Page 16 of Hearts on Ice
Something flickered in his face—surprise, maybe, or the ache of being seen when you’d stopped expecting to be. He leaned back a little, as if the air between us had shifted.
“It’s not easy,” he said finally, voice low. “Letting people in again.”
“I don’t think it ever is.” My fork scraped softly against the plate. “But I figure if I can hold my ground against a slap shot, I can risk a conversation too.”
That earned a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Almost.
He reached for his glass, sipped, and let the quiet stretch. “You did good work today. With Carter.”
“Gracias,” I said, the word slipping out in Spanish before I could catch it. His head tilted, like he liked the sound.
“What’s the plan with him?”
“Keep it simple,” I said. “One cue at a time. If I hand him three, he’ll chase all of them and catch none. I’ll loop Beau in—he’s grounded.Carter finds balance in someone else’s calm.
“Loop Beau in,” Coach repeated, filing it away. “Good.”
We went back to eating, the silence between us neither comfortable nor strained—just full.
Across the table, Coach moved with that same quiet certainty he had on the bench. Even sitting still, he seemed deliberate, like a man who’d learned not to waste motion or words.
It hit me how much he gave to the team—how he was always watching, always thinking two steps ahead, making sure every guy was looked after even when we didn’t make it easy on him. He never asked for credit, never showed off. He just held the whole damn team together.
And maybe that was part of what made him... striking. Not just the sharp lines of his face, or the jaw you could cut tape on, or the hair that never quite behaved even when he tried to tame it. It was all of it—how the calm wrapped around him like armor, how it somehow made him seem taller than he was.
I caught myself staring and blinked hard.
Was there a woman waiting for him somewhere? Someone who got to see that calm up close?
The thought hit like a slap of cold water. Why the hell was I wondering that?
I pushed a hand through my hair, forcing my brain back to neutral. He was my coach. A good one. And whatever had just flashed through my head didn’t belong anywhere near this table.
So I did what I always did when things got complicated—talked hockey.
We drifted there easy enough—neutral-zone spacing, power-play entries, how Tank’s timing had sharpened by a fraction that would matter come Friday. The talk smoothed out edges I hadn’t realized were rough. When the plates were empty, I stood, grabbed them both.
He shook his head automatically. “You’re my guest.”
“Then let me do one thing right,” I said, already stacking them. “Besides, you cooked.”
We carried everything to the kitchen. For a guy who lived alone, he’d somehow managed to use every dish in the place. The counter looked like a small war zone—pasta sauce, a cutting board with garlic skins clinging to it, a wooden spoon that had given up halfway through the battle.
He gave me a look that hovered between apology and amusement. “I was going to clean it up after.”
“Sure you were,” I said, bumping the faucet on with my elbow.
We fell into an easy rhythm—him putting away leftovers, me rinsing dishes. The kitchen wasn’t small, but with both of us there, it felt like it had shrunk in size. My shoulder brushed his once when we reached for the same towel. Neither of us stepped back right away.
“You always cook on Wednesdays?” I asked, handing him a plate to dry.
“Trying to,” he said. “Made a deal with myself—if I’m in L.A. and not on the road, I cook at least one real meal a week.”
“How’s that going?”
“This was week one.”
I laughed. “So you’re undefeated.”
