"Strictly platonic," I added, holding up a hand. "No complications. Just a friend making sure another friend doesn't have to look over her shoulder for however many blocks. That’s all."
She studied me for a long beat, searching for the catch. When she didn't find one, the tension in her shoulders finally snapped. She let out a long, shuddering breath that felt like a surrender.
"Okay," she murmured, adjusting the heavy strap of her bag. "And if you try to analyze my parenting or the Surge's power play, I'm tripping you into the first puddle we find."
"Deal," I said, stepping up onto the sidewalk beside her.
10
Kayla
The humidity of the city in the small hours wasn't just weather. It was a physical weight, a warm, damp blanket that smelled of rain-slicked asphalt and the fading scent of diesel. The city was winding down, the hum of activity near the arena replaced by the steady, rhythmic chirping of crickets in the overgrown lots.
Michael walked beside me, his large frame a silent, comforting barrier between me and the empty street. He didn't know where I lived, but was happy just following my lead, his hands deep in his pockets, his stride matching mine with an easy, unhurried grace.
"He’s at that age where he thinks he’s invented rebellion," I said, leaning into the strap of my bag as we passed a darkened auto-body shop. "Gabe isn't a bad kid. He’s just... he’s spent a lot of years watching me work. For everything. I think he’s decided if he acts like he doesn't need me, it makes it easier for both of us."
"Independence is a survival mechanism," he murmured. He kicked a stray pebble, watching it skitter into the gutter. "I get it. I spent my twenties pretending I didn't need anything but a fast sheet of ice and a contract."
"And now?" I glanced up at him. The glow of a streetlamp caught the silver at his temples, making him look less like a star athlete and more like a man trying to find his bearings.
"Now the ice is getting smaller," he admitted, his voice dropping into that low, honest register that always seemed to bypass my defenses. "I look at guys like Hunter. He’s got the house, the wife in the stands wearing his jersey. I spent my whole career chasing a silver cup and a higher PPG, and I woke up this morning realizing I never actually built anything else. Everyone our age is already halfway through the book, Kayla. They have the families, the history. I’m just... here. A high-mileage rental with nowhere to park."
There was a raw, quiet vulnerability in his words that caught me off guard. It wasn't a play for pity; it was the sound of a man realizing he’d traded his best years for a dream that didn't have a porch light waiting for him at the end of the night.
"You haven't missed the boat, Michael," I said, though my voice felt thin. "You just took a different route."
"Maybe. But the water's getting cold." He gave a small, self-deprecating tilt of his head. "I look at you, even with the challenges of work and a surly teenager, and I can't help but feel like I'm the one who’s been on the outside looking in."
I wanted to say something profound, something that would bridge the gap between my messy, overworked reality and his gilded loneliness, but my stomach chose that exact moment to let out a loud, traitorous growl that echoed off the brick wall beside us.
I froze, my face heating up instantly. "Oh, God. Ignore that. I’m so sorry."
Michael’s laugh broke the heavy gloom of his confession. "Was that you, or is there a localized thunderstorm I didn’t know about?"
"I haven't eaten since noon," I muttered, shielding my face with my hand. "Stacy burned the staff meal, and I can't look at another basket of pretzels without wanting to cry. I was planning on a very sad bowl of cereal when I got home."
Michael scanned the street, his eyes landing on a neon sign two blocks up that buzzed with a flickering pink energy. Los Alamos Deli & Diner. It was a 24-hour haunt that smelled of toasted rye and grilled onions from a mile away.
"There’s no nutrition in cereal," he said, and gestured toward the diner with a playful inclination of his head. "Come on. My treat. Consider it a friend tax for making me walk in this humidity."
"You’re the one who insisted," I reminded him, but the scent of bacon was already winning the argument.
"Then consider it an escort fee." He nudged my shoulder with his, the contact light but electric. "I’m starving, you’re ravenous, and I’m pretty sure that deli doesn't care about our Plus-Minus ratings."
I laughed, the sound bright and unexpected in the quiet street. "Fine. But we’ll take it to go. I’m hungry, but I don’t want to be out all night either."
"Your wish is my command," he said, holding the door open as the bell chimed a greasy, welcoming greeting.
We stepped into a world of yellowed linoleum and the comforting, heavy scent of a flat-top grill that hadn't been turned off since the Reagan administration. It was glorious.
"If you order the Heart-Smart omelet, I’m leaving," I whispered, leaning into the counter.
Michael scanned the grease-stained menu board with the intensity of a man analyzing a defensive zone entry. "I just spent three hours at the arena and another forty-five minutes walking. My body is currently sixty percent lactic acid and forty percent regret. I’m getting the double brisket melt with extra provolone."
"Bold choice. I’m going with the Reuben and a side of potato salad that looks like it could double as masonry caulk."
We stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the counter, the height difference making me feel small in a way that didn't feel like a weakness for once. There was a rhythm to us, a shorthand that usually took years to develop. If you were lucky. While the cook flipped our sandwiches with a rhythmicscrape-clack, Michael started poking fun at my sophisticated palate.
