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"The old one is fish food, Gabe," I said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a roll of heavy-duty copper wire and a set of pulleys. "And 'gluing it back together' is the hockey equivalent of putting tape on a broken blade. It might look okay, but it’s going to fail the second you put pressure on it."

Gabe crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "So what? You bought a kit? I’m not doing some store-bought volcano."

"I didn't buy a kit. I bought components," I countered, meeting his defiant gaze with a steady, unbothered look. "We aren't rebuilding the lift. We’re building a Rube Goldberg machine. Cause and effect. Physics in motion. And before you tell me it’s for kids, I should tell you that this one has a very specific, very loud finale."

Gabe’s eyes flickered with a spark of genuine curiosity he tried desperately to smother. "What kind of finale?"

"The hockey kind," I said, dangling a small, high-tension spring in front of him. "But if you want to see how it works, you have to be the lead engineer. I’m just the hired muscle and the guy with the expensive glue."

Kayla hovered in the kitchen doorway, watching us like she was waiting for an explosion. I gave her a quick wink and turned back to her son.

"Well?" I challenged. "You want to turn in a bag of broken plastic, or do you want to show your teacher what happens when a Surge captain helps with the homework?"

Gabe hesitated, his pride warring with the undeniable lure of building something that involved "a loud finale." Finally, he let out a long, dramatic sigh and trudged over to the table. "Fine. But if it sucks, I'm telling everyone it was your idea."

"Deal," I grinned. "Clear the floor. We need a six-foot run."

For the next hour, the apartment transformed into a laboratory of controlled chaos. We started with the foundation—a series of inclined planes made from sanded plywood slats. I watched Gabe’s hands; they were steady, precise. He had the soul of a defenseman, someone who cared about the structure before the flare.

"Why the copper wire?" Gabe asked, stripping a section of casing with a pair of pliers I’d brought. "The marble isn't heavy enough to trigger a lever with that much tension."

"That’s because the marble isn't the trigger," I said, sorting through a pile of metal washers.

"Then what is? And how does the hockey part come in? You keep saying 'hockey' but all I see is a bunch of junk from Home Depot."

"Patience, rookie," I said, a dry chuckle escaping me. "In a Rube Goldberg, the beauty is the suspense. If I tell you the ending now, you’ll stop paying attention to the transition. And in hockey, the transition is everything. Now, help me rig this counterweight. We need the marble to hit this switch with exactly enough force to release the 'secret weapon' at the end."

Kayla moved around us like a ghost, appearing every twenty minutes with reinforcements. First, it was a plate of grilled cheese triangles that smelled like buttery heaven, then it was tall glasses of iced tea. She didn't hover, and she didn't offer advice. She just kept us fueled, her eyes lingering on the way Gabe was actually leaning in toward me, his shoulder occasionally brushing mine as we debated the angle of a ramp.

"The secret weapon is a puck, isn't it?" Gabe asked, eyeing a small, circular weight I’d tucked into my pocket.

"Maybe. Maybe it’s a tiny, motorized Zamboni," I teased. "Or maybe it’s a miniature version of Landon’s ego that’s so heavy it triggers the whole floor to collapse."

Gabe actually snorted, a real, genuine sound of amusement. "Landon’s ego wouldn't fit in this apartment."

"Exactly. That’s why we’re using physics instead."

By the time we reached the mid-point of the build, the machine was a sprawling, beautiful mess of wire, wood, and gravity. We had a marble that rolled down a ramp, triggered a falling book, which pulled a string, which released a pendulum.

"It's missing something," Gabe said, biting his lip as he looked at the gap between the pendulum and the final trigger. "The momentum dies there. We need a boost."

"That’s where you come in," I said, handing him a small, high-velocity fan motor I’d salvaged. "Figure out how to wire this sothe pendulum hits the 'on' switch. If you can do that, I’ll show you the finale."

I stood back, watching him dive into the wiring with a focus that reminded me of myself at that age—hungry for a win, desperate to prove I could make the pieces fit. I looked at Kayla, who was leaning against the counter, a soft, misty look in her eyes as she watched her son work.

I’d come here to fix a project, but as the marble did its first test run, I realized I was doing something much more important. I was showing Gabe that I wasn't just a guest in his house; I was a teammate. And in this room, just like on the ice, we were finally starting to move in the same direction.

"Truce for tacos?" Kayla asked, sliding a plate of carnitas toward the center of the table.

The structural phase was done, and the living room looked like a mad scientist’s workshop. Gabe and I collapsed into the chairs, our fingers dusted with wood shavings and phantom traces of superglue. For a few minutes, the only sound was the crunch of shells and the hum of the fridge.

"So," I said, leaning back and wiping my hands on a napkin. "The scouts are going to be looking at the 16-U brackets next month. You thinking about the junior tryouts?"

Gabe shrugged, his eyes glued to his plate. "I don’t know. Hockey’s whatever. Just something to do so I’m not stuck in the apartment."

I let out a short, dry laugh. "Whatever? Gabe, I’ve seen you in Box 204. I’ve seen you look at Landon like he’s a god and at the ice like it’s the only place you can breathe. And more importantly, I saw you bury that puck at the charity event. You don’t make a move like that if it’s 'whatever.'"

Gabe’s fork paused mid-air. He didn't look up, but the tips of his ears turned a sharp pink.