"The puck doesn't usually leak blue dyed water," he countered, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Okay, apply the pressure. Now."
We were both grinning, the proximity making the air feel electric and light, when the hallway light flickered. Gabe stood there, his hoodie pulled up, watching us with an icy expression.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice flat.
"We’re just fixing a little snag, Gabe," I said, trying to keep the cheer in my voice as I sat back. "Michael’s elbow had a disagreement with the table."
Gabe didn't move. He looked at the model, then at the way Michael and I were sitting on the floor together, and his jaw tightened. "Don't bother. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not doing the hydraulic lift."
I froze. "What? Gabe, it’s finished. It’s perfect. It’s due on Tuesday."
"It's garbage," he spat, stepping into the room. "I just saw Tyler’s post on Instagram. He made a working robotic arm with a Raspberry Pi controller. My project looks like something a first-grader made out of trash. All my friends are going to see it and think I’m some pathetic kid who needs... help."
He threw a pointed, venomous look at Michael.
"Gabe, you worked hard on this," Michael said, his voice calm. "It’s about the mechanics, not the flash. Tyler’s project may be great, but yours shows the fundamental principles. It’s a solid piece of work."
"I don't care about the principles!" Gabe shouted, the surliness boiling over into a full-blown tantrum. "I want to do something cooler. I want to do something that doesn't look like my mom and her stupid friend spent all day gluing sticks together."
"Gabriel, that is enough," I said, my voice rising. "We are not starting over. You are going to take this model, and you’re going to be proud of it."
"Why don't you take it to work then, Mom?" Gabe snapped, then turned his fury on Michael. "And since you’re so good at giving advice nobody asked for. Why don't you go back to the arena and worry about your own failing career instead of trying to play dad in my living room?"
The air left the room. It was a low blow. Cruel and calculated in the way only a teenager can be.
"Gabe!" I gasped, horrified.
Michael stood up slowly, his face carefully blank, though I saw the flinch in his eyes. "Gabe, I’m just trying to—"
"I don't care what you're trying to do!" Gabe roared. He stepped forward and, before I could scream, he kicked the model. Hard.
The plastic shattered. The blue water sprayed across the carpet. The weeks of work, the hours of bonding, and the fragile peace Michael had built were reduced to a pile of wet plastic and splinters in a single second.
"There!" Gabe screamed, his chest heaving. "Now it's as broken as everything else!"
He spun on his heel and stormed out the front door, slamming it so hard the pictures on the walls rattled.
The silence that followed was deafening. I looked at the blue stain on the rug, then up at Michael, who stood there like a man who had just watched a game-winning goal get waived off. My boundaries weren't just gone; the whole house felt like it was crumbling.
15
Michael
The blue dye from Gabe’s ruined science project had finally faded from my cuticles, but the sting of his words was still under my skin as I laced up for Game 1 of the second round. The Colorado Avalanche were a different beast than the Wild. Faster, younger, and meaner. They didn't just play hockey; they hunted.
I stood in the tunnel, the C-patch freshly stitched onto my jersey. It felt heavier than the rest of the fabric combined. I’d taken the captaincy, but the room was still a tinderbox. Tucker and Cash were quiet, their eyes tracking me with a show us intensity that made my grip on my stick tighten until my knuckles turned white.
"Landry, you’re up," Coach said, his voice a low gravel. "Set the tone."
I stepped onto the ice, and the first thing I did was look at Box 204. They were there. Kayla looked anxious, her hands knotted together, but Gabe... Gabe was leaning so far over the glass I thought he might fall in. He was wearing the jersey I’d given him. He hadn't looked at me once since he kicked the model into the carpet, but he was here.
The puck dropped, and the world narrowed to a 200-foot sheet of ice.
Colorado came out like they were shot from a cannon. MacKinnon picked up the puck in the neutral zone and hit the blue line at a speed that felt illegal. I didn't chase him, but chose to play the angles. I stayed low, my center of gravity anchored, and as he tried to burn past me on the outside, I stepped up.
It wasn't a dirty hit, but clinical strategy. I led with my shoulder, catching him square in the chest and pinning him against the boards with a thud that echoed through the glass. The puck squirted loose.
"Mason! Transition!" I yelled, already pivoting.
