Gabe snorted, his eyes snapping back to the screen as the Surge went on the power play. "As long as he brings those steaks from the butcher shop and doesn't try to make us eat kale, I don't care, Mom. Shh—watch this. They’re setting up the umbrella. Michael’s going to the point."
I had the opening I wanted, but Gabe was a vault of adolescent indifference. Couldn’t really blame him, either. The Surge were five minutes away from the end of the second period, and I was exactly where I needed to be: caught between the two most important men in my life, both of them fighting for a win.
The middle of the second period was usually a dead zone, but tonight the bar was a pressurized chamber. The Stars were surging, keeping the puck in our end for two solid minutes of suffocating pressure. Michael was out there, his jersey heavywith sweat, his stick active as he blocked a lane and took a stinging shot off the shin guard.
"He’s gonna be bruised tomorrow," I murmured, more to myself than to Gabe.
"He likes it," Gabe said, his eyes never leaving the screen. "He says if you don't leave the ice with a new dent, you weren't really there."
I took a breath, the smell of hops and victory-in-waiting emboldening me. "So, if I... if I started actuallydatingsomeone like him. Not just hanging out at the rink. What would you think?"
Gabe finally did it. He forgot the game.
He froze, a half-eaten wing suspended in mid-air, and slowly turned his head to look at me. The roar of the bar faded into a dull hum in my ears as his dark eyes—so like my own—searched my face.
"Are you and Michael an item?" he asked. The worditemsounded ridiculous coming from a fifteen-year-old, but his voice was dead serious.
"No," I said, and technically, I wasn't lying. We hadn't labeled the steam-room-fueled fire that was currently burning between us.
"Do youwantto be?"
The question hung in the air, heavier than the championship banners in the rafters. I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just looked at him, my heart doing a slow, painful roll in my chest, waiting for the explosion. I waited for him to mention the no kissing rule, or to remind me that he didn't need a stepdad, or to throw his basket of wings on the floor and storm out into the night.
Instead, Gabe just looked at me for a long beat, his expression unreadable. Then, he turned back to the TV.
"He’s better than the other guys you’ve dated," he muttered, picking up his wing again. "And he knows how to fix a power play. But you promised you won’t be dating again, so none of this matters."
I stood there, stunned into silence, as the bar suddenly erupted in a deafening, floor-shaking scream. On the screen, the Surge had just scored on a breakaway.
The rest of the game was a blur of adrenaline and spilled beer. The third period felt like a lifetime, every tick of the clock a countdown to destiny. When the final horn blared, the Leaky Faucet detonated. Strangers were hugging, theLandry!chant was being led by a guy standing on a table, and the TV screen showed the Surge bench emptying onto the ice in a chaotic, beautiful pile of gloves and sticks.
It was official. The Surge were through to the Stanley Cup Finals.
I leaned against the back bar, trying to blink back tears of pure relief, when my phone began to vibrate in my back pocket. I pulled it out, my heart leaping when I saw the name on the caller ID: Michael.
I started to answer, but Gabe snatched the phone out of my hand before I could even say a word. His face was alight with an un-grounded excitement I hadn't seen in years.
"Landry!" Gabe shouted into the phone, his voice cracking with teenage fervor as he turned away from me to pace the length of the bar. "That backhand pass in the third— Did you see the goalie's face? You absolutely broke his ankles! And that hit on the Stars' captain? Man, I thought the glass was gonna shatter!Are you guys coming over tonight? You have to tell me what Coach said in the room—"
I stood there with my hands empty, watching my son talk to the man I was falling for as if they’d been teammates their entire lives.
27
Michael
The silence of an empty NHL arena had a specific weight to it. Because it wasn’t really quiet, the way a library was hushed but active. This was different. This silence held the hum of ten thousand ghost cheers trapped in the rafters, mixed with the sharp, metallic scent of perfectly chilled ice.
I stood at center ice, the Surge logo huge and intimidating beneath my skates. Gabe was ten feet away, not moving. He just stared up at the retired jerseys hanging from the ceiling, his mouth slightly open. He looked small in the vastness of the bowl, a skinny kid in a neon hoodie and borrowed breezers, dwarfed by the stage he’d spent his whole life dreaming about.
"Don't just stand there catching flies, Gabe," I called out, the sound echoing off the empty glass. "The ice is the same dimensions as the rink in your hometown. Only difference is the quality of the flood."
Gabe blinked, finally looking at me. "Michael... this is insane. I’m actually standing on it. Like, where they scored that OT winner against Vegas?"
"Right about where your left skate is," I said, kicking a puck toward him. "Keep your head up. We’re starting with the'Cloverleaf'. Tight turns around the dots, acceleration through the neutral zone. I want to see your edges. If you play your cards right, kid, this ice could be your home in a few years. Don't let the seats intimidate you. They’re just plastic until people sit in them."
He nodded, a sharp, focused movement, and took off. I watched him work. The kid was a natural; he had a fluid, effortless stride that reminded me of Grayson in his early years. He hit the first turn, his blades carving a deep, satisfying hiss into the fresh sheet.
"Nice!" I shouted as he looped back toward me. "Now, transition to the backhand. Keep your center of gravity low."
