The recycled air of the charter flight had been replaced by the thick, humid embrace of San Antonio as we shuffled through the private terminal at SAT. It was nearly midnight, and the high of the sweep was beginning to settle into that heavy, bone-deep fatigue that only professional athletes and long-haul truckers truly understand.
"I’m telling you, the penthouse at the Zone has that new lounge open," Landon said, hoisting his duffel bag over a shoulder that looked like it had been through a meat grinder. "We’ve got forty-eight hours before we even think about the Conference Finals. I want a drink that doesn't come in a plastic cup and a chair that wasn't bolted to a cabin floor."
"I'm with Landon," Mason added, rubbing his eyes. "My bed is calling, but a victory lap at a place with decent lighting sounds better."
I stood by the baggage carousel, watching the black equipment trunks slide past. My phone was a dead weight in my pocket. No texts. No "congrats on the sweep." Just a hollow silence that felt louder than the roar of the jet engines we’d just left behind.
"We’re going to the Faucet," I said. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command, delivered with the same low, immovable gravity I used when we were defending a one-goal lead in the dying seconds of the third.
The guys stopped. Tucker looked at me like I’d just suggested we go for a light five-mile jog. "The Faucet? Cap, it’s a dive. We just took down the Avs. We should be somewhere with... I don't know, a dress code?"
"The Faucet," I repeated, turning to face them. I saw the exhaustion in their faces, the desire to disappear into the luxury they’d earned. "Look, I know it’s not the Zone. But that place... they’ve been our unofficial home base since the trade. Kayla’s been there every night we’ve been away, probably dealing with the Saturday night rush alone. We show up there, as a team. We show the colors. We support the people who support us."
Landon narrowed his eyes, a knowing, crooked smirk spreading across his face. "This isn't about the community. Thisis about the bartender and the kid, isn't it? You’re trying to stage a comeback."
"I'm trying to be a man who shows up," I countered, not flinching. "I blew it at the rink. I let my ego get in the way of the person I actually want to be. I’m going there to make it right. You guys can come with me and have your drinks on my tab, or you can go find your fancy lounge. But the Surge leadership is heading to the Faucet."
There was a long beat of silence. The carousel hummed, the only sound in the terminal.
"Free tab, you said?" Tucker asked, a slow grin breaking through his fatigue.
"The whole night," I promised.
"Well," Mason sighed, grabbing his suitcase. "I do like a place where I don't have to worry about spilling gin on a velvet sofa. Let’s go.”
We piled into the shuttle transfer, a loud, sprawling mass of victory and sweat. The guys were already back to their usual banter, dissecting the game, planning their off-day, and arguing over who had the best celly of the series. I sat near the window, watching the familiar San Antonio skyline flicker past. I was rehearsing my apology, over and over, trying to find the words that wouldn't sound like a performance. I didn't want to be the star tonight. I just wanted to be the guy who didn't walk away.
As the shuttle slowed, pulling into the narrow, neon-lit alleyway that served as the back entrance to the Leaky Faucet, the atmosphere inside the van shifted back to a dull hum of anticipation. The bar's sign was buzzing, a flickering blue-and-red heartbeat in the dark.
"Okay, boys, keep it low-key," I said, sliding the side door open.
I stepped out onto the cracked asphalt first, the cool night air hitting my face. I turned back to help Landon with a heavy bag, but something caught the corner of my eye.
Movement. Not from the bar's main door, but from the shadows of the fire escape that led up to Kayla’s apartment.
I froze, my hand still gripped on the van’s door handle.
A figure was slipping down the metal stairs, moving with a practiced, silent urgency. A hoodie was pulled low over his head, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He reached the bottom, glanced toward the street, and began to jog toward the mouth of the alley.
It was Gabe. And he wasn't just going for a walk. He was running.
20
Kayla
The bar breathed with a heavy, rhythmic pulse of bass from the jukebox and the hop-soaked heat of a Saturday night crowd. The news of the Surge’s sweep in Colorado had traveled faster than the team’s shuttle from the airport, and by the time they arrived, the place was already a sea of jerseys, clinking glass, and high-velocity celebrations.
I was mid-pour, the stream of a draft beer hitting the glass at a perfect tilt, when that gust of cool night air cut through the bar. The team looked like they’d just crawled out of a tactical bunker, but they wore the victory like a second skin. Landon was already shouting for a round of shots, and Tucker high-fived a regular near the dartboards.
My eyes went straight to Michael.
He was the last one in, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. He didn't look like a man who had just captained a second-round sweep. He looked like he was bracing for an impact that hadn’t happened yet.
"How you doin’, Cap?" I called out over the roar of a celebratory chant. I wiped my hands on my apron, feeling a nervous flutter in my stomach. I’d spent the last few daysrehearsing what I’d say to him after the way I’d snapped at the rink. "I didn't think you guys were heading straight here from the tarmac."
Michael’s eyes met mine, and I saw a flicker of something sharp before he smoothed it over with a rigid, tight-lipped mask. He walked toward the service bar, his movements jerky and uncharacteristically stiff.
"Landed thirty minutes ago," he said. His voice was clipped, devoid of that warm, low rumble that usually made the back of my neck tingle. He didn't lean against the mahogany; he stood a foot back, his gaze darting toward the front door and then scanning the room with a restless, hawk-like intensity.
