Page 37 of Hearts on Ice
He smiled, distant. “I used to sit in the bleachers, feet swinging, watching him. When I was finally old enough to lace up, I copied everything he did. Same stance. Same number. He used to call me ‘Mini-Manu.’”
“That stuck?” I asked.
“For a while,” he said softly.
He took a slow sip of beer, eyes still far away. “My mom cleaned the rink on weekends to cover our fees. My dad fixed the vending machines for extra ice time. They didn’t always understand it, but they never said no. Guess that’s why quitting’s never been an option. I just keep showing up and giving it all I’ve got.”
Something in me went still. I wanted to tell him that was exactly what he did, every damn game—that most of the team trusted him more than they trusted themselves—but the words stuck somewhere between my chest and throat.
Five years of coaching and I still didn’t know if I was showing up for the right reasons.
For a heartbeat too long, I was aware of everything—the faint scrape of his bottle on the counter, the soft hum of the fridge, the scent of soap still clinging to his skin. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The way the light hit the curve of his jaw, catching in the stubble that had grown in over the road trip. Every detail sharp, like the world had narrowed to the space between us.
He leaned back slightly, easy and unguarded. My pulse kicked for no good reason.
I’m probably so exhausted my body doesn’t recognize itself. Travel messes with your head.
And it’s time to head home too.
But none of that explained why I couldn’t look away.
He smiled—a small, lopsided thing that short-circuited my brain—and I wondered if my being here did the same to him.
Miguel turned to the counter, opening a drawer with the easy familiarity of someone who lived alone. The kitchen wasn’t big—two steps and you could touch the stove, the sink, or the narrow breakfast bar that separated it from the living room.
He pulled out a small bowl, tore open a bag of pretzels, and poured a handful in. The sound—dry pieces clattering against ceramic—felt louder than it should have.
“Dinner of champions,” he said, sliding the bowl onto the stretch of counter between us.
“Perfect fit for our record,” I said, earning a small laugh.
The space barely fit the two of us.
When I reached for a pretzel, my knuckles brushed his—a small thing, almost nothing—but it jolted through me anyway. I froze, pulse spiking, every nerve suddenly aware of how close we were standing.
I pulled away quickly, as if I’d been burned.
He looked at me then, his dark brown eyes piercing my soul. The distance between us shrank without either of us moving.
My pulse picked up. A thrum low and unwelcome. Not fear exactly, just awareness. Heat where there shouldn’t be any.
He lifted one pretzel, bit down, and smiled like he hadn’t just lit something electric under my skin.
Jesus. Pull it together.
But even as I told myself that, I couldn’t help glancing down at his hand, inches from mine, and wondering what the hell was happening to me.
He broke the silence first.
“Hey,” he said lightly, as if nothing had happened. “My mom’s been threatening to send flan to the arena. You should just come by and try it before she mails it to the wrong coach.”
I huffed a laugh, grateful for the out, for something normal to grab onto. “Your mom makes flan?”
“Best you’ll ever have. She’ll take it personally if you disagree.”
“Dangerous territory.”
He shrugged, grin crooked. “So? You in?”
