28 - Kayla
Kayla
The San Antonio heat in early June felt like a thick, humid blanket that clung to my skin the moment I stepped out of the car.
By the time we reached the river, the evening air sat at a stagnant ninety-two degrees, and the buzz of cicadas in the nearby trees sounded like a high-voltage wire about to snap.
I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my spine, my silk wrap dress suddenly feeling like a mistake.
"You’re thinking too much," Michael murmured, his hand sliding into mine.
He looked devastating in a dark charcoal suit, the fabric crisp and expensive, his hair damp from a recent shower and tucked neatly behind his ears. He looked like a man who belonged in a high-rise office, not a penalty box.
"I’m not," I lied, my voice tight. "I’m just... it’s hot, Michael."
The truth was, I was wracked with guilt.
I’d dropped Gabe off at his friend’s house twenty minutes ago, telling him I had a boring inventory meeting at the bar that would run late.
The look of bored indifference he’d given me should have made it easier, but instead, it felt like a lead weight in my stomach.
"Trust me," Michael said, leading me toward a private entrance of a refurbished industrial building overlooking a quiet bend of the River Walk. "Just for tonight, Kayla. Let the world stay downstairs."
We took a freight elevator to the roof. When the doors slid open, I didn't step out into the stifling night. I stepped into a dream.
The transition was so sudden it took my breath away.
A perimeter of high-powered, silent misters had been installed around the edge of the rooftop, churning out a fine, chilled vapor that caught the amber glow of the hurricane lanterns scattered across the deck.
The temperature dropped twenty degrees instantly.
The air was no longer heavy and dusty; it was cool, crisp, and smelled faintly of cedar and salt spray.
"Michael," I whispered, stepping onto the dark wood planks. "What is this?"
"San Antonio is great," he said, stepping up behind me, his chest a warm wall against my back. "But it’s always felt a little... dry for a guy from the Puget Sound. I wanted to show you where I come from. Before the Surge, before the NHL. Just me."
He had transformed a Texas rooftop into a Seattle pier.
There were heavy navy wool blankets draped over Adirondack chairs and a low table set for two, glowing with candlelight.
In the background, the soulful, stripped-down chords of an acoustic grunge playlist—the kind of music that felt like grey skies and flannel shirts—drifted through the mist. It was moody, intimate, and achingly beautiful.
A server appeared as if from the fog itself, draped in a professional apron, and set down two bowls of steaming cream-colored soup.
"I had this flown in," Michael said, pulling out my chair. "It’s clam chowder from a little hole-in-the-wall near the Ballard locks. My dad used to take me there after every 5:00 AM practice. It was the only thing that could get the chill out of my bones."
I took a spoonful, and the rich, briny flavor exploded on my tongue.
It was velvety and thick, loaded with fresh clams and a smoky depth that tasted like a coastline I’d never seen.
For a moment, the guilt over Gabe receded, pushed back by the effort Michael had poured into this.
He wasn't just buying me a dinner; he was sharing his DNA.
"I used to sit on the ferry to Bainbridge Island," Michael said, his voice dropping into that low, ruminative register as we moved on to the main course—Copper River salmon that was so buttery it practically melted. "I’d watch the fog swallow the Space Needle and think that as long as I could skate fast enough, I’d eventually find a way to be someone.
I spent my whole life trying to get away from the rain, Kayla.
I wanted the bright lights. The big contracts. "
He reached across the table, his thumb grazing my knuckles. The touch was light, but it sent a spark through me that made the cool mist feel irrelevant.
"But standing here tonight," he continued, his eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying sincerity, "I realize I don't miss the city.
I missed the feeling of being home. And I haven't felt that since I left Seattle.
.. until I walked into the Leaky Faucet and saw you arguing with a liquor distributor. "
I laughed, a wet, sagging sound. "I was winning that argument, for the record."
"You were," he smiled, his thumb still tracing circles on the back of my hand. "You were fierce. And tired. And so goddamn beautiful I forgot my own name."
He stood up, circling the table to pull me to my feet. The acoustic version of Black by Pearl Jam began to play, the cello notes vibrating in the cool air. He didn't ask me to dance; he just folded me into his arms, his chin resting on the top of my head.
