I looked down at the floor, the wordleaderechoing in my head. "I don't know, Coach. I look at my career and I see a lot of almosts. I don't have a ring. I don't have a trophy in my case. I feel like I’m heading for the exit with nothing to show for the years I put in."
"Is that what you think?" Coach stepped closer. "You think a career is just a pile of silver? Michael, a legacy isn't what you take with you when you retire. It’s what you leave behind in the guys who watched you work. It’s the experience you pass on. You’ve got a lifetime of hockey IQ stored in that head of yours. If you think that’s nothing, then you’re crazier than I thought."
I stayed silent for a long moment, the weight of his words shifting something inside me. I thought about the rookies, aboutLandon who was only just starting out. I thought about the way the room had gone quiet when I’d finally stood up to Tucker.
And then, unexpectedly, I thought about Gabe.
I thought about the kid’s moody, defensive posture and the way he’d told me to go chase a puck. He was fifteen, angry at the world, and clearly looking for a way to assert himself. He was a kid who needed a foundation, and his mother was killing herself trying to provide it.
"Experience," I murmured to myself.
"What's that?" Coach asked.
"Nothing. Just thinking about a student who doesn't want a teacher," I said, a small, lopsided smile tugging at my mouth.
"Those are the ones who usually need it the most," he said, patting my shoulder. "Go on. Get out of here before the bars close."
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, my mind suddenly racing. I had years of pro hockey in my blood. I knew every trick, every shortcut, and every mistake a young player could make. Gabe was a kid who played for his school, a kid who probably had raw talent but no one to refine it, no one to show him how to be the adult in the middle of the chaos.
If I could get him on the ice, and see me as a resource, maybe I could do more than just walk his mother home. Maybe I could give them both something that lasted longer than a season.
I just had to figure out how to get a kid who hated me to pick up a stick and share the ice with me.
I stepped out into the warm San Antonio night, the plan already beginning to take shape. The friend zone was a crowded place, but the mentor zone? That was a role I knew how to play.
12
Kayla
The Friday night rush at Faucet was a living, breathing thing. It smelled of spilled lager, aftershave, and the crazy energy of a city that loved its hockey team. I was a blur behind the bar, my hands moving with a life of their own as I filled buckets with ice, snapped caps, and dodged the spray of the soda gun.
Michael was there, as he always was now, occupying the stool directly across from my service well. He was the eye of the storm, a calm, broad-shouldered anchor in a room full of chaos.
"You’re late with that double IPA, Kayla. The champions wait for no man," Tucker yelled from the corner booth, slamming his hand on the table in a rhythmic beat.
"The champions can wait thirty seconds for me to finish this martini. Good thing you’re sitting, or you might trip over your own ego," I shouted back, not even looking up as I strained the drink into a chilled glass.
Michael chuckled, leaning his forearms on the dark wood. "You’ve got them trained well. It’s like a lion tamer dealing with particularly loud house cats."
"House cats with multi-million dollar contracts," I muttered, sliding a napkin toward him. "What can I get you, Landry? Or are you just here to take up space and look pretty?"
“You think I’m pretty?” He batted his eyelashes stupidly.
“I like what you’ve done with your hair, yeah. The top knot’s sitting a little higher tonight.”
"I'll take a water for now,” he said with a laugh. “I’m pacing myself."
“There’s pacing, and then there’s square. Water isn’t pacing. It’s the other one.”
He watched me work, his eyes following the movement of my hands. "You look like you're in a good mood tonight. Did Gabe finally clean his room, or did you find a twenty in an old pair of jeans?"
I paused, bottle of bourbon mid-pour, and felt a strange, fluttering lightness in my chest. "Actually, our talk the other night... it got me thinking. About my five-year plan."
Michael arched a brow, a slow, curious smile tugging at his mouth. "Oh? Did we move the timeline up to four years? Progress."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," I said, zipping over to the tap to pull a Guinness for a regular. I talked over my shoulder as the dark stout settled. "I just realized that maybe I’ve been a little extreme. Cutting myself off completely doesn’t make any sense. Gabe’s fifteen. He’s out with his friends half the time anyway, acting like I’m an embarrassing accessory. Maybe it’s time I took a little of that freedom back."
The look that crossed Michael’s face was like a sunrise on a clear day. It was pure, unadulterated light, a mix of surprise and something that looked dangerously like hope.
