"Gabe? Come on," I said, accepting my fate. But my son hadn't moved an inch.
He stood his ground, eyes narrowed as he looked from Michael back to me. "We’re not getting in his car, Mom. Just call the Uber. It says six minutes."
"Six minutes plus the ten-minute drive puts you in the principal’s office for a late slip." I wiped a smudge of tire greaseonto my thigh, the frustration bubbling up in the back of my throat.
Michael leaned against the frame of his door, waiting patiently. He looked entirely too composed for a man who’d just spent ten minutes kneeling in the dirt. If anything, the task seemed to have given him a more rugged, lived-in look that—
"I don't care about the late slip," Gabe muttered. "Tell them to get out. I’ll call the Uber if you won’t."
"Gabe, enough." I stepped closer, my voice dropping into that low, maternal frequency that signaled the end of the debate. "We are stranded. He is offering a ride. It’s a logistical solution, not a social invitation."
"It’s weird," Gabe hissed, though his resolve was visibly cracking under the weight of my stare.
"What’s weird is you making us stand on the side of the road out of spite." I turned to Michael, trying to summon a shred of my usual professional armor. "If the offer still stands, we’ll take it. But I’m calling a tow for my car first."
"Already done," he said, tapping his phone before sliding it into his pocket. "The Surge has a contract with a local shop. They’ll have it at the dealership in twenty."
The efficiency of it was a physical blow. I wasn't used to people solving my problems before I’d even finished cataloging them. It felt invasive and helpful all at once, a prickly sensation that made me want to thank him and tell him to mind his own goddamn business in the same breath.
"Okay. Thanks." I adjusted my bag, my mind already racing through the redirected schedule of the day.
Michael walked around to the passenger side. He reached out and pulled the heavy door open, a silent, polite gesture that felt entirely too formal for a Tuesday morning on a dusty shoulder.He caught my eye, and for a split second, the noise of the traffic seemed to fade. There was a quietness in him that acted like a vacuum, pulling at the frayed edges of my nerves.
I started toward the open door, but a blur of navy hoodie intercepted me.
Gabe lunged forward, his shoulder brushing mine as he hauled himself into the front passenger seat. He slammed his backpack onto his lap and stared straight through the windshield, his jaw locked tight. He didn't look at Michael. He didn't look at me. And the silence that followed was heavy enough to sink a ship.
I stood on the sidewalk, the heat of the sun beginning to bite into my skin. Michael glanced at me over the top of the door, a faint, questioning arch to one brow. I just exhaled a long, slow breath and climbed into the back with the other two boys.
"Drive," I said, my voice flat. "Before I decide to walk into traffic."
3
Michael
The carpet in the Chicago Hilton was the kind of thick, soul-sucking shag that made every step feel like walking through wet sand. I adjusted the collar of my suit jacket, the charcoal wool stiff against my neck. Most of the guys had ditched their ties the second we touched down at O’Hare, but I couldn't bring myself to loosen the knot. It felt like the only thing keeping my professional composure from fraying.
I headed for the elevator, my mind already cataloging the sequence of the evening: a light high-protein dinner, twenty minutes of foam rolling, and an early lights-out. My body didn't recover the way it used to, and the windy city air had a bite that seemed to settle right into my joints.
The elevator doors slid open on the fourth floor, and a wall of cologne and loud laughter hit me before I could step inside.
"Look at this," Tucker said, his arm draped over Cash’s shoulder. They both wore shirts unbuttoned halfway down their chests, faces already flushed with the high of being young and talented in a city that wanted to buy them drinks. "Grandpa’s heading down for his nightly glass of warm milk before bed."
"It’s barely nine, Landry," Cash added with a grin as he checked his reflection in the mirrored elevator wall. "We’re hitting that spot in River North. Grayson’s already got a table. Move your feet or lose your seat."
We stepped into the car, where Landon was tapping out rhythms on the brass railing. “A little overdressed, don’t you think?”
"We have a game tomorrow.” My tone left no room for questioning where my head was at. "The Blackhawks aren't exactly a charity case this year. This win is more than points."
Tucker rolled his eyes, a theatrical groan escaping him. "It’s November, not the Finals. Loosen the tie, Grandpa. You’re going to give yourself a stroke before the first intermission."
"I’ll stick to the plan," I replied, staring at the floor numbers as they ticked down. "Someone has to be awake for the morning skate."
"Suit yourself." Cash stepped out as the doors opened into the lobby, his stride full of a confidence that used to come just as easily to me. "Don't wait up. We might be late for our curfews."
They moved toward the revolving doors in a pack, a single organism of navy pea coats and expensive watches. I watched them go, the lobby’s gold-leaf ceiling suddenly feeling cavernous. On paper, it was third line versus first, but it felt more like I was on a different planet. To them, I was a cautionary tale, a reminder of a shelf life they hadn't started calculating yet.
The hotel bar was a quiet, dim space tucked behind a forest of potted palms. It wasn't The Leaky Faucet. The lighting was too warm, the music too polished. I took a seat at the far end of the counter, the cool leather reminding me I was definitely a long way from the dive bar in San Antonio.
