Page 20 of Hearts on Ice
“Sit,” I said.
He dropped into the chair, moving like it wasn’t just equipment weighing him down.
“You played through pain.” I didn’t soften it into a question.
His brows rose, a flash of challenge there, but it passed quick. He exhaled, shoulder hitching once. “Took a bump. Nothing I haven’t handled before.”
“Shirt off,” I said, sharper than I intended. “Let me see.”
For a beat he just looked at me, unreadable. Then he tugged the damp shirt over his head, the motion pulling heat and scent into the air—sweat, leather, something rawer. Muscle cut lean from years of grinding caught the light, scar lines faint beneath tan skin. My pulse kicked, but my hands stayed steady as I stepped closer.
“Where?”
“Here.” He touched high on the left shoulder.
I pressed my fingers into the muscle, firm but careful. He sucked in a breath, then let out a low groan when I worked the knot. The sound coiled hot in my gut. Professional, I told myself. Athleteand coach. Still—it threaded through me deeper than it should have.
His lashes lowered, face tipped just slightly toward me. “Feels better already.”
I cleared my throat, forcing my focus back. “Rotator cuff’s tight. No tear. You’ll need Lily on it tomorrow. If she doesn’t clear you, you don’t play Friday.”
His head turned, eyes meeting mine with that same dark steadiness. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be what Lily says you are,” I countered, voice rough.
His mouth quirked, part defiance, part humor. “Sí, Coach.”
I stepped back fast, dropping my hands like I’d touched fire. The space between us felt necessary, even as my chest still hummed with something I didn’t want to name.
“Good work tonight,” I said, quieter. “Not just the saves. You settled the whole bench. That mattered.”
For the first time all night, his face softened, pride lighting it from within. He nodded once, tugged his shirt back on, and rose.
At the door, he hesitated. “See you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I said.
When the latch clicked behind him, I leaned on the desk, palms flat, breath uneven. The room smelled of sweat and soap and something else I couldn’t shake. I’d coached through a hundred bruises, a thousand games. None of them had ever left me like this.
The season had started. And something else had, too.
Chapter 11
Miguel
Apartment lights dimmed, shoulder packed in ice, I should’ve felt nothing but tired. Instead, I felt wired. Like my pulse hadn’t decided the game was over.
The collision still throbbed through muscle, but it wasn’t pain keeping me awake. It was the memory of Coach’s hand pressing firm against my shoulder, working out the knot like he’d known the exact spot. His voice, rough with concern. His eyes on me, closer than they’d ever been.
Too close.
I grabbed my phone, thumb lighting up the Grizzlies’ group chat.
Tank: Ugly win but a win’s a win. *beer mug emoji* *beer mug emoji* Tomorrow’s on me.
Jester: Mark the calendar, boys.
Carter: Thanks for the clear at the end, Tank. Wouldn’t have coughed it up without you.
