since the 3:00 AM debacle was starting to thaw.
"I’d want my own place," I whispered, the words feeling heavy and strange.
"Not a dive bar. A real pub. Something with dark wood that smells like wax and good whiskey. A kitchen that puts out one signature dish—the kind of shepherd's pie that people drive across the state for. And a bar with one signature drink that’s mine. A place where the lighting is actually warm and people come because they want to feel like they’re part of something, not just because they want to get hammered. "
I felt my face heating up and I gave a sharp, embarrassed laugh, shaking my head. "God, listen to me. I sound like a cliché."
"Where everybody knows your name?" Michael joked, his voice light and teasing.
I slapped his arm, harder than I intended. "Shut up! See? This is why I don't talk. It's stupid."
"It’s not stupid," Michael said, his tone shifting instantly to something fierce and sincere. He caught my hand for a brief second before I could pull it away, his thumb grazing my knuckles. "It’s a great dream, Kayla. And honestly? I can see it. You behind a bar you actually own? You’d run that place like a general.
I’d be an honored regular. I’d have my own stool and I’d tell everyone the owner is the toughest, smartest woman in San Antonio. "
I looked at him, and for a heartbeat, I actually saw it. I saw the dark wood. I saw him sitting there, older, calmer, looking at me not through the fog of a shift, but through the clarity of a shared life. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest.
Then, the reality of the cold rink air rushed back in. I pulled my hand back, tucking it into my pockets.
"It’s just a story, Michael," I said, my voice regaining its edge. "In the real world, I’m broke, I’m exhausted, and I have a teenager who needs to pass chemistry and stay out of trouble. I don't have the time or the capital for some day."
Michael straightened up, his eyes lingering on mine for a second longer than necessary. "You’d be surprised what broke and busy can accomplish when it has a reason to move."
He gave me a final, lingering look that told me he wasn't done with the fantasy, even if I was, and then he turned toward the gate.
"Duty calls," he said, gesturing to the rest of the team who were already congregating at the center of the ice for the exhibition. "Watch the kid, Kayla. I’m telling you, he’s got the spark."
I watched him skate away, his movements powerful and effortless as he joined the circle of jerseys.
He looked back once, a quick flash of a smile, before he merged into the chaos of the game.
I stood there alone by the glass, the ghost of his touch still tingling on my hand, feeling the walls of my carefully constructed life start to feel a little too small.
I stayed by the glass for a few more minutes, my breath hitching as I watched the dynamic on the ice shift. The professional players were supposed to be "hosting" the clinic, but Michael had drifted toward the far circle where Gabe was currently trying to replicate a backhand saucer pass.
Michael didn't swoop in like a coach; he just glided alongside him, his movements synchronized with Gabe’s.
He said something that made Gabe pause, and for the first time in a week, my son didn't look like he wanted to bite someone’s head off.
He listened. He nodded. Then, with a gentle correction from Michael’s stick against his, Gabe tried the pass again.
It was perfect.
The look on Gabe’s face shook something loose in my chest. All the anger I’d been nursing since three in the morning, all the righteous fury about broken rules and lost trust, just..
. dissolved. It was hard to hold onto a grudge when someone was giving your kid the one thing you couldn't: a glimpse of his own potential.
When the whistle finally blew to signal the end of the session, the kids scrambled for the gates. Michael hopped the boards, landing with a heavy thud on the rubber matting, and found me near the churro stall.
"Okay," I said, handing him a napkin as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "I’m officially calling a truce. The 'death sentence' is commuted to time served."
Michael’s eyes lit up, a genuine, relieved warmth spreading across his face. "Does that mean I’m allowed within twenty feet of the apartment again?"
"Don't push your luck, Landry," I teased, though the edge was gone from my voice.
Gabe and his friends were already ten yards ahead of us, a loud, clattering pack of testosterone and hockey tape.
I started walking, trailing them at a distance that screamed 'I'm not following you, I'm just walking in the same direction.
' Michael fell in beside me, his long gait easily matching my stride.
"You're doing that thing again," he noted, nodding toward the boys. "The secret service tail. You’re like a high-stakes bodyguard for a kid who just wants to buy a giant pretzel."
"It’s called parenting, Michael. You should try it sometime. It involves a lot of calculated hovering."
"It involves a lot of control," he countered, his tone playful. "You’ve got the kid on a leash that’s about two inches long.
You need to let him breathe, Kayla. At his age, I was already living in a billet house halfway across the country, making my own breakfast and getting into trouble in three different provinces. "
I stopped at a stall selling handmade leather goods, pretending to inspect a belt just so I could keep my eye on Gabe’s neon green hat in the distance.
"I’m not controlling. I’m careful. There’s a difference.
I know my son. If I give him a finger, he’ll take the whole hand, the arm, and probably the keys to the car I don't even own yet. "
I looked up at him, a mischievous glint in my eyes. "I wasn't always the Queen of the Faucet with a mortgage and a bedtime, you know. I was a teenager once. I know exactly how the game is played because I wrote the manual."
Michael leaned against the wooden frame of the stall, his interest piqued. "Wait. Are you telling me there’s a version of Kayla that wasn't organized and responsible? A rebel Kayla? God forbid... a fun Kayla?"
"I was a nightmare," I admitted, laughing at the memory. "I was the girl who snuck out of windows, stayed at bonfires until sunrise, and thought speed limits were merely suggestions. My mother aged twenty years between my eighteenth birthday."
Michael stared at me, his gaze traveling over my face as if he were trying to find traces of that wild girl in the woman standing before him. "I’m having a hard time picturing it. You seem so…"
"Life has a way of packing the soil around you when you have someone else to grow," I said, my voice softening. "But I know the look in Gabe’s eye. It’s the same look I had. That’s why the leash is two inches long. I know exactly what’s on the other side of that fence."
"Well, you can't cage him in forever," Michael said. He looked toward Gabe, who was currently laughing at something Tyler said, his hockey stick slung over his shoulder like a scepter. "He’s got a lot of that fire in his game. It’s what makes him fast. It’s what makes him dangerous on the ice."
We walked in silence for a moment, the sun finally breaking through the fog and glinting off the ice-melt on the pavement. Michael cleared his throat, his posture shifting into something a bit more tentative.
"He’s got the raw goods, Kayla," he said, looking at me sideways. "But he’s green. He’s making mistakes with his edge-work that are going to get him crushed when he moves up to the next division.
I was thinking... if you’re okay with it.
.. maybe I could work on his game with him?
One-on-one. No team, no pressure. Just some drills at the public sessions. "
I stopped walking, the gravity of the request settling over me. He wasn't just asking to coach a kid; he was asking for a permanent seat at the table. He was asking to be the person Gabe looked to, the person I had to trust.
I looked at Michael—the man who had ruined a science project, stayed out too late, and then spent his morning making my son feel like a hero. I looked ahead at Gabe, who was finally, for the first time in months, standing tall.
"You're asking the wrong person," I said, a small, knowing smile touching my lips. "I’m just the bodyguard. If you want to get into the inner circle, you’re going to have to ask Gabe that question yourself."