Mason, the official captain, had his arms crossed, a rare, genuine smile on his face. Grayson, still in his suit but looking more like a teammate than a ghost, stepped forward.
"Landry," Grayson said, his voice carrying through the room. "The doctors cleared me. I’m dressing for Game 5. I'm back in the lineup."
The room erupted in a quick cheer, but Grayson held up a hand, his eyes locked on mine.
"But I watched you out there tonight," he continued, and the room went dead silent. "I watched the way you handled the bench when we were under pressure in the first. I watched how you pushed Landon and Hunter to play bigger than they are. I’m coming back to the ice, Michael, but I’m not taking the room back from you."
Mason nodded in agreement. "We talked to Coach. We’re a better team when you’re leading the huddle, Mike. We want you to keep the guidance. We want you to stay exactly where you are—in the middle of it."
I looked from Grayson to Mason, then around at the rest of the guys. They weren't looking at a veteran fill-in. They were looking at their leader.
"You're the captain, Grayson," I said softly.
"Yeah, I am," he said, reaching out to shake my hand. "But you're the one who saved this season. And we’re not losing that energy now. Not when we’re this close."
I took his hand, the grip firm and final. The outcast was gone. The bundle of overthinking anxiety was dead. I was Michael Landry, and I was exactly where I was meant to be.
26
Kayla
The walls of the bar seemed to pulse with the collective heartbeat of fifty die-hard Surge fans. The air was a thick soup of fryer grease, spilled light ale, and the nervous anticipation that only existed during a close-out game.
I moved behind the bar with a practiced rhythm, popping caps and sliding baskets of fries across the wood, but my internal compass was permanently pointed toward the TV mounted in the corner. And beneath it, perched on the very last stool like a disgruntled gargoyle, was Gabe.
He was officially grounded. No phone, no hanging out with the mistaken identity crew, and definitely no hockey for a week. But I couldn't leave him at the house, not when the Surge were sixty minutes away from the Stanley Cup Finals and not when my trust in him was still a broken thing.
"Wings are hot," I said, sliding a basket of Buffalo medium in front of him.
Gabe didn't even look up. His eyes were glued to the screen, a half-chewed pretzel forgotten in his hand. On the broadcast, Michael was battling in the corner, his jersey bunched at the shoulders as he tied up a Dallas winger twice his size.
"He’s playing too high on the cycle," Gabe muttered, his mouth full of bread. "He needs to drop to the hash marks if he wants the outlet pass."
"He seems to be doing okay," I countered, leaning my elbows on the bar for a rare second of stillness. "The Surge are up 2-1 in the second period, Gabe. I think he knows where the hash marks are."
Just then, Michael threw a hit that rattled the plexiglass on the screen. The bar erupted. A group of guys in the back booth started theLandry! Landry!chant, pounding their fists on the table until the coasters jumped.
Gabe didn't join in the chant, but I saw the small, involuntary smirk on his face. He leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the bar in a nervous cadence that mirrored Michael’s own pre-shift jitters.
I took a breath, wiping down a spot of condensation that didn't exist. My mental list of reasons to be with Michael Landry was currently about three pages long, but the top item—the only one that really mattered—was sitting right in front of me.
"So," I started, trying to sound like I was just making idle bartender talk. "Michael. He’s been around a lot lately. Helping you with your shot, driving you to the rink. What’s the verdict?"
Gabe finally looked at me, a chicken wing halfway to his mouth. "The verdict on what? His slap shot? It’s decent, but he relies too much on his core strength instead of his wrist snap. I told him he needs to follow through more."
I blinked. "I meant as a person, Gabe. Not a coach."
"He’s fine," Gabe shrugged, dipping a wing into a puddle of ranch. "He’s got a cool car. And he doesn't listen to crappy music."
"Is that it?" I pushed a little harder, my heart doing a nervous flutter. "You don't think he’s... I don't know, a good influence? Or someone you’d want to keep seeing around?"
On the TV, Michael intercepted a pass and cleared the zone, the Dallas crowd booing him with a fervor that felt like a compliment. Gabe watched him with an intensity that bordered on reverence, though he’d sooner die than admit it.
"He's okay," Gabe said, his voice flat.
He went back to his wings, completely oblivious to the fact that I was basically asking for his blessing to fall in love. He wasn't sulking, he wasn't angry, and he wasn't fighting the fact that Michael had become a fixture in our lives. He was just... Gabe. Blissfully unaware that the man on the screen was the reason I’d spent the last three nights staring at my ceiling with a permanent smile on my face.
"So you wouldn't mind if he came over for dinner more often?" I tried one last time.