We swayed slowly, lost in the artificial fog and the very real heat between our bodies.
I pressed my face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in—the scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the salt-mist he’d created for me.
His hands were large and steady on my waist, pulling me flush against the hard, athletic lines of his body.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear. "I know it’s hard for you to let go of the wheel, Kayla. I know you’re thinking about the bar, and Gabe, and the million things that could go wrong tomorrow."
"How do you do that?" I breathed, tilting my head back to look at him. "How do you know exactly what’s happening in my head?"
"Because I’m a professional overthinker," he murmured. "But tonight, let me be the captain. Let me hold the line."
He leaned in, and the kiss was slow, deep, and tasted of Seattle rain.
It wasn't the desperate, hunger of the steam room; it was a promise.
It was the feeling of a long-haul flight finally touching down on solid ground.
His tongue swiped against mine with a gentle, possessive rhythm, and I felt my knees go weak, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine. "You okay?"
"I'm... I'm more than okay," I whispered.
And I was. In this bubble of cedar-scented mist, high above the palpable energy of San Antonio, I felt seen in a way that had nothing to do with being a mother or a business owner. I was just Kayla. And Michael was just Michael.
He brushed a stray, damp hair from my cheek, his touch so tender it made my chest ache.
For a few glorious minutes, the lie I told Gabe felt a thousand miles away.
The Stanley Cup Finals felt like a different lifetime.
There was only the sound of the water below, the cool kiss of the misters, and the man who had brought the Pacific Northwest to Texas just to see me smile.
But as he leaned in to kiss me again, my phone vibrated in my clutch on the table. The sharp, buzzing sound cut through the acoustic guitar like a blade, and the cold reality of the world seeped back in.
The phone fell silent before I could answer, though, the vibration dying out against the wooden tabletop, but the tension it left behind lingered in the mist. Michael didn’t miss the way my shoulders hitched, or the way my gaze flickered toward my clutch like it held a live grenade.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just guided me toward a low, cushioned lounge area at the far corner of the roof, where a small fire pit glowed with blue flames, cutting through the damp chill he’d created.
He sat close enough that I could feel the heat of his thigh against mine, and handed me a glass of dessert wine that tasted like honey and smoke.
"You're still there, aren't you?" he asked softly, his fingers brushing a stray, damp curl from my forehead. "Even in the middle of a Seattle fog in San Antonio, you’re back at that house. Checking the clock. Calculating the lie."
I took a shaky sip of the wine, the sweetness coating my tongue. "I have to be, Michael. That’s the job. I don't get to clock out of being his mother just because I’m wearing a silk dress."
"There’s a difference between being a mother and being a martyr, Kayla.
" He leaned back, his arm draping across the back of the sofa, his hand resting just inches from my neck. "You’ve been robbing yourself for fifteen years. You give him every ounce of your energy, every dream you ever had, every scrap of your personal happiness, and you do it because you think that’s the only way he stays whole. "
"It is the only way," I snapped, the defensiveness rising up like a physical wall. "You saw him on the ice. You heard what he said. He’s fragile, Michael. If I slip up, if I put myself first and it blows up, he’s the one who pays the price."
Michael shifted, turning his body toward mine.
The firelight danced in his dark eyes, making him look older, steadier.
"But who pays the price when he leaves? When he goes to college, or gets drafted, and he looks back and sees a mother who’s a shell of a person because she gave it all away?
That’s a heavy burden for a kid to carry, Kayla.
Knowing his mom didn't have a life because of him. "
The words cut through me, sharper than the June chill. I stood up, unable to sit still, and walked toward the edge of the roof. Below us, the River Walk was a ribbon of festive lights and distant laughter, but up here, the silence was suffocating.
"I just want him to be okay," I whispered, gripping the cold iron railing.
I felt Michael’s presence behind me before I felt his touch. He stepped into my space, his hands settling on my waist, pulling me back against the solid, grounding heat of his chest. He pressed a kiss to the crown of my head, his breath warm against my hair.