"Must be the adrenaline," I said, sliding a tall glass of ice water toward him. "You look like you’re still trying to block a shot. Relax. You’re home."
He grabbed the glass, but didn't drink. He just stared at the entrance as a group of rowdy college kids tumbled in. His jaw was set so hard I could see a muscle jumping in his cheek. "Yeah. Great to be back."
I moved down the bar to settle a tab for a group of fans, but I kept an eye on him. Every time the door-chime rang or someone moved too quickly in his peripheral vision, Michael’s entire body tensed. He’d half-turn, his hand gripping the edge of the bar until his knuckles went white, only to deflate when he realized it was just another local looking for a pint.
I figured I knew what the problem was. He was still reeling from the frozen lake disaster. My words about him choosing his image over my son were probably still ringing in his ears, making him feel like he had to look over his shoulder for my next lecture.
When the rush died down for a heartbeat, I moved back to his corner, leaning over the wood to close the distance. "Look, about the park... I was harsh, Michael. I know the fans are part of the deal. I shouldn't have made it sound like you were doing it on purpose to hurt Gabe."
Michael didn't look at me. He was staring at a point somewhere near the pool hall in the back. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't even pull it out to check.
"It’s fine, Kayla. Really. You don't have to do this right now."
"I do, because you’re being weird and it’s my fault," I said, trying to catch his eye. I reached out and placed my hand over his on the counter. His skin was cold, and his fingers didn't relax under mine. "I know things got out of hand. But I’m apologizing. I overreacted because Gabe’s at such a complicated age. He’s sensitive, even if he pretends he isn’t."
Michael finally looked at me, but his eyes were guarded, shadowed by an energy that felt like a coiled spring. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then he glanced toward the front windows again and the shutters came back down.
"I'm sure he's fine," Michael muttered, his voice tight. "He’s a tough kid."
"He is, but I’ve raised him alone this whole time," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper so the fans nearby couldn't hear. "Every decision I make feels like I’m walking a tightrope. I just... I don't want to fuck up. I was scared that letting you in was going to be the thing that pushed him toward a rebellion I couldn't handle. I was protecting him, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you."
I expected him to squeeze my hand, to tell me he understood, to give me that steady, "C" on the jersey kind of reassurance that usually made me feel like the world wasn't quite so heavy.
Instead, he pulled his hand away to grab his water, taking a sudden, aggressive gulp. He set the glass down with a hollowthudand checked the clock above the bar for the third time in two minutes.
"I need to get to the team," he said abruptly.
I blinked, the apology dying on my tongue. "What? You just got here."
"I should be with them," Michael said, his voice strained and strangely distant. He backed away from the bar, his eyes fixed on the crowd with a desperate kind of urgency. "The guys are getting rowdy. I need to make sure things stay under control."
“What?” I said again, struggling to keep up with this strange version of Michael Landry.
"Not tonight, Kayla," he said. The coldness in his tone felt like a physical slap, a wall of ice he’d erected to keep me out. He didn't even look back as he turned and disappeared into the thick of the crowd, heading toward the shadows of the pool hall.
I stood there, the damp bar rag in my hand, feeling the distance between us stretch into a chasm. He was being so strangely guarded, so utterly closed off, that it felt like we were back at square one. Back to being a bartender and a celebrity who didn't know how to speak the same language.
I watched him reach the pool table and lean in close to Landon, whispering something that made Landon’s head whip toward the front entrance. Michael’s face was a mask of hard lines. He wasn't playing pool; he was watching the room like a sentry waiting for a flare to go off.
He’s still mad,I thought, a bitter lump forming in my throat.He’s choosing the team because it’s easier than dealing with the mess I’ve made. He's punishing me for the rink by shutting me out.
I turned back to the taps, my vision blurring slightly with a mix of frustration and hurt. I’d bared my soul, admitted my biggest fear as a mother, and he’d excused himself to go "party" with the boys.
I didn't notice the way Michael kept his hand on his phone in his pocket, his eyes flicking toward the exit every few seconds, his posture radiating a silent alarm. I didn't know that while I was nursing my wounded pride and resenting his silence, he was standing guard over a secret that was already beginning to burn the house down.
"Another round, Kayla!" a fan shouted, slamming a twenty on the bar.
"Coming up," I said, my voice steady, my heart anything but.
The Saturday night rush was finally starting to break, the tide of jersey-clad fans receding and leaving behind a battlefield of crumpled napkins and sticky rings of condensation. I stayed behind the mahogany, my hands moving in a blur of muscle memory, pulling a pint for Jenkins, who’d been sitting in the same stool since the first intermission, and swapping a dirty ashtray for a clean one for a group of stragglers by the window.
I was wiping down the brass rail when the jukebox transitioned from the high-energy rock that had defined the victory party into the low, soulful drawl of Chris Stapleton’sTennessee Whiskey. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly; the heady celebration smoothed out into something heavy and honeyed.
"You look like you're about to fall over. Or bite someone. Possibly both," a voice drawled.
I looked up to find Tucker leaning over the bar, a crooked, easy-going grin on his face. He’d swapped his team jacket for a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking less like a pro athlete and more like a local boy out for a good time.
"I’m fine, Tucker. Just a long night," I said, snapping my rag.
