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"Okay," I said, handing him a napkin as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "I’m officially calling a truce. The 'death sentence' is commuted to time served."

Michael’s eyes lit up, a genuine, relieved warmth spreading across his face. "Does that mean I’m allowed within twenty feet of the apartment again?"

"Don't push your luck, Landry," I teased, though the edge was gone from my voice.

Gabe and his friends were already ten yards ahead of us, a loud, clattering pack of testosterone and hockey tape. I started walking, trailing them at a distance that screamed'I'm notfollowing you, I'm just walking in the same direction.'Michael fell in beside me, his long gait easily matching my stride.

"You're doing that thing again," he noted, nodding toward the boys. "The secret service tail. You’re like a high-stakes bodyguard for a kid who just wants to buy a giant pretzel."

"It’s called parenting, Michael. You should try it sometime. It involves a lot of calculated hovering."

"It involves a lot of control," he countered, his tone playful. "You’ve got the kid on a leash that’s about two inches long. You need to let him breathe, Kayla. At his age, I was already living in a billet house halfway across the country, making my own breakfast and getting into trouble in three different provinces."

I stopped at a stall selling handmade leather goods, pretending to inspect a belt just so I could keep my eye on Gabe’s neon green hat in the distance. "I’m not controlling. I’m careful. There’s a difference. I know my son. If I give him a finger, he’ll take the whole hand, the arm, and probably the keys to the car I don't even own yet."

I looked up at him, a mischievous glint in my eyes. "I wasn't always the Queen of the Faucet with a mortgage and a bedtime, you know. I was a teenager once. I know exactly how the game is played because I wrote the manual."

Michael leaned against the wooden frame of the stall, his interest piqued. "Wait. Are you telling me there’s a version of Kayla that wasn't organized and responsible? A rebel Kayla? God forbid... afunKayla?"

"I was a nightmare," I admitted, laughing at the memory. "I was the girl who snuck out of windows, stayed at bonfires until sunrise, and thought speed limits were merely suggestions. My mother aged twenty years between my eighteenth birthday."

Michael stared at me, his gaze traveling over my face as if he were trying to find traces of that wild girl in the woman standing before him. "I’m having a hard time picturing it. You seem so…"

"Life has a way of packing the soil around you when you have someone else to grow," I said, my voice softening. "But I know the look in Gabe’s eye. It’s the same look I had. That’s why the leash is two inches long. I know exactly what’s on the other side of that fence."

"Well, you can't cage him in forever," Michael said. He looked toward Gabe, who was currently laughing at something Tyler said, his hockey stick slung over his shoulder like a scepter. "He’s got a lot of that fire in his game. It’s what makes him fast. It’s what makes him dangerous on the ice."

We walked in silence for a moment, the sun finally breaking through the fog and glinting off the ice-melt on the pavement. Michael cleared his throat, his posture shifting into something a bit more tentative.

"He’s got the raw goods, Kayla," he said, looking at me sideways. "But he’s green. He’s making mistakes with his edge-work that are going to get him crushed when he moves up to the next division. I was thinking... if you’re okay with it... maybe I could work on his game with him? One-on-one. No team, no pressure. Just some drills at the public sessions."

I stopped walking, the gravity of the request settling over me. He wasn't just asking to coach a kid; he was asking for a permanent seat at the table. He was asking to be the person Gabe looked to, the person I had to trust.

I looked at Michael—the man who had ruined a science project, stayed out too late, and then spent his morning making my son feel like a hero. I looked ahead at Gabe, who was finally, for the first time in months, standing tall.

"You're asking the wrong person," I said, a small, knowing smile touching my lips. "I’m just the bodyguard. If you want to get into the inner circle, you’re going to have to ask Gabe that question yourself."

17

Michael

The blue stain on the carpet was still there. A ghostly, cyan reminder of the night I’d let a fifteen-year-old’s temper and my own lack of boundaries wreck a week’s worth of work. It mocked me as I stood in the hallway of the apartment building, balancing two oversized cardboard boxes and a hardware store bag that was digging a trench into my index finger.

I hadn't called. Calling gave her the chance to say no, and it gave Gabe the chance to vanish. I was a man with a plan, and in the playoffs, you don’t wait for an invitation to the puck; you go to where it’s going to be.

I kicked the door with the toe of my sneaker. A muffled "Coming!" drifted through the wood, followed by the metallic slide of a deadbolt.

Kayla opened the door, her hair pulled into a messy knot, a streak of something that looked like flour on her cheek. Her eyes went wide, sweeping from my face to the mountain of supplies in my arms.

"Michael?" she breathed, her hand frozen on the frame. "What are you... I didn't think you were coming by today."

"I’m a veteran. I don't leave a man behind on the battlefield," I said, hitching the boxes higher. "Especially not when the battlefield is covered in blue dye and broken plastic. Is the client in?"

She stepped back, a wary but grateful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "He’s in his room, probably trying to convince himself that a shattered model is 'abstract art.' He’s already three days late with the project. Michael, don't get your hopes up. He’s in a mood."

"I’ve dealt with locker room slumps worse than a teenager’s mood," I said, walking into the living room and clearing a space on the coffee table with my hip. "Gabe! Front and center! We’ve got a deadline!"

A door creaked open down the hall. Gabe emerged, looking like he’d been pulled out of a bunker. He saw me, then he saw the boxes, and his entire posture went rigid. "What’s this? I told my mom I was just gonna glue the old one. It doesn't matter."