"You've got a ceiling higher than this building," I continued, my voice dropping into that steady, locker-room gravity. "But you’re raw. You’re playing on instinct, which gets you far, but it won't get you to the League. I’d be honored to mentor you, if you’re game."
Gabe was quiet for a long beat. Then, he looked up, his expression guarded but curious. "What exactly is a... mentor?"
Beside us, I felt Kayla go still. I caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes, the realization that despite his bravado, there were still basic gaps in his world. I kept my face neutral, treating the question with the respect it deserved.
"It means I’m your shortcut," I said. "I spend time with you on the ice. I show you how to read a defenseman’s hips before he even knows where he’s pivoting. I help you refine the grit so the talent actually shines. I get you ready so that when you walk into those tryouts, the coaches aren't looking at anyone else."
Gabe processed this, a slow nod escaping him. "Okay. Yeah. I guess that’s... cool."
The "whatever" was officially dead. When we got back to the project, the floodgates opened. Gabe peppered me with questions: what the travel was like, if the trainers really used smelling salts, how much it hurt to block a slap shot from a guy like Grayson. I rode the wave, fueling his excitement with stories of the road while we rigged the final trigger.
"Okay, the moment of truth," I said, standing up and dusting off my knees. "Go fetch your stick."
Gabe’s eyes widened. "In the house?"
"In the house," I confirmed, glancing at Kayla. She looked like she wanted to protest, but the honest joy on Gabe’s face silenced her.
I placed a small, portable hockey net at the start of the run, rigged with a pressure-sensitive plate. I handed Gabe a puck. "If you sink this, the vibration hits the plate, releases the marble, and sets off the whole chain. If you miss, we’re just two guys with a pile of junk on the floor."
Gabe gripped his stick, his posture changing instantly. He took a breath, centered himself, and snapped a quick, precise wrist shot.
Clack.
The puck hit the back of the small net. The plate dropped. The marble spiraled down the copper wire, triggered the falling books, which yanked the string, which swung the pendulum, which finally flipped the switch on the fan. The fan blew a small toy sailboat across a tray of water, which tipped a final lever, popping a confetti popper right at the finish line.
"Yes!" Gabe yelled, throwing his arms up. I met him halfway with a high five that echoed through the room.
"Michael, that was incredible," Kayla said, stepping forward. She wasn't just looking at the machine; she was looking at me, her expression soft and genuinely impressed. "I’ve never seen him this into a school project. Ever."
"It's just physics, Mom," Gabe chirped, already pulling out his phone. "Hold on, I gotta reset it and film a clip for Tyler. He’s gonna lose his mind when he sees the puck trigger."
As Gabe busied himself with the reset, Kayla shifted on her feet, her hands tucked into her back pockets. She looked down at the floor, then up at me, a shy, hesitant smile touching her lips."So... I was going to put some pasta on. Do you... do you want to stay for dinner?"
My heart slammed against my ribs. Every instinct I had told me to say yes, to sit at that table, to be part of the warmth radiating from this kitchen. I wanted to see her hair down and hear her laugh without the hum of the bar in the background.
But I knew the play. I knew that if I pushed too hard, the walls would go back up.
"I’d love to take a raincheck, Kayla," I said, forcing a casual tone I didn't feel. "I’ve got some film to review at home and a few things to take care of."
The look of disappointment that flashed across her face was fleeting, but it was there. A small, beautiful sign that she had actually wanted me to stay. It was the best victory of the night.
"Oh. Sure. Of course," she said, her voice a little higher than usual. "Let me see you out."
We walked to the door in a silence that felt heavy with things unsaid. I stepped out into the hallway, then turned back. Kayla was standing in the doorway, the light from the apartment framing her, her eyes searching mine.
The air between us pulled tight. I leaned in, just an inch, and for a second, I saw her breath hitch. Her eyes fluttered shut, her chin tilting up—the magnet was finally winning. Our lips were heartbeats apart when she suddenly blinked, the clarity returning to her gaze like a splash of cold water.
She pulled back, clearing her throat and smoothing her shirt. "We’re... we’re good as friends, Michael," she whispered, her voice shaky. "I don't want to mess that up. And Gabe... he’s going through so much. I can’t confuse him right now."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and gave her a slow, understanding nod. "I get it, Kayla. Friends."
"Goodnight, Michael."
"Goodnight."
The door closed, the lock clicking into place. I stood in the hallway, the silence of the building settling over me. I’d won the kid over, I’d built a masterpiece out of junk, and I’d almost kissed the woman of my dreams.
Progress. Slow, agonizing, playoff-style progress. I headed for the stairs, already planning the next "friend" move.
