Page 33 of Hearts on Ice
“Rough flight?” Sam asked, voice all casual twang as he twirled his fork.
“Not bad,” Miguel said easily.
Sam cut his chicken, didn’t look up. “Coach looked a little tense during the turbulence.”
The words landed quiet but sharp. A few heads turned, curious.
Miguel didn’t blink. “You’re observant, Sam. Maybe try that during drills.”
Laughter sparked down the table—quick, nervous, the kind that knows not to pick a side. Sam’s mouth flattened.
I didn’t intervene—my fork stayed poised above my plate, every muscle wired tight. A public defense would only feed him. Miguel had already handled it.
The conversation shifted—Jester talking about some movie, Tank arguing about sauce ratios. The noise picked up again, and the moment died. But it stayed in my chest, heavy.
Later, when the plates were cleared and most of the guys drifted toward the elevators, Miguel lingered by the coffee urn, sleeves pushed up, steam ghosting around him. I caught his eye.
“You handled that well,” I said quietly.
He frowned. “Handled what?”
“Sam.”
A small shrug. “Not worth it.”
“Maybe not.” I paused. “Still—you didn’t let him get to you.”
He tilted his head, that easy grin sliding back in place. “Someone had to save your reputation, Coach.”
I huffed out a laugh before I could stop it. “Guess I owe you.”
“You can buy me dinner after we win.” He smiled again—small, quick, unguarded, adorable—and something in my brain short-circuited.Adorable.
Adorable? What the hell? Since when was another man’s smileadorable? My chest gave an involuntary pull, a quiet betrayal of logic. Maybe I really wasthattired.
Chapter 15
Miguel
The flight home was smooth—mercifully smooth. No jolts, or dips, or reason to keep watching Coach like I had on the way to Chicago. But even without turbulence, I couldn’t unsee it. The way his hand had gripped the armrest. The muscle jumping inhis jaw when the plane dropped. How hard he’d fought to keep that calm coach mask in place.
I’d had a head’s knowledge of what he’d lost—ofwhohe’d lost. Everyone in the hockey community did. The headlines, the sympathy pieces, the quiet respect that followed him when he joined the Grizzlies. But reading about loss is one thing. Watching someonelivewith it, even for thirty seconds of rough air, is another.
He’d gone still when the plane bucked. Too still. Every instinct I had wanted to reach for him, to anchor him, to let him borrow whatever calm and strength I had—whatever he needed. My hand had hovered inches from his. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Not close enough to cross the line.
And maybe that was what threw me most. That wanting. Not pity or curiosity. Just this pull, sharp and simple:don’t let him carry it alone.
He’d found his footing again after that, of course. He always did. By the time we landed in Chicago, it was back to business: meetings, line drills, game film. He didn’t mention it. Neither did I. But the memory stayed, like the hum that lingers after engines cut.
We hit L.A. air just past three. The landing was soft, the kind that makes you forget you ever left the ground. The cabin came back to life: guys groaning awake, gear bags scraping overhead, someone sneezing, a couple of others reminiscing about the two games against the Knights, two solid wins. Not clean, but clean enough.
Outside, the California light felt different—brighter, wider, like the air itself had more room. The bus ride from the airport blurred by in that half-silence that comes after victory: headstipped against windows, phones lighting up with texts from home, the low hum of contentment.
By the time we pulled into the Grizzlies’ lot, the sun had started to dip behind the palm tops. Shadows stretched across the asphalt as guys climbed off the bus, bumping shoulders, joking about missing home comforts like a real shower, good coffee, and their own beds.
I pulled out my phone and called a rideshare. Ten minutes, the screen said. But that was only if I was lucky.
“Is your ride coming?”
