Page 21 of Hearts on Ice
Trembley: You owe me a beer too, rookie.
Carter: I’m not a rookie.
Trembley: Skating like that? Rookie.
I smiled, despite the ache in my arm. Same post-game ribbing, every team I’d been on.
Sam: Can’t win every game on luck. Edmonton made us look soft.
Typical. Sam never let the night breathe before throwing shade. No emoji, no humor, just that flat tone like he was waiting for someone to agree. Nobody did. They almost never did.
I kept him at arm’s length. When Ry and Xander came out, I’d caught it—the twist in Sam’s mouth, the too-long silence, the quick shift of conversation. A vibe you couldn’t prove but you felt. I trusted my gut on the ice; I trusted it off too. With Sam, it said don’t get close.
Justin: Soft? Scoreboard said 3–2. We’ll clean it up Saturday.
I huffed out a laugh. Kid had bite. He’d fit in.
I muted the chat and set the phone face down. The silence folded around me.
But silence didn’t erase sensation. Didn’t erase the heat of Drew’s palm, the way his “Good work tonight” had landed heavier than any praise I’d gotten in years. I’d lived a decade in this league, teams shuffling, cities changing, always the same cycle of highs and lows. Coaches barked, coaches drilled, coaches forgot your name when you were sent back down.
Not him.
I shifted, hissed when the ice dug into the bruise. “Stupid,” I muttered, half to my shoulder, half to myself. But as the ache pulsed, I remembered the groan that had slipped out when Drew pressed down. My own voice, low, raw, nothing I could take back.
He hadn’t visibly reacted.
That was worse. Because some part of me had wanted him to. Wanted him to snap back into safe, sharp edges. Instead he’d looked at me and I couldn’t name what I saw there.
I should sleep. Should reset. Edmonton had been just the start. But lying flat, staring at the ceiling, I knew it wasn’t the game that had left me restless.
It was the coach.
And the fact, for the first time, I wasn’t sure I knew how to play it safe.
****
The locker room hummed with noise—skates clacking, sticks tapping, someone’s Bluetooth speaker leaking salsa under the usual pre-game rock. Tonight wasn’t just any game night. It was Hispanic Heritage Night, and it felt like the whole arena was already awake above us.
Our special warm-up jerseys hung in the stalls—turquoise and burnt orange instead of our usual teal, turquoise, and maroon, the Grizzlies’ bear redesigned with Aztec lines. I traced my name stitched across the shoulders. It looked the same, but it didn’t feel the same. Pride carried its own weight.
“Looks good on you,” Carter said, grinning.
“Better on me,” Tank added.
I rolled my eyes. “You two need mirrors or manners.”
Sam muttered near his locker, voice low but clear enough to hit the room. “Feels more like a costume party than a game.”
The air tightened.
Coach Mack looked up from his clipboard. “That costume represents the fans paying your salary,” he said evenly. “Get dressed.”
Sam went quiet. The subject died there.
When Coach turned away, he caught my eye briefly, gave the smallest nod. I didn’t need a speech to know it meantignore him, you’ve got this.
We hit the ice for warm-ups, and the energy hit back. The concourse was packed—banners readingOrgullo. Pasión. Comunidad.draped along the glass. The smell of tamales, cinnamon, and fryer oil drifted down from the food stalls, mixing with the sharp chill of the rink. Fans waved flags; someone shouted my name. I lifted my stick in acknowledgment, trying not to grin too wide.
