"You guys aren’t doing anything gross, are you?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "Because I can hear you talking and it’s weird."
The moment shattered into a thousand pieces, and I bolted upright, my heart jumping into my throat. Kayla scrambled to pull the floral comforter up to her chin as if she’d been caught in a heist.
"We’re not doing anything, Gabe," I said, my voice a pitch higher than usual. "Go back to your pantry."
"Good," he grunted, rubbing his eyes. "Keep it that way. I have a game to watch tomorrow and I don't need mental scarring."
The door clicked shut, plunging us back into the dark. The silence that followed was heavy with the cold splash of reality. The heat was still there, pulsing under the surface, but the moment had passed. The friend was back on the clock.
Kayla let out a long, shaky breath and rolled onto her side, facing away from me.
"We’re not being stupid, Michael," she said softly, her voice steadying. "We’re doing the right thing. For him. For... whatever this is."
Before I could respond, she shifted back toward me just enough to plant a chaste, lingering kiss on my cheek. It was soft, innocent, and somehow more devastating than the alternative.
"Goodnight, Michael," she whispered.
She turned over, pulling the covers tight. I lay back down, the spot on my cheek feeling like it had been branded. My body wasstill screaming, my mind was a riot ofwhat-ifs, and I had a playoff game in less than eighteen hours.
I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep, knowing that "doing the right thing" was the hardest play I’d ever had to make.
22
Kayla
The American Airlines Center was a cavern of hostile green light and deafening noise, a far cry from the quiet, wood-paneled safety of the Leaky Faucet. Sitting three rows behind the Surge bench, it was impossible not to feel like a pariah. Every time the puck slammed into the boards, the vibration rattled my teeth, a physical reminder that the stakes had shifted from playoff run to destiny.
Beside me, Gabe leaned so far over the railing I had to keep a white-knuckled grip on the back of his hoodie. He wasn't the sulking teenager I’d dragged to Dallas. Once the chill of the arena hit our lungs he became a live wire, his eyes tracking every black-and-silver jersey with a hunger that made me miss the son I had before puberty got him.
"Look at the gap Michael’s holding," he yelled over the roar of the crowd. "He’s forcing Hintz to the outside every single entry. They can't get a clean look."
He was right. With Grayson still sidelined, Michael’s leadership was more vital than ever. He wasn't just playing, but conducting the game. I watched him through the glass, his movements a masterclass in controlled aggression. He’d pivot,his blades throwing up a spray of ice that caught the overhead lights like diamonds, and then he’d deliver a pass so crisp it sounded like a gunshot.
Whenever he rotated off the ice and slid onto the bench just feet from us, my heart made a treacherous lurch. The steam rose from his shoulders, beads of sweat rolling down the back of his neck. He looked exhausted and invincible all at once.
And every single time, before he took a squirt of water or listened to the coach’s instructions, his eyes found mine.
It was a quick, searing connection that made it feel like we were still in that cramped motel room. My skin still tingled where he’d brushed against me in the dark, and the chaste kiss I’d given his cheek felt like a brand I couldn't wash off.
"He’s out of his mind," Gabe muttered, dropping back into his seat as the first period whistle blew. The score was 1-1, a gritty, defensive stalemate. He looked at me sideways, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Mom?"
"Yeah, honey?"
"Is he... I mean, you guys were talking a lot last night. Is he just a 'friend' friend? Or is this, like, a thing?"
I felt the heat climb my neck, fiercer than the arena lights. "He’s just a friend, Gabe. I promise there’s nothing going on."
He snorted, a sound of pure skepticism. "You two don’t look like friends a lot of the time. The way he looks at you, anyway."
"Watch the game," I said, though there was no bite in it. The lie was getting harder to swallow, especially when the friend in question was currently standing on the ice for the second-period puck drop, looking like a god of thunder in hockey tape.
The next few minutes were a blur of high-speed collisions and near-misses. Dallas came out guns blazing, their forecheckrelentless. I heard the Surge coach yell, "Collapse! Protect the house!" as the Stars cycled the puck with terrifying precision.
Michael was the anchor. He blocked a shot with his thigh that made me wince, the solid strike of the puck hitting padding audible even over the organ music. He didn't even limp. He just cleared the crease, shoved a Dallas forward out of his goalie’s sightline, and started the breakout.
"Go, Michael! Move it!" Gabe screamed, jumping to his feet.
Seeing Gabe cheer for him, not for the Surge, not for the sport, but forMichael… It tore my heart in two. It was the bridge I’d been praying for, built out of ice and secret driving lessons and shared waffles.
