14
Kayla
The floor of my living room had officially become a hazardous waste site. Cardboard scraps, stray wires, and half-dried globs of hot glue created a minefield between the sofa and the TV. In the center of the wreckage sat Gabe, hunched over a skeletal mess of plastic tubing and a battery pack that looked like it had been through a war.
"Gabe, if you just stabilize the base with the duct tape first, the hydraulic arm won't collapse every time you touch it," I said, trying to keep my voice in the 'supportive mom' register despite the fact that my lower back was screaming.
"The tape adds too much weight, Mom. It’s physics," Gabe snapped, not looking up. He shoved a piece of tubing into a joint with enough force to make the whole structure groan. "You’re thinking about it like a craft project. This is engineering."
"Engineering usually involves things staying upright," I countered, reaching for a rogue AA battery. "And 'physics' says that if the center of gravity is off, the whole thing is going to—"
Crunch.
The plastic arm folded like a lawn chair. Gabe let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob and shoved the entire model awayfrom him. "Great. Now the seal is broken. It’s trash. The whole thing is trash."
"It’s not trash, it’s a setback. We just need to reset the—"
"I don't need a reset, I need you to stop hovering!" he shouted, his voice cracking in that jagged way that always signaled the end of his tether. "You don't know how the pressure valves work, and you’re just making me frustrated."
The sting of his words was familiar, a dull ache I’d learned to live with, but it didn't make the friction any easier to sand down. I opened my mouth to deliver a lecture on gratitude and tone, but a heavy, rhythmic thud at the door cut me off.
I scrambled up, wiping a streak of silver spray paint off my palm onto my jeans. When I swung the door open, Michael was standing there, looking far too composed for the level of chaos he was about to enter. He was wearing a plain black hoodie and jeans, carrying a small cardboard box that rattled when he moved.
"I was in the neighborhood," he said, his eyes crinkling in that way that made my pulse do a traitorous little skip. Then he looked past me at the living room floor. "Or maybe I just heard the structural integrity of a science project failing from three blocks away."
Gabe stiffened, his shoulders hiking up to his ears. "What’s he doing here?"
"He’s a friend, Gabe. Be polite," I said, stepping back to let Michael in.
Michael didn't miss a beat. He didn't wait for an invitation to the floor; he just shucked his boots, padded over in his socks, and sat down cross-legged a few feet from Gabe’s disaster zone. He didn't touch anything. He just looked.
"Hydraulic lift?" Michael asked quietly.
Gabe gave a curt, reluctant nod. "Pascal’s Law. Or it was supposed to be, before the valves started leaking."
"Pressure's a tricky thing," Michael murmured, reaching into the box he’d brought. He pulled out a roll of industrial-grade electrical tape and a small tube of specialized sealant. "Usually, when a play breaks down on the ice, it’s because someone tried to force a pass that wasn't there. You’re forcing the seal, Gabe. You gotta let the tension settle before you lock it down."
Gabe glared at the sealant. "I tried that. It didn't work."
"Try it with a brace," Michael suggested, picking up two popsicle sticks and aligning them with surgical precision against the weak joint. "Hold that right there. Don't push. Just hold."
To my absolute shock, Gabe didn't argue. He reached out and held the sticks.
I took the opening to escape to the kitchen, my heart thudding with a mix of relief and a strange, bubbling warmth. I started assembly-lining snacks—hot chocolate with the good marshmallows and a plate of sliced apples and peanut butter. When I navigated back into the room, balancing the tray, the atmosphere had shifted. The shouting had been replaced by a low, rhythmic murmur.
"What’s with the snacks, Mom?" Gabe asked, his eyes never leaving the model as Michael carefully applied a bead of sealant. "Trying to show off the catering skills for the guest?"
"It’s called hospitality, Gabe. Eat an apple," I said, setting the tray down.
"Hospitality usually involves people you actually invited," Gabe muttered, but he reached for a slice anyway. He looked at Michael. "So, you just happened to have industrial sealant in your car?"
"I’m a hockey player," Michael said, his tone dry and effortless. "My life is held together by tape and medical-grade glue. You learn to keep a kit." He looked at the model, then at Gabe. "Okay, let go. Slowly."
Gabe released the sticks. The arm held. It didn't wobble, didn't groan. It sat there, perfectly aligned.
"Whoa," Gabe breathed, the angsty teenager mask slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal the kid who still liked when things worked.
"Organization beats effort every time," Michael said, leaning back on his elbows. He looked at the snacks I’d brought, then up at me. "Thanks, Kayla. The marshmallows are a nice touch. Very professional."
