17 - Michael
Michael
The blue stain on the carpet was still there.
A ghostly, cyan reminder of the night I’d let a fifteen-year-old’s temper and my own lack of boundaries wreck a week’s worth of work.
It mocked me as I stood in the hallway of the apartment building, balancing two oversized cardboard boxes and a hardware store bag that was digging a trench into my index finger.
I hadn't called. Calling gave her the chance to say no, and it gave Gabe the chance to vanish. I was a man with a plan, and in the playoffs, you don’t wait for an invitation to the puck; you go to where it’s going to be.
I kicked the door with the toe of my sneaker. A muffled "Coming!" drifted through the wood, followed by the metallic slide of a deadbolt.
Kayla opened the door, her hair pulled into a messy knot, a streak of something that looked like flour on her cheek. Her eyes went wide, sweeping from my face to the mountain of supplies in my arms.
"Michael?" she breathed, her hand frozen on the frame. "What are you... I didn't think you were coming by today."
"I’m a veteran. I don't leave a man behind on the battlefield," I said, hitching the boxes higher. "Especially not when the battlefield is covered in blue dye and broken plastic. Is the client in?"
She stepped back, a wary but grateful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "He’s in his room, probably trying to convince himself that a shattered model is 'abstract art.' He’s already three days late with the project. Michael, don't get your hopes up. He’s in a mood."
"I’ve dealt with locker room slumps worse than a teenager’s mood," I said, walking into the living room and clearing a space on the coffee table with my hip. "Gabe! Front and center! We’ve got a deadline!"
A door creaked open down the hall. Gabe emerged, looking like he’d been pulled out of a bunker. He saw me, then he saw the boxes, and his entire posture went rigid. "What’s this? I told my mom I was just gonna glue the old one. It doesn't matter."
"The old one is fish food, Gabe," I said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a roll of heavy-duty copper wire and a set of pulleys.
"And 'gluing it back together' is the hockey equivalent of putting tape on a broken blade. It might look okay, but it’s going to fail the second you put pressure on it. "
Gabe crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "So what? You bought a kit? I’m not doing some store-bought volcano."
"I didn't buy a kit. I bought components," I countered, meeting his defiant gaze with a steady, unbothered look.
"We aren't rebuilding the lift. We’re building a Rube Goldberg machine. Cause and effect. Physics in motion. And before you tell me it’s for kids, I should tell you that this one has a very specific, very loud finale. "
Gabe’s eyes flickered with a spark of genuine curiosity he tried desperately to smother. "What kind of finale?"
"The hockey kind," I said, dangling a small, high-tension spring in front of him. "But if you want to see how it works, you have to be the lead engineer. I’m just the hired muscle and the guy with the expensive glue."
Kayla hovered in the kitchen doorway, watching us like she was waiting for an explosion. I gave her a quick wink and turned back to her son.
"Well?" I challenged. "You want to turn in a bag of broken plastic, or do you want to show your teacher what happens when a Surge captain helps with the homework?"
Gabe hesitated, his pride warring with the undeniable lure of building something that involved "a loud finale." Finally, he let out a long, dramatic sigh and trudged over to the table. "Fine. But if it sucks, I'm telling everyone it was your idea."
"Deal," I grinned. "Clear the floor. We need a six-foot run."
For the next hour, the apartment transformed into a laboratory of controlled chaos.
We started with the foundation—a series of inclined planes made from sanded plywood slats.
I watched Gabe’s hands; they were steady, precise.
He had the soul of a defenseman, someone who cared about the structure before the flare.
"Why the copper wire?" Gabe asked, stripping a section of casing with a pair of pliers I’d brought. "The marble isn't heavy enough to trigger a lever with that much tension."
"That’s because the marble isn't the trigger," I said, sorting through a pile of metal washers.
"Then what is? And how does the hockey part come in? You keep saying 'hockey' but all I see is a bunch of junk from Home Depot."
"Patience, rookie," I said, a dry chuckle escaping me.
