18
Kayla
The winter market smelled like cedar shavings, roasted pecans, and the kind of crisp, artificial cold that only a South Texas winter could conjure. Even though the temperature was hovering in the high fifties, the stalls were decked out in aggressive amounts of white tinsel and evergreen boughs, and the speakers pumped out a brassy version ofSilver Bellsthat competed with the chatter of the Saturday morning crowd.
Michael walked to my left, his shoulder occasionally brushing mine in a way that didn't feel like an accident anymore. To my right, Gabe was actually walkingwithus, instead of ten paces ahead like he was trying to disown his lineage. He was busy dissecting a massive churro, his eyes darting between the craft stalls and the people, but his posture was loose. The rigid, defensive coil that usually defined him had unraveled, replaced by a tentative, quiet curiosity.
"You’ve got cinnamon on your nose, kid," Michael said, not even looking over as he reached into his pocket and handed Gabe a napkin.
Gabe took it without a huff. Without a "shut up." He just wiped his face and kept walking. "Thanks."
My heart did a slow, disbelieving roll in my chest. I’d spent fifteen years navigating the minefield of Gabe’s moods, and I’d seen a handful of men try to cross that territory. They’d all stepped on a tripwire within the first twenty minutes. But Michael… Michael moved through Gabe’s world like he was skating on fresh ice. Smooth, steady, and perfectly aware of the friction.
"You’re staring," Michael murmured, leaning closer to my ear. "It’s a market, not a stakeout. Try the cider."
"I'm not staring," I lied, taking the steaming cup he offered. "I'm observing. There’s a difference."
"Right. And I’m just observing the way you’re holding that cup like it’s a thermal detonator. Relax. We’re just three friends having a Saturday."
Friends.The word still felt like a shoe that was half a size too small, pinching in the wrong places, making me walk a little stiffly. I knew it was the right move. I knew that for Gabe’s sake, this neutral ground was the only way forward. But every time Michael’s hand lingered near mine, or he laughed at one of Gabe’s dry one-liners, I felt the friendship label thinning until it was almost transparent.
After an hour of wandering through the stalls, we made our way toward the park's temporary attraction: a large, refrigerated lake that had been frozen over for the season. It wasn't the NHL-standard ice Michael was used to, but it was open, shimmering under the pale sun, and dotted with families in rental skates.
Michael and Gabe didn't need rentals. They sat on a wooden bench at the edge of the ice, a synchronized pair as they pulled their skates from their bags. I watched the way Michael showed Gabe a specific way to wrap the laces around the ankle for better support. It was a small gesture, but to a boy who had spenthis life trying to figure out the manly stuff via school friends, YouTube, and trial-and-error, it was everything.
"Stay low in the transitions," Michael said as they stepped onto the ice. "The surface is choppy out here. If you stand tall, you’re going to catch an edge and eat the boards."
"I know how to skate, Michael," Gabe shot back, but he immediately dropped into a deeper crouch, his blades biting into the ice with a confidentskritch.
I stood by the wooden railing, wrapped in my heavy coat, clutching the water bottles like a lifeline. I watched Michael lead Gabe through a series of tight turns, his patience seemingly infinite. When Gabe fumbled a puck, Michael didn't get angry. He just circled back, tapped Gabe’s shins with his stick, and made him do it again. And again.
The lake wasn't empty. There were toddlers clinging to plastic penguins and couples stumbling through their first dates, but Michael and Gabe created their own private bubble of focus. I could hear the sharp, rhythmic snap of Michael’s instructions over the ambient noise of the park.
"Eyes up! Don't look at the puck, feel it. If you're looking down, you're dead in the water."
"I got it, I got it!" Gabe panted, his face flushed a healthy, vibrant pink.
After twenty minutes of high-intensity drills, Gabe skated toward the railing, his breath coming in white plumes. I handed him his water, and he downed half the bottle in one go, the droplets clinging to his chin.
"How’s it going out there?" I asked, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair back under his beanie. "Is the old man working you too hard?"
Gabe wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, looking back over his shoulder at Michael, who was currently practicing a series of effortless, backwards crossovers a few yards away.
"It’s whatever," he said, falling back on his favorite shield. But he couldn't hide the light in his eyes. He couldn't hide the way his chest was puffing out just a little further than usual. "He knows some stuff. I guess. He’s showing me how to use my peripheral vision so I don't get blindsided on the entry."
"He knows some stuff, huh?" I teased. "High praise from the master."
"Whatever, Mom." He capped the bottle and shoved it back toward me. "I’m going back in. He said he’d show me the snap-shot release if I could nail three more clean pivots."
He took off before I could respond, his skates spraying a fine mist of ice. I watched him go, feeling a lump of pure, unadulterated gratitude in my throat. Michael hadn't just given him a hockey lesson; he was giving him a blueprint.
I looked out onto the ice, intending to catch Michael’s eye and give him a nod of thanks, but I stopped.
A small crowd had begun to form near the center of the lake. It started with a few teenage boys in local high school jerseys, then a couple of dads who were pointing and whispering. Michael was standing still, leaning casually on his stick as he waited for Gabe to rejoin him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the lake in the park had suddenly become a stage.
The whispers were traveling through the crowd like a current:Is that Landry? That’s the new captain. That’s the guy from the Surge.
Michael didn't look like a superstar in that moment. He just looked like a man waiting for a kid. But as Gabe skated back intothe circle of light, I realized our private Saturday was about to get a lot more public.
