"Hands off," I snapped, trying to wrench my arm back. "I said let go."
"I'm a paying customer, sweetheart. Don't be—"
He never finished the sentence. A shadow eclipsed the neon light above us, and suddenly, the hand on my arm wasn't the only thing holding on. Michael was there as if he’d simply materialized like a storm front. His presence was so encompassing it seemed to suck the oxygen out of the immediate radius.
Michael’s hand wrapped around the guy’s wrist in a crushing squeeze that forced the man’s fingers to pop open like a broken toy.
"The lady said let go," Michael said. The warning in his voice settled at the base of my spine.
"Hey, man, we're just having a—"
Michael didn't argue. He stepped into the guy’s personal space, his chest a wall of solid muscle that forced the drunk to stumble backward. With a deceptively smooth movement, Michael hooked an arm under the guy’s elbow and began steering him toward the exit with the efficiency of a bouncer who’d seen and heard it all.
"You're done for the night," Michael said, his eyes fixed on the door. "Walk out, or get carried out. Your choice."
I didn't wait to see the finale. I turned, my heart hammering against my ribs, and ducked back behind the bar. I set the bottles down with a trembling hand, the glass clinking sharply.
Miller appeared at my side a second later, his brow furrowed. "Kayla? You okay? I saw the scuffle."
"I'm fine, Miller," I said, grabbing a towel and obsessively wiping the dry counter. "It’s handled"
"You sure? You look shaken up."
"I'm fine. Really. Just get me a fresh bin of ice." I threw myself back into the rhythm, burying the shaky feeling under the weight of a dozen drink orders.
Ten minutes later, the door swung open and Michael walked back in. He didn't go back to the booth with the guys. He walked straight to my service well, his breathing steady, his expression guarded. He looked at me, scanning my face for cracks in the armor.
"He's in an Uber," Michael said, leaning on the wood. "I made sure the driver knew exactly where to drop him."
"Thanks," I said, not meeting his eyes as I polished a glass. "You didn't have to do that. I've handled difficult customers before."
"Well, I helped you with that one.” He waited until I finally looked up. The intensity in his gaze was gone, replaced by a weary, protective softness. "I hope you’re not looking for dating prospects in places like this. The pickings are substandard to say the least."
I let out a shaky, half-hearted laugh. "Well, do you have any tips? It's not like I have time to go out and paint the town red. My social life consists of PTA meetings and the fifteen minutes between my shift ending and my eyes closing."
Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, stiff envelope.
"Start with this," he said, sliding it across the bar toward me.
I picked it up, my thumb catching on the embossed gold logo of the San Antonio Surge. I pulled the contents out and felt my jaw drop.
Two box-seat tickets. Game 5. Center ice. The kind of seats that cost more than my monthly rent and usually required a secret handshake to acquire.
"Michael, I can't take these," I whispered, staring at the tickets. "These are... these are insane."
"They aren't for a date," he said, holding up a hand before I could protest. "Consider it a friendly gesture. Bring Gabe. He likes hockey, right? Let him see the game from the glass. Let him see what it actually looks like when the stakes are high."
I looked at the tickets, then back at him. He was giving me an out, a way to accept the gift without the weight of an obligation. But more than that, he was giving something to Gabe. He was looking at the boy I lived for and finding a way to reach him.
"He’ll lose his mind," I admitted, a genuine smile finally breaking through the night's tension. "He doesn’t just like hockey; he’s obsessed."
"Good," Michael said, sliding off the stool. He tapped the wood twice, the familiar signal of his departure. "Tell him to watch the second line. I might have a few more tricks to show him."
He turned and walked toward the door, leaving me standing there with the golden tickets in my hand and a feeling in my chest that no five-year plan could ever account for.
13
Michael