"In a Rube Goldberg, the beauty is the suspense. If I tell you the ending now, you’ll stop paying attention to the transition.
And in hockey, the transition is everything.
Now, help me rig this counterweight. We need the marble to hit this switch with exactly enough force to release the 'secret weapon' at the end. "
Kayla moved around us like a ghost, appearing every twenty minutes with reinforcements.
First, it was a plate of grilled cheese triangles that smelled like buttery heaven, then it was tall glasses of iced tea.
She didn't hover, and she didn't offer advice.
She just kept us fueled, her eyes lingering on the way Gabe was actually leaning in toward me, his shoulder occasionally brushing mine as we debated the angle of a ramp.
"The secret weapon is a puck, isn't it?" Gabe asked, eyeing a small, circular weight I’d tucked into my pocket.
"Maybe. Maybe it’s a tiny, motorized Zamboni," I teased. "Or maybe it’s a miniature version of Landon’s ego that’s so heavy it triggers the whole floor to collapse."
Gabe actually snorted, a real, genuine sound of amusement. "Landon’s ego wouldn't fit in this apartment."
"Exactly. That’s why we’re using physics instead."
By the time we reached the mid-point of the build, the machine was a sprawling, beautiful mess of wire, wood, and gravity. We had a marble that rolled down a ramp, triggered a falling book, which pulled a string, which released a pendulum.
"It's missing something," Gabe said, biting his lip as he looked at the gap between the pendulum and the final trigger. "The momentum dies there. We need a boost."
"That’s where you come in," I said, handing him a small, high-velocity fan motor I’d salvaged. "Figure out how to wire this so the pendulum hits the 'on' switch. If you can do that, I’ll show you the finale."
I stood back, watching him dive into the wiring with a focus that reminded me of myself at that age—hungry for a win, desperate to prove I could make the pieces fit. I looked at Kayla, who was leaning against the counter, a soft, misty look in her eyes as she watched her son work.
I’d come here to fix a project, but as the marble did its first test run, I realized I was doing something much more important.
I was showing Gabe that I wasn't just a guest in his house; I was a teammate.
And in this room, just like on the ice, we were finally starting to move in the same direction.
"Truce for tacos?" Kayla asked, sliding a plate of carnitas toward the center of the table.
The structural phase was done, and the living room looked like a mad scientist’s workshop. Gabe and I collapsed into the chairs, our fingers dusted with wood shavings and phantom traces of superglue. For a few minutes, the only sound was the crunch of shells and the hum of the fridge.
"So," I said, leaning back and wiping my hands on a napkin. "The scouts are going to be looking at the 16-U brackets next month. You thinking about the junior tryouts?"
Gabe shrugged, his eyes glued to his plate. "I don’t know. Hockey’s whatever. Just something to do so I’m not stuck in the apartment."
I let out a short, dry laugh. "Whatever? Gabe, I’ve seen you in Box 204. I’ve seen you look at Landon like he’s a god and at the ice like it’s the only place you can breathe. And more importantly, I saw you bury that puck at the charity event. You don’t make a move like that if it’s 'whatever.'"
Gabe’s fork paused mid-air. He didn't look up, but the tips of his ears turned a sharp pink.
"You've got a ceiling higher than this building," I continued, my voice dropping into that steady, locker-room gravity. "But you’re raw. You’re playing on instinct, which gets you far, but it won't get you to the League. I’d be honored to mentor you, if you’re game."
Gabe was quiet for a long beat. Then, he looked up, his expression guarded but curious. "What exactly is a... mentor?"
Beside us, I felt Kayla go still. I caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes, the realization that despite his bravado, there were still basic gaps in his world. I kept my face neutral, treating the question with the respect it deserved.
"It means I’m your shortcut," I said. "I spend time with you on the ice. I show you how to read a defenseman’s hips before he even knows where he’s pivoting.
I help you refine the grit so the talent actually shines.
