Page 14 of Hearts on Ice
Not tonight. Ritual meant forward, not back.
I dropped the pasta, stirred the sauce that was finally starting to come together. Let it simmer low, filling the apartment withsomething that almost felt like home. When I sat down, the clink of the fork on porcelain sounded too loud, too deliberate—like the house didn’t quite know how to hold a single person anymore.
And then he slipped in.
Miguel.
The focus in his eyes during review. The easy grin under those PR lights. The way he crouched beside that kid at the clinic like time had slowed for him alone.
What kind of man went home after that? Did someone wait for him—or did the guitar keep him company the way silence kept me? Had he lost anyone? Or was he still untouched by that kind of ruin?
The questions startled me. I hadn’t let myself wonder aboutanyonein six years. Now curiosity was its own ache—and it carried his face.
A knock at the door broke the thought clean. Unexpected.
I froze, frowning. I hadn’t ordered anything. Wasn’t expecting anyone.
Crossing the space, my pulse picked up anyway.
My hand settled on the knob.
And I opened it.
Chapter 9
Miguel
My knuckles tingled from the knock I’d given. Part of me wanted to turn and pretend I’d never come, but before I could chicken out, the door swung open.
Coach Mack stood there; surprise flared in his eyes, then smoothed out. He wore a plain T-shirt and sweats, bare feet, the kind of off-duty outfit that made him look taller somehow. The scent of garlic and tomato drifted over his shoulder from the kitchen.
“I—” My throat went dry.Smooth, Miguel. Real smooth. I lifted the bag like it was proof of why I belonged there. “Brought dessert. The bakery down the block was still open. I… wanted to uh, say thanks. For earlier.”
His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to me, like he wasn’t sure if I was serious. I almost wasn’t. I’d started walking here without a plan and ended up in front of his place. My throat dried.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know I didn’t, but I wanted to.” I offered a crooked smile. “Figured a cinnamon roll can’t hurt the pre-game plan.”
A breath that might’ve been a laugh. He stepped aside. “Come in.”
His place was small, squared away. Books stacked in one neat column, a muted game playing on a TV with no sound, a single plate on the table beside a pan of pasta on a trivet. It smelled like he’d done something real on the stove, not zapped it into existence.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt dinner,” I said, setting the bakery bag down.
“You didn’t. It’s just that… it’s the first time I’ve actually cooked in a while.” His voice was tight, like he hadn’t meant to confess it.
I blinked. “Looks edible.” The words came out too blunt, so I softened them. “Better than my microwave skills.”
He huffed a laugh.
Coach cleared his throat. “You want a plate?”
I could’ve said no because I’d only planned to stay for a minute, hand over the pastry, thank him for what he said in front of the team, and bail. But the sight of one plate and too much quiet shifted something in me.
“Since you’re offering,” I said, “I’m not going to insult the chef.”
One eyebrow went up, pleased in spite of himself. “The chef is generous.”
