We watched her march toward the diner, the bell chiming as she disappeared inside. The silence in the cab was heavy. Gabe slumped back into the seat, looking like I’d just told him hockey had been banned.
I looked at the empty expanse of the lot. It was at least three acres of flat, unobstructed gravel. Then I looked at the kid. I still needed his approval. I needed him to know I wasn't just his mother’s shadow.
"Swap with me," I said quietly.
Gabe’s head snapped up. "What?"
"You heard me. Move. Before she gets to the syrup station."
We scrambled. Gabe tumbled over the console with the grace of a caffeinated squirrel, landing in the driver's seat with a look of pure awe. He gripped the leather-wrapped wheel at ten and two, his feet barely hovering over the pedals.
"Okay, easy," I cautioned, sliding into the passenger seat and keeping my hand near the center brake. "Shift it into drive. Keep your foot on the brake. Slow... slow... there you go."
The Jeep lurched forward with a gravelly crunch. Gabe’s face was a mask of intense, terrifying focus. He steered us in a wide, wobbly circle near the back fence, the engine purring.
"This is insane," Gabe whispered, a huge, lopsided grin breaking across his face. He glanced at me, his expression shifting into something more serious, more vulnerable. "Hey... thanks, Michael. For this. And for... you know. The other night. Not telling her about the alley."
I leaned my head back against the headrest, watching him navigate a particularly large pothole. "Don't thank me yet, kid. I'm not doing it because I think you’re a rebel. I'm doing it because I’m giving you a pass. One pass."
I turned my head to look at him, my voice dropping into that lower register that usually made rookies sit up straighter. "But don't make it a habit. You want a career? You want to wear a pro jersey? You keep your nose clean. The scouts don't just look at your PPG; they look at whether you’re a liability off the ice. You get into trouble, you're a ghost. You understand?"
Gabe nodded, his grip on the wheel tightening. "I get it. I’m staying out of trouble. I promise."
"Good. Now park this beast before your mother comes out and initiates a triple-homicide."
He slid the Jeep back into its original spot—slightly crooked, but in one piece—just as the diner door swung open. We swapped back with the insane speed of a pit crew, me diving into the driver’s seat and Gabe scrambling into the back just as Kayla stepped onto the porch clutching a white paper bag that smelled like cinnamon and victory.
She climbed into the passenger seat, squinting at us suspiciously. "Why are you both breathing so hard?"
"High altitude," I lied smoothly, clicking my seatbelt. "Denver lungs. Takes a while to adjust."
Gabe just gave a non-committal grunt from the back, already pulling his hoodie up, but I caught his eye in the mirror. He gave me a quick, silent nod—a pact sealed in gravel and secrets.
"Right," Kayla said, handing me a waffle wrapped in foil. "Let's get to Dallas. I have a feeling the 'high altitude' is the least of my worries on this trip."
I shifted into gear and pulled onto the highway, the Dallas skyline finally rising up to meet us. The car was full of the scent of waffles and the quiet, humming electricity of a team finally finding its rhythm.
The motel was a "vintage" relic on the outskirts of the Design District, which was a polite way of saying the neon sign hummed like a distressed beehive and the carpet smelled vaguely of lemon bleach and forgotten dreams. Kayla had booked it for its proximity to the American Airlines Center, but as we pulled into the cramped lot, the reality of Dallas in the grip of a Luke Combs tour hit us full force. The streets were a gridlock of lifted trucks and cowboy hats, and the lobby was a chaotic sea of flannel-clad fans arguing over overbooked reservations.
I was helping Gabe haul his hockey bag toward the exterior walkway when my phone vibrated with the urgency of a locker room fire alarm.
"Landry," I answered, bracing myself.
"Michael, it’s a mess," Coach’s voice crackled, sounding like he was standing in the middle of a riot. "The team hotel overbooked the block. Apparently, half the Combs road crew showed up early and pulled rank. There’s a pipe burst on the fourth floor,too. We’re scrambling to put the rookies in a Hilton forty minutes away, but there isn't a single room left in the city center. You’re at that motel with Kayla, right?"
"Yeah, just checking them in. Why?"
"Stay there," Coach barked. "I’m not kidding. If you have a roof, keep it. Every broom closet in Dallas is going for five hundred a night right now. We’ll meet for the morning skate at ten. Don't move."
I hung up and looked at Kayla, who was struggling with a stubborn key card.
"Change of plans," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "The team hotel is a disaster zone. Coach told me to stay put. Everywhere else is booked solid."
Kayla finally got the door to click. She pushed it open, revealing a room that was… cozy. In the way a sardine can is cozy. There was one queen-sized bed with a floral polyester comforter and a tiny alcove that was legally being called an "adjoining junior suite."
Gabe walked into the alcove, dropped his bag, and stood there. His head nearly touched the ceiling, and his shoulders brushed both walls. It was essentially a walk-in closet with a cot.
"I think I’m staying in a pantry," Gabe announced, his voice muffled by the wallpaper.
