He abandoned the game and went storming off down the hallway, the heavy tread of his feet vibrating through the floorboards before his bedroom door slammed shut. Calculated exclusion.
I stood in the center of the living room for a moment, the silence of the apartment suddenly feeling claustrophobic. Guilt pricked at the back of my throat. I was rarely here when the actual work happened, but always the one shouting instructions over my shoulder as I ran out the door. Trying to manage a life through Post-it notes and frantic texts.
I walked down the hall and stopped outside his door, tapping softly.
"Gabe? I have a few minutes before I have to leave. I can help you hammer out that outline. We can just sit at the kitchen table and get it done."
"I'm fine, Mom," his voice came through the door, muffled but firm. "Just go."
I let my hand drop. The rejection was a dull ache, a reminder that the gap between us was growing faster than I could bridge it. The chasm between the little boy who needed me for everything and the young man who now felt my presence hindered him almost broke my heart.
I retreated to the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent light making the gold of my earrings gleam with a mocking sort of brightness.I leaned over the sink, fluffing the roots of my hair and checking the sharp lines of my eyeliner one last time. A woman ready for a night of high-stakes flirting, but my chest felt like it was full of lead.
I adjusted the collar of my shirt and took a breath that didn't quite reach the bottom of my lungs, then headed for the door. Ready to leave behind predictable uniforms and common sense for the next few hours.
My phone buzzed in the back pocket of my jeans and for a split second, I believed it was Gabe texting me a solemn apology from his bedroom. But my heart dropped when I saw the notification from the sophomore group chat I belonged to. A digital hive of mothers I usually kept on permanent mute. I swiped the screen, and the air left my lungs in a sharp hiss.
RE: Sports Expo Bake Sale.>Just a reminder for Kayla J: We’ve got you down for 75 gluten-free, nut-free cookies for the booster booth tomorrow. Thanks for stepping up!
“Shit.” The sale had totally slipped my mind.
I stared at the words until they blurred. Seventy-five cookies. Gluten-free flour cost more than my electricity bill, and finding time to bake between work and everything else was a physical impossibility. I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror and nearly laughed out loud.
It was a costume. A lie I’d told myself for forty-five minutes.
I didn't have time for a life that wasn't built around spreadsheets, bake sales, and a son who was currently barricaded behind a bedroom door. I reached up and yanked the pins from my hair, feeling the weight of it fall against my shoulders before I gathered it back into its usual, unassuming ponytail.
Going back to the bathroom, I grabbed a makeup wipe and fixed my delusion with three brutal swipes. The winged liner and the carefully blended shadow were gone, replaced by the familiar (and more fitting) shadows of exhaustion. I pulled the gold hoops from my ears and tossed them onto the sink, the clatter sounding final.
I was Kayla Jennings. I was a mother, a bartender, and a volunteer baker for a school that barely knew my name. There was no room in that equation for a soft green shirt or a man with quiet blue eyes.
I turned off the light, grabbed my keys, and walked out into the humid Texas night, once again a ghost in my own skin.
5
Michael
The atmosphere inside Frost Bank was a physical weight, thousands of fans screaming for a comeback after the Chicago disaster. On the ice, the Surge were a different team. We were fast, lethal, and hungry as ever. Grayson and Mason carved through the Jets' defense like they hadn't spent the night before the last game face-down in a bucket of ice.
I sat on the edge of the bench, my gloved hands resting on my knees, watching the speed of the game. My heart was already up to tempo, but my body was stuck in the standby of a third-line winger.
"Nice view from the cheap seats, isn't it, Seattle?" Landon muttered as he skated past during a line change, his face slick with sweat. “See anything to write home about?”
"I can see you’re missing the back-post late," I said, my voice flat. “Might wanna focus on your forecheck.”
"I’m scoring goals. You’re counting them. So stay in your lane, Seattle."
I turned my head just enough to catch his eye. "My lane is making sure the puck doesn't end up in our net because you'retoo tired to skate forty feet. If you’re looking for a fan, go to the stands. If you want to win, do your job."
Landon opened his mouth to get the last word, but a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder. Coach was there, his gaze fixed on the ice, but his presence was a localized storm.
"Landry's right," Coach said, the words cutting through the arena noise. "Landon, take a seat. You’re ball-watching. Landry, get out there with the second line. Take his wing."
The bench went cold. Landon stared at his skates, and I felt the collective ego of the team shift out under me. I hopped the boards, the transition from the heated bench to the sub-zero air hitting me like a punch in the face.
I joined Mason and Cash for the face-off. The puck hit the ice, and the disconnect was immediate. I moved to the high slot, expecting the puck to follow the triangle we’d practiced a thousand times. Instead, Mason kept it on his string, trying to dance through three Winnipeg jerseys.
"Open! Right here!" I yelled, my stick blade flat against the ice.
