"In this rink? Itissurgery," Michael countered, turning to me with a grin that was dangerously infectious. He looked younger in the harsh fluorescent light of the arena, less like a weary veteran and more like a kid who had just seen a magic trick. "He’s got vision. Natural, unteachable vision. You put that kid in a proper development program, get him some power-skating drills to refine that stride... God, Kayla, he could actually have a shot. I’m talking Tier 1, maybe even a look from the scouts in a couple of years."
The standoffish mom in me wanted to shut him down. I wanted to remind him that Gabe’s "development program" currently consisted of me working double shifts so he could have decent skates and a helmet that actually passed safety standards.
"Don't do that," I said, my voice tight. "Don't start building castles in the air. We live in a two-bedroom apartment above a bar, not a scout’s highlight reel. And besides, even if he did hit it big, it’s delusional to think this is your 'in' with him."
Michael’s smile faltered, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "My 'in'?"
"You think if you talk hockey with him, or tell him he’s a superstar, he’s suddenly going to stop being a prickly, defensive wall of angst?" I let out a dry, hollow laugh. "Michael, the kid doesn't even likeme, and I’m the one who carried him for nine months and pays for his data plan. He’s not looking for a mentor. He’s looking for a target."
"That's not true, Kayla," Michael said softly, his enthusiasm settling into something more grounded, more observant. "He loves you. It’s written all over him, even when he’s being a brat."
"It feels true most of the time," I admitted, the words slipping out before I could catch them. I looked away, focusing on a stray puck sliding across the neutral zone. "It feels like I'm a roommate he’s counting down the days to escape from."
Michael didn't push. He just stood there, his presence a warm weight beside me. "Well, if he goes pro, you won't have to worry about the rent. You could retire. Move to a beach. Buy a fleet of those fancy SUVs you see in the suburbs."
"I'm not a beach person," I muttered. "And I don't think I’d know how to 'retire.' My hands would probably start shaking if they weren't holding a tray or a rag."
"Then what?" Michael pushed, his elbow nudging mine. "If Gabe hits the NHL and hands you a blank check, what’s the dream? No more Leaky Faucet. No more Miller breathing down your neck. What does Kayla do when she’s not being a superhero for everyone else?"
I tried to shrug it off. "I don't daydream, Michael. It’s a waste of mental energy."
"Indulge me. One fantasy. Professional curiosity."
I looked at him, seeing the genuine interest in his eyes, and felt a sudden, terrifying crack in my resolve. The "gooey center" I’d been trying to freeze over since the 3:00 AM debacle was starting to thaw.
"I’d want my own place," I whispered, the words feeling heavy and strange. "Not a dive bar. A real pub. Something with dark wood that smells like wax and good whiskey. A kitchen that puts out one signature dish—the kind of shepherd's pie that people drive across the state for. And a bar with one signature drink that’s mine. A place where the lighting is actually warm and people come because they want to feel like they’re part of something, not just because they want to get hammered."
I felt my face heating up and I gave a sharp, embarrassed laugh, shaking my head. "God, listen to me. I sound like a cliché."
"Where everybody knows your name?" Michael joked, his voice light and teasing.
I slapped his arm, harder than I intended. "Shut up! See? This is why I don't talk. It's stupid."
"It’s not stupid," Michael said, his tone shifting instantly to something fierce and sincere. He caught my hand for a brief second before I could pull it away, his thumb grazing my knuckles. "It’s a great dream, Kayla. And honestly? I can see it.You behind a bar you actually own? You’d run that place like a general. I’d be an honored regular. I’d have my own stool and I’d tell everyone the owner is the toughest, smartest woman in San Antonio."
I looked at him, and for a heartbeat, I actually saw it. I saw the dark wood. I saw him sitting there, older, calmer, looking at me not through the fog of a shift, but through the clarity of a shared life. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest.
Then, the reality of the cold rink air rushed back in. I pulled my hand back, tucking it into my pockets.
"It’s just a story, Michael," I said, my voice regaining its edge. "In the real world, I’m broke, I’m exhausted, and I have a teenager who needs to pass chemistry and stay out of trouble. I don't have the time or the capital for some day."
Michael straightened up, his eyes lingering on mine for a second longer than necessary. "You’d be surprised what broke and busy can accomplish when it has a reason to move."
He gave me a final, lingering look that told me he wasn't done with the fantasy, even if I was, and then he turned toward the gate.
"Duty calls," he said, gesturing to the rest of the team who were already congregating at the center of the ice for the exhibition. "Watch the kid, Kayla. I’m telling you, he’s got the spark."
I watched him skate away, his movements powerful and effortless as he joined the circle of jerseys. He looked back once, a quick flash of a smile, before he merged into the chaos of the game. I stood there alone by the glass, the ghost of his touch still tingling on my hand, feeling the walls of my carefully constructed life start to feel a little too small.
I stayed by the glass for a few more minutes, my breath hitching as I watched the dynamic on the ice shift. Theprofessional players were supposed to be "hosting" the clinic, but Michael had drifted toward the far circle where Gabe was currently trying to replicate a backhand saucer pass.
Michael didn't swoop in like a coach; he just glided alongside him, his movements synchronized with Gabe’s. He said something that made Gabe pause, and for the first time in a week, my son didn't look like he wanted to bite someone’s head off. He listened. He nodded. Then, with a gentle correction from Michael’s stick against his, Gabe tried the pass again.
It was perfect.
The look on Gabe’s face shook something loose in my chest. All the anger I’d been nursing since three in the morning, all the righteous fury about broken rules and lost trust, just... dissolved. It was hard to hold onto a grudge when someone was giving your kid the one thing you couldn't: a glimpse of his own potential.
When the whistle finally blew to signal the end of the session, the kids scrambled for the gates. Michael hopped the boards, landing with a heavythudon the rubber matting, and found me near the churro stall.
