“I can’t believe I thought he was for real.”
"It wasn't like that," I pleaded, reaching for his arm, but he flinched away as if my touch burned. "He wanted to tell you today. We wanted to do this right. He’s staying, Gabe. He’s not like the others. He’s the one who insisted we be honest—"
"He’sexactlylike the others!" Gabe’s eyes were brimming with tears now, hot and angry. "Why would you do this again? You know how this ends. He’s going to play the Finals, and then he’s out of here, or he’s going to get bored of playing happy family with the bartender and her screw-up kid, and he’s going to leave. And I’m going to be the one who has to watch you cry for months while I try to figure out why the only guy I actually trusted lied to my face."
"He didn't lie about wanting to help you—"
"It was all a bribe, Mom. Don't you get it?" He grabbed his gym bag from the floorboard, his movements rushed and violent. "Every drill, every conversation... it was just a down payment on you. He didn't want to be my friend. He wanted a trophy. And you gave it to him."
"Gabe, please, just listen for one second—"
"I’m done listening," he spat, his hand on the door latch. "I have a game to play. I have to go out there and play the sport he taught me while I try not to throw up thinking about the two of you together. You said you’d never let another guy mess with my head again. You promised."
He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't give me a chance to bridge the canyon that had just opened up between us. Gabe shoved the door open and scrambled out, the heavy thud of his hockey bag hitting the pavement.
He slammed the door with a force that rocked the entire car, a final, punctuated note of fury that echoed in the quiet cabin. I satthere, frozen, watching his retreating back as he lugged his gear toward the rink, his head down, shoulders shaking.
I had wanted my personal happiness. I had wanted to believe Michael Landry was the exception to every rule I’d ever written. But as I watched my son disappear into the building, I didn't feel happy. I felt like I had just traded my son's heart for a night of Pacific Northwest mist and empty promises.
The bleachers at the Northside’s rink felt like a bed of nails. Usually, the cold of the rink was a comfort, a familiar chill that sharpened my focus, but today it just seeped into my bones, making the guilt under my skin feel like ice water.
I sat alone, three rows up from the glass, watching the warmup. Gabe wasn't just skating; he was punishing the ice. Every stride was a violent dig, every shot he took at the empty net was a wild blast that rattled the plexiglass with a sound like a gunshot. He didn't look toward my usual spot. He didn't give the quick, subtle nod that usually told me he knew I was there.
The game started, and within the first three minutes, the new Gabe—the one Michael had spent weeks molding into a disciplined, tactical player—was gone. In his place was a raw, reckless shadow of the kid he used to be, only angrier.
"Gabe, watch the lane!" his coach screamed from the bench.
Gabe ignored him. He chased the puck into the corner, not to win possession, but to initiate contact. He leveled a Dallas Jesuit winger with a hit that was late and dangerously high. The whistle blew instantly.
"Two minutes for charging!" the ref barked.
Gabe didn't skate to the box. He stood over the fallen player, his chest heaving, his visor fogged. When the ref grabbed his arm to lead him away, Gabe shoved the man’s hand off.
"Don't touch me!" his voice carried over the crowd, sharp and trembling.
I buried my face in my hands for a second, my heart hammering.This is my fault.I’d shattered his world right before he had to step into the one place where he felt in control.
By the second period, the game was a disaster. Gabe was playing hero-ball, trying to deke through three defenders at once, losing the puck, and then taking a slashing penalty in frustration. He was a ticking bomb. Every time he skated past the bench, the coach was in his ear, but Gabe just stared straight ahead, his jaw locked in that stubborn line that reminded me too much of his dad. He was a blank wall of anger, and there was no getting through to him.
"He’s going to get hurt," a dad two seats over muttered to his wife. "Kid’s playing like he wants to break someone or himself."
The prophecy fulfilled itself with six minutes left on the clock.
Gabe caught a suicide pass in the neutral zone. A Dallas defender, twice his size, saw the opening. A disciplined Gabe would have chipped the puck deep and avoided the contact. But this Gabe tried to drive through the boy completely.
The collision was sickening. It was the hollow, wet crack of a body hitting the boards at full tilt. Gabe went down hard, his left shoulder taking the brunt of the impact against the edge of the open bench door.
The rink went silent. He didn't get up. He didn't even try to roll over. He stayed curled on the ice, his right hand clutching his left shoulder, his body shaking with the kind of silent, agonizing tremors that made a mother’s soul scream.
"Gabe!" I was on my feet, stumbling down the bleachers, my vision tunneling.
I scrambled through the gate, the ice slick under my boots as I ran toward the circle where the trainers were already kneeling. Gabe let out a low, guttural moan, his eyes squeezed shut, his face white as a sheet.
"It’s out," he gasped, his voice thin and reedy. "Mom, it’s out."
"Shh, baby, I'm here," I whispered, kneeling in the slush, reaching for his hand. He flinched away, even in his agony, and the rejection felt like a physical blow to my chest.
Then, I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on the wood-slatted walkway behind the bench.
