The first period was a blur of high-velocity precision with me directing the traffic. Every time a Colorado forward tried to establish a cycle, I was there to disrupt the lane. I felt Gabe’s eyes on me every time I finished a check near their box. I wanted him to see that discipline wasn't just about glue and popsicle sticks, but about holding the line when the world was trying to run you over.
Midway through the second, the score was 1-1. We were on the penalty kill. I was out with Shawn.
"Watch the cross-seam!" I yelled as the Avalanche moved the puck with dizzying speed.
A shot came from the point. A redirected rocket. Hunter made the initial save, but the rebound was a gift in the slot. I didn't have time to use my stick. I threw my body down, sliding across the crease to block the second attempt with my ribs. The air left my lungs in a violent rush, but the puck stayed out.
Tucker cleared the zone and, for the first time, he reached down to haul me up by my jersey. "Nice block, Cap," he muttered.
That one word—Cap—felt like the first real win of the night.
The third period was where we broke them. We caught Colorado on a staggered change. I picked up the puck at center ice, faked a pass to Landon on the wing, and watched the defender bite. I pulled the puck back into a toe-drag, the same move Gabe had watched me talk about, and snapped a shot from the top of the circles.
The sound of the puck hitting the crossbar and dropping behind the line was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.
2-1, Surge.
The arena became a roar of white noise. I skated toward the bench, my lungs burning, and caught a glimpse of Gabe. He was mimicking my shooting motion, talking a mile a minute to a stunned-looking Kayla.
We held the lead until the final horn. 1-0 in the series. The room was a chaotic mess of celebration as we filed off the ice, but as I unlatched my helmet, my mind was already moving toward the hallway.
I found them near the player’s entrance. Kayla looked relieved, but Gabe was vibrating with a nervous, high-strung energy I hadn't seen before.
"That was... that was insane," Gabe said, his voice lacking its usual snark. "The way you stepped up on MacKinnon? He didn't even see you coming."
"It's about reading the feet," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with a towel. "You watch the skates, you know where the body's going."
Gabe looked at the locker room door, where the rest of the guys were laughing and shouting, the scent of victory wafting out. "Hey... do you think... I mean, can I hang out with you guys? Just for a bit? See the room?"
Kayla’s face immediately tightened. "Gabe, it’s late. And these guys are... they’re celebrating. It’s not exactly a PG-rated environment."
"Mom, please! Just for an hour. I won't do anything I’m not supposed to." He turned to me, his eyes wide and desperate. "Michael?"
I looked at Kayla. I could see the 'no' forming on her lips, the protective wall she’d built around her son for fifteen years rising up like a fortress. But I saw something else, too. I saw a kid who had been drowning in resentment finally looking for a lifeline. I saw a chance to undo the damage of the science project disaster.
I leaned in slightly, meeting Kayla’s eyes. I didn't speak, but I poured everything I had into the look.Trust me. Let me be the bridge. He needs this.
I gave her a slow, steady nod, my eyes imploring her to take the risk. I was desperate for his approval, desperate to be more than the guy who ruined his model. I wanted to be the guy who showed him the world he dreamed of.
Kayla looked from Gabe’s pleading face to mine. She let out a long, shaky sigh, her shoulders dropping in a moment of rare surrender.
"One hour," she whispered, her gaze lingering on mine with a mix of trust and terrifying expectation. "Michael, if he comes home with a new set of curse words or a tattoo, I’m holding you personally responsible."
"He’s in good hands, Kayla," I promised, the victory on the ice feeling small compared to the one I’d just won in the hallway. "I won't let anything happen to him."
The Shark Tank was a dive bar that smelled of stale hops, chalk dust, and the kind of history you couldn't scrub off the walls. It was tucked away in a corner of the city where the streetlightshummed and the tourists didn't venture. Inside, six pool tables sat under low-hanging green lamps, creating islands of light in a sea of smoky shadows.
The Surge had practically colonized the back half of the room. Landon and Mason were dominating table four, their laughter echoing off the rafters, while Gabe sat on a high stool like he’d just been invited to sit on Olympus. He had a glass of Coke in his hand, condensation dripping onto his knuckles, and a look of pure, unadulterated worship on his face as he watched Landon pull off a trick shot.
I stood back, leaning against a wood-paneled pillar, watching the scene play out with a bittersweet knot in my chest.
I’d thought Game 1 was the bridge. I’d thought the "C" on my jersey and the goal in the third would finally make me a hero in the eyes of a fifteen-year-old who’d spent a week treating me like a virus. But the second we walked through the door, the bridge had collapsed. Gabe hadn't thanked me for getting him in. He’d simply bypassed me like I was the velvet rope at a club.
"Yo, Cap! Check this out," Mason shouted, waving me over. He had his arm draped around Gabe’s shoulders like they’d been friends for a decade. "The kid says he can read a goalie’s eyes better than Landon. I think he’s got a future in scouting."
"He’s got a future in something," I said, stepping into the circle of light. I looked at Gabe. "Hey, you want to grab some sliders? You haven't eaten all night."
He didn't even look at me. He just leaned over to whisper something to Mason, who let out a bark of laughter. "Landry, leave the kid alone. He’s fine. He’s our good luck charm."
