Page 22 of Hearts on Ice
After warm-ups, we headed back to the locker room. Steam rose from the showers; tape unspooled; gear creaked. The mariachi music echoing faintly from the concourse still thrummed through my chest.
Coach made his pre-game talk short and clean—no speeches, no theatrics. “Play smart. Play fast. Play for each other.”
Then his gaze flicked toward me. “Rodriguez. How’s the shoulder?”
“Lily worked it with ice and tape,” I said. “Good as new.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true—most of the time.”
His half-smile carried both doubt and trust. “If it flares mid-game, you tell me. I’m not interested in heroics in October.”
“Understood.”
He hesitated a second longer, like he wanted to say more, then nodded and turned back to the rest of the room. “Let’s go to work.”
We lined up in the tunnel, helmets on, gloves tucked under arms, sticks in hand. From outside came the echo of trumpets—sharp, bright, unmistakably mariachi.
A youth group in whitecharrosuits stood at center ice, vihuela and guitarrón gleaming under the lights. When they started the U.S. anthem, every note hit with a different kind of pride. I saw a man lift a girl, maybe his daughter, so she could see, both of them mouthing the words. My chest squeezed.
My parents weren’t here. They’d wanted to come, but Abuela’s vertigo had flared again and my dad wouldn’t drive after dark. My phone had buzzed earlier with a text from Mami—three heart emojis, a photo of a plate of arroz con pollo, a voice note telling me good luck and I love you.
Whether they were here or not, I knew my family would always support me. “Te quiero,” I’d told her. “Don’t forget to watch the stream.”
When the anthem ended, the folk-dance troupe twirled across the ice, ribbons flaring, skirts sweeping like brushstrokes of red and gold. The arena lights caught every color, every motion, and the roar from the crowd was pure celebration.
This was more than hockey—it was home stitched into every note and spin.
The lights dipped, and the announcer’s voice filled the arena. “Fans, please welcome your Los Angeles Grizzlies!”
One by one, we hit the ice, music pounding through the speakers. My heart was steady, same as any other night—until the track cut and the voice came back.
“And tonight, during Hispanic Heritage Night, we’re proud to recognize our longest-tenured Grizzly—and the team’s first Hispanic player—number twenty-seven, Miguel Rodriguez!”
For a beat, everything inside me went still. My chest felt too full to breathe. The words hung there, heavy and unreal. This wasn’t just about hockey. It was about every mile I’d biked to practice, every time I’d been told this league wasn’t made for guys like me.
The crowd surged, louder than before, a wall of noise that hit somewhere behind my ribs. I lifted a glove, tried to smile, and hoped the camera didn’t catch how hard I was swallowing.
Then they brought out the kids from the Latino Youth Hockey Initiative, helmets too big, gloves hanging past their wrists. One boy in a goalie mask grinned up at me, missing a front tooth.
“You play goalie?” I asked, crouching.
“Sí, like you!”
“Then keep working hard,” I told him. “You’ll steal my job in a few years.”
He laughed, proud and fearless, and the photographer snapped a picture right then.
When we lined up for puck drop against Calgary, the mariachi’s last trumpet note still echoed under the rafters.
I glanced toward the bench. Coach stood with his arms folded, tie just a shade too close to turquoise to be coincidence.
Our eyes met, quick as a blink. It didn’t mean anything, right?
But my chest did this stupid tight thing, like my heart missed a beat.
What the hell was that?
