Page 36 of Hearts on Ice
I stared at the brown bottle sweating in my hand. “Thing is,” I said, “I’ve been here five years. And every season feels like I’m trying to push a mountain uphill. Two years we didn’t even make the playoffs. Last year, we clawed our way to semis and lost in overtime.” My throat worked around the next words. “That’s the farthest this team’s ever gone with me behind the bench. Close, but not enough.”
He tilted his head. “You think that’s on you?”
“It always is,” I said, too fast. “That’s the job. You don’t just lose games; you lose time, opportunity, people’s faith.”
I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but once I started, it all spilled out—the frustration, the fatigue, the quiet fear I’d been carrying for far too long. “You tell yourself it’s just a process. You say ‘next year,’ and then it’s five years later, and you’re wondering if maybe you’re not the guy to get the team there.”
Miguel shifted closer. Not much, just enough that the faint scent of soap and beer reached me, clean and warm. “Maybe it’s not about beingtheguy,” he said. “Maybe it’s about building the team that can outlast you.”
I huffed a small laugh, rough but real. “You sound like a damn motivational poster.”
“Yeah,” he said with a half-smile, “but I mean it.”
“You’re wasted in the net. You should be doing TED Talks.”
He laughed, the sound low and easy, head tipping back slightly as he took another swallow of beer. The movement drew the light along the line of his throat, the flex of muscle as he swallowed.
Something in my chest tightened before I could look away.
What does that exposed flesh smell like? What would it be like if I flicked my tongue and traced the column of his neck?
I shuddered. Not in disgust, but because I thought I might love it.
Oh fuck! This is ridiculous!
I shifted my weight, pretending to study the label on my bottle. But the image stuck—the clean line of his neck, the warmth of skin that close.
I cleared my throat. “God, you goalies are wired different,” I said, aiming for humor and missing by a mile. “Craziest position in hockey.”
Miguel grinned, a small dimple cutting through the stubble on his cheek. “You think it’s crazy?” He laughed. “You say that like you’re just figuring it out.”
“I’m serious. You’ve got a pack of men skating forty miles an hour toward you, swinging sticks, and you stand there like you’re bulletproof. That’s not strategy. That’s insanity.”
“Maybe,” he said, lifting one shoulder. “Or faith.”
“In what?”
“In myself,” he said simply. “And in the idea that I belong there.”
His voice wasn’t defensive—just sure. It hit somewhere I didn’t expect.
He tipped the bottle back, then rested it lightly on the counter. “My brother used to say that, too. He was the first goalie I ever watched. Five years older, already playing when I was still trying to lace my sneakers, much less a pair of skates. I thought he was fearless.”
“Older brothers usually are,” I said quietly.
“Yeah,” Miguel said, his voice dipping. “He made it look easy—until it wasn’t. I wanted to be just like him. Same pads, same stance, same everything. So when I finally got my shot, I stayed in the crease and never left.”
I studied him—the quiet pride there, the shadow of something heavier underneath. “Guess that explains a lot.”
He nodded, then smiled faintly. “My parents didn’t get it at first. Hockey was nothing where they came from. My dad grew up inSan Juan, my mom in Santo Domingo. They thought baseball, sure, maybe boxing. But ice?” He huffed a laugh. “Ice was something you put in a glass.”
“So how’d you both get started anyway?” I asked.
“Manu found it first,” he said. “There was this community rink across from the rec center near my mom’s school. She taught Spanish there, and after class she’d pick us up. One afternoon, Manu wandered inside to see what the noise was about—kids skating, music blaring through busted speakers. The next thing I knew, he was begging to try.”
“And she said yes?”
“Not right away. But the coach offered to loan him gear for a week, just to see if he liked it. By the end of the week, she was sewing name patches on a borrowed jersey.”
