19 - Michael
Michael
The air in Denver always felt like it was trying to starve your lungs.
It was thin, crisp, and carried the scent of hard-won mountain oxygen and the looming threat of the Avalanche’s speed.
But inside the visitor’s locker room, the atmosphere was thick with something else entirely: pure, unadulterated intent.
It was an early Saturday start, a matinee that felt more like a street fight in the sun.
The room was a controlled riot of pre-game rituals.
Tucker was obsessively re-taping his stick for the fourth time, Mason bounced a soccer ball off his knees in the hallway, and the heavy bass of Landon’s playlist was vibrating the steel benches.
"Hey, Cap," Landon shouted over the music, tossing a roll of clear tape at my chest. "You look like you’re ready to hunt. Or like you haven't slept. Either way, I like the energy."
I caught the tape instinctively, my mind a broken map of the last forty-eight hours.
The image of Kayla walking away from the lake, was burned into my retinas.
I’d spent the flight to Colorado staring at a blank phone screen, realizing that performance only got me so far.
On the ice, the crowd loved the show. In the real world, the show was exactly what had cost me everything.
"I'm fine, Landon," I said, my voice sounding like gravel. "Let’s just get the win so we can get on that plane."
"That's the spirit!" Coach said, stepping into the center of the room.
He looked at each of us, his eyes landing on the 'C' on my jersey. "Listen up. We are sixty minutes away from a handshake line and a flight home. Colorado is going to come out flying. They’re at home, they’re desperate, and they think they can outrun us.
Landry, Shawn—I want that second line to be a physical nightmare for them.
Grind them down. Make them hate every inch of the neutral zone. "
We hit the ice to a wall of boos that felt like a shot of adrenaline. The Avalanche didn't disappoint. From the first puck drop, it was a track meet. MacKinnon was a blur of white and burgundy, cutting through our defense like a hot wire through wax.
"Landry! High slot!" Mason yelled as we crossed the blue line five minutes into the first.
I saw the opening. I didn't wait for the puck to settle. I took a hard pass from the wall, pivoted on a dime, and let a one-timer go that stayed about six inches off the ice. It didn't go in, but it generated a rebound that Landon swatted home with a flamboyant backhand.
1-0, Surge.
"That's how we start!" Tucker roared, leaping into the glass.
But Colorado answered back. Then we did. By the start of the third period, it was 3-2 for us, and the game had devolved into a brutal test of endurance. My ribs were screaming from a cross-check I’d taken in the second, and my lungs felt like they were filled with hot sand.
"Keep the pressure! Don't let them breathe!" I shouted on the bench, slamming my glove against the boards as the first line went back out.
With ten minutes left, Colorado pulled their goalie for an extra attacker during a delayed penalty. The pressure was suffocating. They were moving the puck with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. I was out there with Tucker and Mason, playing a diamond penalty kill that felt more like a siege.
"Watch the seam!" I yelled, diving to block a passing lane.
I felt the puck thud against my shin guard, the impact vibrating all the way up to my hip.
I scrambled up, saw the puck loose near the red line, and put my head down.
I wasn't skating for the fans. I wasn't skating for the cameras.
I was skating because I needed to win something—anything—to make the flight back feel like it mattered.
I beat the Colorado defenseman to the puck, used my body to shield it, and instead of just dumping it, I saw Landon streaking down the other side. I flipped a saucer pass that hung in the thin air for what felt like an eternity.
Landon caught it, danced around a diving defender with a move that belonged in a circus, and buried it into the empty net.
4-2. The bench erupted. The small pocket of Surge fans in the nosebleeds went wild. I skated over to Landon, and for the first time in three days, I felt a genuine, fiery spark of joy.
"Nice pass, Romeo!" Landon yelled, pulling me into a headlock. "You’re making me look good!"
The final horn was a beautiful, discordant scream. We flooded the ice, the camaraderie of a winning locker room washing over us. We’d done it. Four games. A sweep. Round 2 was ours.
"Handshake line, boys! Keep it classy!" Coach yelled, though he was grinning like a madman.
I moved through the line, shaking hands with the exhausted Colorado players, but my mind was already at Denver International. I wanted the flight. I wanted the three-hour vacuum of the plane where I could think.
Back in the locker room, the celebration was deafening. Champagne wasn't flowing yet—that was for later rounds—but the music was loud enough to rattle the light fixtures.
"Round 3, baby!" Mason shouted, dumping a water bottle over Tucker’s head. "Vegas or Edmonton, it doesn't matter! We're rolling!"
