23 - Michael
Michael
The adrenaline was still surging in my veins, a dull electric thrum that made my skin feel too tight for my cool down gear.
The locker room was a chaotic sanctuary of shouting, ice packs, and the heavy scent of victory, but I needed air.
I’d showered in record time, bypassed the media scrum with a polite nod to Holly, and headed for the quiet of the back hallway.
I pushed through the heavy double doors leading toward the player exit, expecting the usual line of autograph seekers or the quiet of the cooling Dallas night.
Instead, I found a single, skinny shadow leaning against the concrete wall.
"Gabe?" I stopped, shifting my gym bag to my other shoulder. "I thought your mom would have you halfway to a taco stand by now."
He pushed off the wall, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He looked different than he had at the rink, less guarded. His shoulders dropped from that defensive hunch he usually wore, and he looked at me with a curious expression I couldn’t pin down.
"She’s waiting by the main gate," he said. "I just... I wanted to say something."
I leaned back against the cool brick, giving him the space. "Yeah? What’s up?"
Gabe took a breath, looking down at his sneakers before meeting my eyes. "Thanks again. For the driving thing. And for... you know. Keeping your mouth shut about the other night. I know you didn't have to. You could've used it to make yourself look like the hero or whatever."
I shook my head. "I don't need to look like a hero, Gabe. I just want you to be smart. You’ve got a hell of a shot. Don't let stupid shit screw that up."
"Yeah. I get it. I’m staying clean." He paused, his expression shifting into something awkwardly sincere. "You're actually an okay guy, Michael. Like, for a pro. You don't just act like the captain. You actually do the work."
The okay guy felt better than any post-game MVP locker room speech I’d ever received. I felt a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. "High praise. I’ll try not to let it go to my head."
"And," he added, his voice dropping into a stern, protective register that was a dead ringer for Kayla’s, "I guess I don't mind you hanging out with my mom. I’m not gonna go all psycho about it if you guys wanna be friends."
I felt a surge of relief so strong it nearly knocked the wind out of me. The gate was open. The bridge was built. I opened my mouth to thank him, to tell him how much that meant, but he held up a hand, his face twisting into a mask of pure, adolescent horror.
"But it’s just friends," he said, pointing a finger at my chest. "No kissing. No hand-holding. None of that gross stuff that always ends in disaster. You keep it to like... handshake-level."
I let out a startled, booming laugh that echoed off the concrete walls, and held up my hands in a mock surrender, my heart feeling lighter than it had in months. "Handshakes only, kid. You have my word."
*
We may have been riding the high of the Dallas win, but Coach wasn't letting us breathe. He had us running a "high-cycle" drill that was basically a lung-shredder: three-on-two rushes in the zone, transition to a breakout, then a full-ice sprint back to the defensive end.
"Move the puck, Landry! You’re telegraphing that pass like a Western Union!" Coach roared from the center circle, his whistle clamped between his teeth.
I dug my edges into the fresh ice, pivoted, and fired a hard saucer pass to Landon. He caught it on the fly, broke toward the net, and buried a backhand.
"Better!" Coach barked. "Again! Setup for the 'L' breakout. Let’s go!"
We were resetting at the blue line when I saw a flicker of neon green in the empty bleachers. It was a private practice, closed to the public and definitely closed to any distraction, so the figure stood out like a flare in the dark.
"Yo, Seattle, you got your kid showing up at work now?" Landon panted beside me, leaning on his stick as he sucked in air. "Is he here to scout the competition or just to make sure you're actually doing something other than needlepoint?"
Gabe stood by the glass, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie, looking smaller than I’d ever seen him. He looked like there was something up, and I couldn’t do anything about it. Yet.
"Landry! Focus!" Coach yelled, noticing my distraction. He looked toward the stands and his face soured. "Who is that? This is a closed session. No spectators, no media, no family. Get him out of here!"
"Coach, hold on," I said, skating toward the bench. "He’s just a kid. My friend’s son.”
"I don't care if he’s the Pope's nephew," Coach snapped, checking his stopwatch. "We have twenty minutes of power play drills left. He can wait in the lobby."
"He’ll stay out of the way," I argued, keeping my voice low. "It's not like he’s a spy for the Stars. Look at him."
