"Right. Too slow," I echoed, watching him sign the slip with an untidy scrawl. "Well, since you're so eager to get moving, I figured I should tell you. Gabe and I are making the trip up to Dallas on Wednesday. He’s been obsessed with the standings, and I figured a road trip might finally get us out of this funk we've been in since the rink."
I expected a polite nod. A 'see you there.' Maybe even a 'thanks for coming.' After all the distance he’d put between us tonight, I was bracing for a brush-off.
Instead, Michael froze. He looked at the receipt, then slowly lifted his gaze to mine. The guardedness was still there, but it was suddenly overlaid with a strange, intense urgency.
"You're driving?" he asked.
"Six hours up I-35. We’ve got a hotel booked near the AAC. Why?"
Michael tapped his fingers on the bar, his eyes flicking toward the darkened stairs in the back of the building and then back to me. He looked like a man making a split-second calculation on a breakaway.
"Don't drive," he said, his voice dropping into that commanding, low register. "The team bus leaves tomorrow, but I was planning on taking my car up early to clear my head. You and Gabe should come with me."
I stared at him, the credit card slip fluttering in the breeze from the fan. "Wait, what? Michael, you’ve spent the whole night acting like I have the plague. Now you want to spend six hours in a car with us?"
"Yes," he said, and a shadow passed behind his eyes. He leaned over the bar, his voice a steady whisper. "Don't take your car. Drive with me. I’ll pick you both up at six AM."
21
Michael
It was 6:00 AM. The San Antonio humidity was already clumping, but inside the Jeep, the air was frigid. Kayla sat in the passenger seat, her coffee clutched in one hand, eyes fixed on the road ahead. In the back, Gabe was a silent, hooded specter. He hadn't said a word since I’d picked them up, but I could feel his gaze burning into the back of my head every time I checked the rearview mirror.
He knew. And he knew that I knew.
The silence lasted until we hit the outskirts of New Braunfels. I could practically hear the gears turning in his head, the teenage calculation of whether I was about to drop the hammer on his Saturday night excursion and ruin his life.
"So," I said, my voice cracking the quiet like a slap shot. "Gabe. You’re quiet back there. Usually, you’ve got at least one complaint about my taste in music by now."
I caught his eye in the mirror. He looked pale, his fingers twisting the straps of his backpack. "Just tired. I hate waking up this early."
"Long night?" My tone was carefully neutral. I glanced at Kayla. She was staring out the window at a passing Buc-ee's billboard.
He flinched. It was a micro-movement, but it was there. I let the silence hang for a beat, letting him sweat, letting him realize that I held the nuclear codes to his relationship with his mother. Then, I reached out and tapped the touchscreen on the dash.
"Tell you what," I said, looking back at the mirror with a small, conspiratorial tilt of my head. "Driver picks the route, but the MVP of the project build picks the playlist. Gabe, plug in. "
He looked at me, then at the back of his mom’s head, then back at me. I gave him a slow, steady wink.Your secret is safe. For now.
The tension didn't just leave the car; it evaporated. Gabe lunged for the cord. "Finally. If I have to hear one more song about a guy losing his dog in the rain, I’m jumping out at the next exit."
"Hey!" Kayla protested, finally laughing. "That music has soul, I’ll have you know."
"It has a funeral vibe, Mom," he said, his fingers flying across his phone.
A heavy, distorted bass line suddenly thundered through the speakers. Some high-octane hip-hop track that made the rearview mirror vibrate. It was aggressive, loud, and exactly what a fifteen-year-old boy used to feel like a king.
"Now we're talking," I said, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.
"You like this?" Kayla asked, looking at me with genuine surprise. "I figured you for a strictly 'Classic Rock' or 'George Strait' kind of guy."
"I contain multitudes, Kayla," I teased, stealing a glance at her. The morning light was hitting her face, softening the hard lines of the 'protective mom' mask she wore so often. She looked relaxed. She looked... happy. "Besides, you can't get hyped for a game listening to a mandolin. You need something that makes you want to skate through a brick wall."
"See, Mom? Michael gets it," Gabe chirped. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the center console, effectively bridging the gap between the front and back seats. "Hey, Michael, did you see that hit Gudas laid out last night? The one in the Florida game?"
And just like that, the floodgates opened.
For the next three hours, the car was a chaotic, wonderful bubble of found-family energy. We debated the best NHL jerseys (Gabe insisted on the Reverse Retros, I stayed loyal to the classics), argued over the best road-trip snacks (Kayla lost the battle for organic apple slices against our united front for 'nacho cheese Bugles'), and sang—terribly—to a 2000s pop-punk throwback that Gabe claimed was vintage.
