The shift in the room was palpable. Before tonight, I was the new guy,the interloper, the vet with the expiration date. But seeing me with Gabe, seeing I had a life that involved teenagersand science projects and a stubborn streak that matched theirs seemed to humanize me in a way the captaincy hadn't. It softened their edges.
Landon slapped my back as he went to chalk his cue. "Honestly, Michael, I didn't think you had it in you to handle a teenager. Explains why you’re so patient with Tucker’s whining."
I laughed, feeling the warmth of their acceptance, even as the cold shoulder from Gabe continued to freeze me out. It was a bizarre trade-off. I was winning over the locker room by being a father figure, but I was losing the kid I actually cared about because I was the uncool gatekeeper.
I checked my watch. 12:15 AM.
"Gabe," I said, my voice firmer this time. "Time to go. Your mom’s gonna have my ass if you’re not home soon."
He rolled his eyes, the first acknowledgment he’d given me in twenty minutes. "Five more minutes. Mason’s showing me how to bridge a jump shot."
"You said five minutes twenty minutes ago. Let’s move."
"Just one more game," he pleaded, turning back to the table. "Don't be that guy. We just won Game 1. Live a little."
I stood there, remembering the "one hour" promise I’d made to Kayla. Every time I tried to pull him away, Gabe used the guys as a shield. He knew I wouldn't make a scene in front of the team. He was playing me with a veteran’s precision, using my desire for his approval as leverage to stay in the orbit of his heroes.
At 1:00 AM, the guilt was starting to gnaw at me. I walked over to the table and gripped the edge. "Gabe. Now. I’m serious."
He finally stood up, his face darkening. He looked at the guys, then back at me. He saw the gatekeeper look in my eyes and knew the leverage was running out. But then, he pivoted.
"Fine," he said, a sudden, calculated spark in his eyes. "Tell you what. You play me. One game of eight-ball. If you win, we leave right now, no complaints. I’ll even help you clean your car tomorrow."
My heart did a stupid, hopeful little hop. He was talking to me. He was offering a game. "And if you win?"
"We stay for one more round. Rematch," he grinned, that electric charm of his coming out in full force. "Come on, Cap. You’re the big leader. Surely you aren't afraid of a sophomore who’s had two Cokes."
The guys started hooting.
"Ooh! He’s calling you out, Landry!" Tucker yelled, leaning over with a fresh beer. "Don't let him punk you! Take the bet!"
I couldn't resist. It was the first time all night he’d looked at me without a sneer. I wanted that connection. I wanted to be the guy he played pool with, not the guy who dragged him away from the fun.
"One game," I said, pointing a finger at him. "And then we leave. Deal?"
"Deal," Gabe said, his grin widening.
The game was a disaster for my reputation. The entire Surge team lined up behind Gabe, whispering tips into his ear, helping him line up shots, and intentionally "accidentally" bumping my elbow when I went for the corner pocket.
"Left English, kid! Just a tap!" Landon whispered, guiding Gabe’s cue.
"You're dogging it, Landry! Where’s that playoff focus?" Cash teased.
Gabe laughed, enjoying their shenanigans. He sank the eight-ball with a flamboyant flourish that would have made Landon proud, and the bar erupted in cheers.
"He beat the old man!" Mason roared, hoisting Gabe’s arm in the air. "The kid’s a ringer!"
Gabe looked at me, flushed with victory. "Well? Rematch? You can’t go home on a loss like that, Michael. What will the papers say?"
"Gabe, we really should—"
"Come on, just one more. To salvage your honor," he said, and for a second, he sounded like a friend. Not a kid using me for a ride, but a kid who was actually having funwithme.
I looked at the clock. 1:45 AM. Then I looked at the way Landon and Tucker were actually talking to me about the game, about Gabe, about the next round. The friend zone, the captain zone, the mentor zone... it was all blurring into one warm, hazy glow of beer and wood-smoke and the feeling of finally belonging.
"Fine," I said, grabbing my cue. "One more. But I’m not going easy on you this time."
The night devolved from there. One more game turned into three. The conversation turned from hockey to stories about the road, about old injuries and legendary parties. I was having fun. I was one of the guys. Gabe was holding court, telling the team about his idiot science project and how I’d saved it with senior citizen glue.