I get you ready so that when you walk into those tryouts, the coaches aren't looking at anyone else. "
Gabe processed this, a slow nod escaping him. "Okay. Yeah. I guess that’s... cool."
The "whatever" was officially dead. When we got back to the project, the floodgates opened.
Gabe peppered me with questions: what the travel was like, if the trainers really used smelling salts, how much it hurt to block a slap shot from a guy like Grayson.
I rode the wave, fueling his excitement with stories of the road while we rigged the final trigger.
"Okay, the moment of truth," I said, standing up and dusting off my knees. "Go fetch your stick."
Gabe’s eyes widened. "In the house?"
"In the house," I confirmed, glancing at Kayla. She looked like she wanted to protest, but the honest joy on Gabe’s face silenced her.
I placed a small, portable hockey net at the start of the run, rigged with a pressure-sensitive plate. I handed Gabe a puck. "If you sink this, the vibration hits the plate, releases the marble, and sets off the whole chain. If you miss, we’re just two guys with a pile of junk on the floor."
Gabe gripped his stick, his posture changing instantly. He took a breath, centered himself, and snapped a quick, precise wrist shot.
Clack.
The puck hit the back of the small net. The plate dropped.
The marble spiraled down the copper wire, triggered the falling books, which yanked the string, which swung the pendulum, which finally flipped the switch on the fan.
The fan blew a small toy sailboat across a tray of water, which tipped a final lever, popping a confetti popper right at the finish line.
"Yes!" Gabe yelled, throwing his arms up. I met him halfway with a high five that echoed through the room.
"Michael, that was incredible," Kayla said, stepping forward. She wasn't just looking at the machine; she was looking at me, her expression soft and genuinely impressed. "I’ve never seen him this into a school project. Ever."
"It's just physics, Mom," Gabe chirped, already pulling out his phone. "Hold on, I gotta reset it and film a clip for Tyler. He’s gonna lose his mind when he sees the puck trigger."
As Gabe busied himself with the reset, Kayla shifted on her feet, her hands tucked into her back pockets. She looked down at the floor, then up at me, a shy, hesitant smile touching her lips. "So... I was going to put some pasta on. Do you... do you want to stay for dinner?"
My heart slammed against my ribs. Every instinct I had told me to say yes, to sit at that table, to be part of the warmth radiating from this kitchen. I wanted to see her hair down and hear her laugh without the hum of the bar in the background.
But I knew the play. I knew that if I pushed too hard, the walls would go back up.
"I’d love to take a raincheck, Kayla," I said, forcing a casual tone I didn't feel. "I’ve got some film to review at home and a few things to take care of."
The look of disappointment that flashed across her face was fleeting, but it was there. A small, beautiful sign that she had actually wanted me to stay. It was the best victory of the night.
"Oh. Sure. Of course," she said, her voice a little higher than usual. "Let me see you out."
We walked to the door in a silence that felt heavy with things unsaid. I stepped out into the hallway, then turned back. Kayla was standing in the doorway, the light from the apartment framing her, her eyes searching mine.
The air between us pulled tight. I leaned in, just an inch, and for a second, I saw her breath hitch. Her eyes fluttered shut, her chin tilting up—the magnet was finally winning. Our lips were heartbeats apart when she suddenly blinked, the clarity returning to her gaze like a splash of cold water.
She pulled back, clearing her throat and smoothing her shirt. "We’re... we’re good as friends, Michael," she whispered, her voice shaky. "I don't want to mess that up. And Gabe... he’s going through so much. I can’t confuse him right now."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and gave her a slow, understanding nod. "I get it, Kayla. Friends."
"Goodnight, Michael."
"Goodnight."
The door closed, the lock clicking into place. I stood in the hallway, the silence of the building settling over me. I’d won the kid over, I’d built a masterpiece out of junk, and I’d almost kissed the woman of my dreams.
Progress. Slow, agonizing, playoff-style progress. I headed for the stairs, already planning the next "friend" move.