Page 26 of Hearts on Ice
Miguel lingered by the lobby doors, half-turned like he hadn’t decided whether to head up yet. The night clerk was typing behind the desk, the faint smell of lemons and printer paper floating in the air.
“Good work tonight,” I said.
He gave a small shrug. “Could’ve been cleaner.”
“Maybe. Still got the win.”
His smile was brief but real. “Yeah. Still got the win.”
We stood there longer than we should’ve, two men built for motion pretending there was somewhere else to be.
“Bus at ten,” I said finally.
“Ten,” he echoed, voice low.
In the elevator mirror, my reflection looked a little too thoughtful for midnight. I told myself it was the fatigue. But when I reached my room, the first words that came to my head weren’t strategy.
Sleep. Breathe. Stop pretending it’s just hockey.
Chapter 13
Miguel
By the time I climbed onto the bus, most of the guys were half-asleep or halfway through a bag of chips. Tank was snoring loud enough to scare wildlife, Jester filming it with a grin. The only empty seat was beside Coach. Figures.
I slid in, careful not to brush too close. Six hours of shared space with a man who smelled faintly like cedar and clean laundry wasn’t something I needed my body to notice—but it did.
For a while, I kept quiet. The highway hummed, Carter muttered over a replay on his phone, Trembley stared out the window like the answer to life might be written in the dark. Coach had a folder open on his knee, pen tapping absently against the cover.
When Tank’s snore hit a new gear, I laughed before I could stop it.
Coach’s mouth curved. “Poor Trembley’s rooming with him.”
“Couldn’t pay me enough,” I said.
The joke landed soft, and silence followed—not heavy, comfortable in that way only road quiet can be.
I watched the reflection of streetlights flicker across his profile and, before I could stop myself, said, “You know, I’ve known you five years and never asked—why coaching? Most guys hang up their skates and head for TV booths or analyst gigs. You could’ve done that easily.”
His pen stilled. For a moment, he didn’t move, just watched the highway slide by through the window.
“Because I wasn’t ready to be done,” he said finally. “When playing ended, I thought I could walk away. I couldn’t. Coaching was the only thing that felt close enough to matter.”
“Close to what?”
He gave a small shrug. “To the game. To the rush of it. The noise. The smell of the rink. The way everything else disappears once the puck drops. Behind a desk, I’d just be pretending I was still part of it.”
Something in his voice caught—not dramatic, real. Like it came from a place still sore when pressed.
Still, the words had opened something. Maybe that’s why my next question slipped out before I could think better of it.
“You ever wonder if some people just never make it up there?”
He turned slightly. “You mean the show?”
“Yeah.” I rubbed a thumb along the seam of my jeans. “I’ve been playing for ten years. Straight from high school to the Grizzlies. I’ve seen guys get called up for a week, a game—sometimes just because someone tweaks a groin. I can’t even get that maybe call.”
Coach didn’t rush to answer. He just watched me for a second, the kind of look that made you feel like he was measuring more than your stats.