Coach glanced back at Gabe, who was now awkwardly trying to blend into a support pillar. After a long beat of silence, he let out an irritated huff.
"Fine. Kid!" Coach shouted, gesturing toward the gate. "Come sit down on the bench. You’re making me nervous. But you best keep your phone out of sight. If I see a screen, you're outta here. If you so much as touch the pocket that phone is in, you're out. Understood?"
Gabe nodded, practically scurrying onto the players' bench. He sat as still as a statue, his hands locked between his knees, eyes glued to the ice.
I finished the practice, but my head wasn't in the drills.
I blew a coverage on a four-on-three and fanned on a slap shot from the point.
When Coach finally blew the long whistle for the end of the session, I didn't wait for the post-practice huddle.
I grabbed a towel, wiped my face, and headed straight for the bench.
"Hey," I said, my chest still heaving from the final sprint. "What are you doing here? Where's your mom?"
"Home, probably.” He shrugged, looking over his shoulder at Landon and Hunter who were watching us curiously. "She thinks I’m at the mall with Tyler and Leo. Michael, I... I need to talk to you."
"Let's walk," I said, guiding him toward the locker room tunnel. The air was cooler here, the sound of the Zamboni starting up on the ice muffled by the heavy padding on the walls.
Gabe burst after we’d only made it a few feet. "I messed up. Real bad this time. Remember the night I snuck out?”
“Jesus. Do I want to be hearing this?”
“I went to a party, and it wasn't just a few people. There were way more than a few. A neighbor called the cops, and a bunch of us got busted for drinking.”
“What?”
“They didn’t see us take a drink,” he added quickly. “Just saw all the beer and kinda assumed.”
“Were you drinking?” My stomach had turned sour, and my throat was dry.
“It doesn’t matter because nobody will believe us,” he said. “My school found out this morning, and the principal called me in. Since I’m on the hockey team, they’re doing a code of conduct review.”
I slowed my pace, a cold feeling settling in my stomach that had nothing to do with the ice. "Why are you telling me this? Does your mom know?”
“No.” And Gabe finally turned to me with a pained look on his face.
"But she’ll know soon enough. Michael, you have to talk to her.
You have to tell her they got it wrong. A couple of us weren’t in the room when the cops came around, so we’re sticking to our story of mistaken identity.
Nobody saw us there, so we didn’t do it. ”
I stopped dead in my tracks. I stared at him, the weight of his request hitting me like a blindside hit. This wasn't a "pass" for sneaking out to see a girl or hanging out late. This was a legal paper trail. This was a school administration and a mother's trust.
“That’s not how it works,” I said, stunned by the kid’s confession. “And there’s no way I’m lying to your mother.”
“You’ve lied to her before. You never told her about me sneaking out. This is basically the same lie, just a little more added onto it.”
I realized right then that the cool mentor vibe I’d established was suddenly under threat. But fuck it. This wasn't about being an okay guy anymore. This was about the fact that the secret I was keeping had just grown teeth.
The last thing I needed was Landon or Tucker overhearing a conversation about an underage drinking bust and turning it into a locker room punchline, so I steered clear of it.
Instead, I snagged the back of Gabe’s hoodie and led him into a narrow, dimly lit hallway behind the equipment drying racks.
It smelled like industrial detergent and stagnant sweat, but it was private.
"Are you out of your mind?" I hissed, spinning him around. I didn't care whether or not he thought I was cool anymore. I felt like a man watching a train wreck in slow motion. "Drinking, Gabe? A police report? That’s not just a mistake. That’s a career-killer before the career even starts. It’s a trust-killer too, and your mom has a right to know. "
That teenage nonchalance snapped back into place like a shield. "Michael, seriously, it’s not that deep. It was one party. Everyone was there."
"Doesn’t make it right," I said. “You’re fifteen and have no business drinking.”
"Technically, I didn't get caught at the party," he corrected me. "Someone just put my name on a list of people who were there. I told the principal I was home all night. He has no proof."
I stared at him, floored by the brazen confidence of a fifteen-year-old who thought he was invincible. "And your mom? You think she’s just going to nod and say 'okay' when the school calls?"
"She thinks I’m in my room every night while she’s at the bar," Gabe said, his voice dropping into a flat, matter-of-fact tone. "She trusts me. As long as you don't say anything, it's fine. I just need to know you’re not gonna rat me out."