"Giving the old man a break?" I asked, keeping my voice light as the beer hissed into the glass. "I thought Landry was your designated runner tonight."
Tucker laughed, a loud, booming sound that drew a few heads. "The old man’s the one who decided to pull rank. Said he’d been up here enough times and it was someone else’s turn to do the heavy lifting."
I forced a smile, but a small, cold knot of guilt tightened in my chest. He hadn't pulled rank. He was staying away because I’d made it clear his presence wasn't required. I’d treated him like a nuisance after he’d stepped up for me, and now the silence from that corner of the room felt louder than the jukebox.
"There you go. Try not to spill half of it on the way back," I said, sliding the tray toward him.
I watched him weave through the crowd, the gold liquid sloshing in the glasses. When he reached the booth, the guys erupted into another round of chirps, but Michael didn't look up. He didn't glance toward the bar to see if I was watching. He just took his club soda and focused on the table, leaving me alone with a mounting pile of dirty glasses and a sink full of cold, soapy water.
As the night wore on, the frantic roar of the post-game crowd began to bleed into the low, rhythmic hum of the late-night cleanup. The neon "Open" sign flickered, casting long, rhythmic shadows across the floor as the last of the Surge players filtered out of the bar. I moved with a heavy, mechanical efficiency, clearing abandoned napkins and half-empty glasses from the mahogany. The clock above the door ticked toward 2:00 AM, each second feeling like a countdown to a baking disaster I still hadn't solved.
I grabbed a fresh rag and a spray bottle, the sharp scent of citrus cutting through the lingering smell of stale beer. The bar was finally empty, save for a few stragglers by the door and a single, broad-shouldered figure standing close by. Again.
The silence between the taps felt massive. I kept my head down, focusing on a stubborn ring of condensation on the wood, scrubbing until my shoulder ached.
"Kayla."
His voice was devoid of the playfulness from earlier. I stopped scrubbing but didn't look up immediately.
"The guys are waiting," he said. He didn't mention the drunk, or the way I'd snapped at him, or the fact that he’d spent the last hour pointedly ignoring me. “I just wanted to say goodnight.”
"Sure. Goodnight,” I said, finally meeting his gaze. My voice sounded thin, even to me.
He didn't move to leave. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded slip of paper, sliding it across the damp wood toward me.
"I called a friend who runs a bakery over in Southtown," Michael said, his expression unreadable. "They do specialized orders. There are seventy-five gluten-free, nut-free cookies scheduled for delivery to the school office at 8:00 AM tomorrow. They’re already paid for."
I stared at the paper, the neat handwriting of a confirmation number mocking my own frantic plans. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest.
"Michael, I can't—"
"You can," he interrupted, his voice steady and quiet. He didn't wait for a thank you, and he didn't stay to watch the realization settle into my face. He just turned and walked toward the exit, his shadow disappearing as the heavy door swung shut behind him.
7
Michael
Frost Bank felt like an icebox, but the tension between the blue and white practice jerseys was enough to melt the glass. We were twenty-four hours removed from the Jets win, and instead of a victory lap, the morning skate felt like a trial.
I carved a hard circle around the face-off dot, the spray from my blades hitting the boards with a sharp hiss. Hunter was already in the crease, his massive frame draped in goalie pads that made him look like a wall of white carbon fiber. He caught my eye through his mask and gave a single, slow nod. It was the only acknowledgement I’d received since stepping onto the ice.
"Okay, listen up!" Coach’s whistle shrilled, echoing off the empty rafters. "Standard weave into a two-on-one. Keep the passes crisp. If I see a lazy saucer pass, you’re all doing laps until the Zamboni comes out."
The drill started, and the friction was immediate. I was lined up behind Landon and Tucker. When it was our turn to break, I pushed off, finding the lane. I was open for the drop pass, a clear line to the slot, but Tucker zipped it hard toward Landon instead, a pass so unnecessary it nearly tripped Landon up.
"Little slow on the transition there, Landry," Tucker chirped as we circled back to the line. "Maybe the air out here is too thick for those wimpy Seattle lungs of yours."
"The air is fine, Tucker. Maybe your vision is just blurry," I retorted, not looking at him.
The jabs continued through the power-play drills. It was death by a thousand cuts: a "mistimed" hit during a board battle that sent me shoulder-first into the plexiglass, a stick to the back of the calves when Coach wasn’t looking…
Hunter saw it all. During a water break, he skated toward the bench, his mask pushed up.
"Ignore them," he muttered, his voice muffled by the chin strap. "They’re territorial. Like dogs. You showed them up in the Jets game, and now they’re trying to piss on the carpet to prove it’s still their house."
"I didn't come here to steal anyone’s house, Hunter. I came to help them fix the roof."
"They’ll figure it out. Eventually." He tapped my shin guard with his blocker and skated back to the net.