I sat in my stall, stripping my gear, the heavy ache of the game settling into my bones.
I looked at the 'C' on my jersey again. It was a symbol of performance, of leadership on the ice.
But as the guys cheered and planned their night back in San Antonio, I realized that being a captain was easy when the scoreboard was in your favor.
It was the scoreboard back in that apartment that was killing me. I needed to get home. I needed to show Kayla that I knew the difference between being a star and being a man who actually shows up.
"You coming, Landry?" Tucker asked, throwing a towel at me. "Bus leaves in ten. We’ve got a flight to catch."
"I'm right behind you," I said, standing up. My body was broken, my lungs were on fire, and we were the best team in the West. But as I walked toward the bus, all I could think about was a woman who didn't care about my stats and a kid who deserved better than a photo op.
The recycled air of the charter flight had been replaced by the thick, humid embrace of San Antonio as we shuffled through the private terminal at SAT.
It was nearly midnight, and the high of the sweep was beginning to settle into that heavy, bone-deep fatigue that only professional athletes and long-haul truckers truly understand.
"I’m telling you, the penthouse at the Zone has that new lounge open," Landon said, hoisting his duffel bag over a shoulder that looked like it had been through a meat grinder.
"We’ve got forty-eight hours before we even think about the Conference Finals.
I want a drink that doesn't come in a plastic cup and a chair that wasn't bolted to a cabin floor. "
"I'm with Landon," Mason added, rubbing his eyes. "My bed is calling, but a victory lap at a place with decent lighting sounds better."
I stood by the baggage carousel, watching the black equipment trunks slide past. My phone was a dead weight in my pocket. No texts. No "congrats on the sweep." Just a hollow silence that felt louder than the roar of the jet engines we’d just left behind.
"We’re going to the Faucet," I said. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command, delivered with the same low, immovable gravity I used when we were defending a one-goal lead in the dying seconds of the third.
The guys stopped. Tucker looked at me like I’d just suggested we go for a light five-mile jog. "The Faucet? Cap, it’s a dive. We just took down the Avs. We should be somewhere with... I don't know, a dress code?"
"The Faucet," I repeated, turning to face them. I saw the exhaustion in their faces, the desire to disappear into the luxury they’d earned. "Look, I know it’s not the Zone. But that place... they’ve been our unofficial home base since the trade.
Kayla’s been there every night we’ve been away, probably dealing with the Saturday night rush alone.
We show up there, as a team. We show the colors. We support the people who support us."
Landon narrowed his eyes, a knowing, crooked smirk spreading across his face. "This isn't about the community. This is about the bartender and the kid, isn't it? You’re trying to stage a comeback."
"I'm trying to be a man who shows up," I countered, not flinching.
"I blew it at the rink. I let my ego get in the way of the person I actually want to be. I’m going there to make it right.
You guys can come with me and have your drinks on my tab, or you can go find your fancy lounge.
But the Surge leadership is heading to the Faucet. "
There was a long beat of silence. The carousel hummed, the only sound in the terminal.
"Free tab, you said?" Tucker asked, a slow grin breaking through his fatigue.
"The whole night," I promised.
"Well," Mason sighed, grabbing his suitcase. "I do like a place where I don't have to worry about spilling gin on a velvet sofa. Let’s go.”
We piled into the shuttle transfer, a loud, sprawling mass of victory and sweat.
The guys were already back to their usual banter, dissecting the game, planning their off-day, and arguing over who had the best celly of the series.
I sat near the window, watching the familiar San Antonio skyline flicker past. I was rehearsing my apology, over and over, trying to find the words that wouldn't sound like a performance.
I didn't want to be the star tonight. I just wanted to be the guy who didn't walk away.
As the shuttle slowed, pulling into the narrow, neon-lit alleyway that served as the back entrance to the Leaky Faucet, the atmosphere inside the van shifted back to a dull hum of anticipation. The bar's sign was buzzing, a flickering blue-and-red heartbeat in the dark.
"Okay, boys, keep it low-key," I said, sliding the side door open.
I stepped out onto the cracked asphalt first, the cool night air hitting my face. I turned back to help Landon with a heavy bag, but something caught the corner of my eye.
Movement. Not from the bar's main door, but from the shadows of the fire escape that led up to Kayla’s apartment.
I froze, my hand still gripped on the van’s door handle.
A figure was slipping down the metal stairs, moving with a practiced, silent urgency. A hoodie was pulled low over his head, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He reached the bottom, glanced toward the street, and began to jog toward the mouth of the alley.
It was Gabe. And he wasn't just going for a walk. He was running.