Page 4 of Hearts on Ice
“You want letters on your chest?” I added. “Earn them. Simple as that.”
They broke into cooldown stretches, voices rising, the air lightening. I stayed behind, coffee bitter in my mouth. The noise faded until it was just me and the hum of the building.
Six years had passed since everything fell apart. The knee. The plane. The silence that followed. Seasons came and went, players arrived and left. I stayed. Because I didn’t know how to do anything else.
The rink never judged me for being alone.
And yet, as I turned toward the office, a thought caught sharp in my chest.
Maybe this season couldn’t just be about surviving. Maybe it had to mean something more.
Chapter 3
Miguel
I needed noise tonight, and The Crossbar delivered: fried onions, cheap beer, and a jukebox that hadn’t learned a new song in twenty years. The owner used to play minor-league hockey back in the day, which explained the name and the wall of signed jerseys near the bar. It wasn’t fancy—scarred tables, mismatched chairs, a corner stage lit by a stubborn spotlight—but it was our kind of night. The owner switched up the schedule—karaoke one week, open mic the next—mostly to keep things interesting, though the same crowd showed up no matter what.
Our crew had already claimed the long booth near the stage. Jester lifted a hand high enough to be seen over pitchers and shoulders. Tank didn’t wave; he gave me the chin-tilt that passed for enthusiasm in Tank-land.
Lily slid over to make space. “Cutting it close,” she said, eyes bright. Twenty-nine, our physiotherapist by day, Lily Chang collected hobbies the way other people collected fridge magnets—rock climbing, paddle boarding, weekend hikes that started at sunrise. Somewhere along the last couple seasons, she’d become my person here. If I was limping through a rough week, she noticed first. If my head wasn’t in the game, she found a way to shake me out of it.
“I had a couple of errands to run before I got here,” I said, setting my guitar case between my knees. “What are we gonna eat?” I asked, rubbing my palms together.
She laughed and flagged the server. “Two orders of wings, one of nachos, and a ginger beer for my singer.”
“Beer,” Jester corrected, grinning. “He needs courage, not carbonation.”
“I need my goalie hydrated,” Lily said with a grin.
The Crossbar hummed with conversations that braided together—college kids in sweatshirts, older regulars with elbows planted, couples tucked shoulder-to-shoulder under the neon. The host tapped the mic, earned a burst of feedback, and winced. “We’re rolling, people. Tip your bartenders. First up—Tyler.”
Tyler was the kind of kid who still wore his campus lanyard. He gripped an acoustic like it might bolt. The first verse stumbled out—too quiet, words half-swallowed—but by the chorus he’d found his footing. It wasn’t polished, but it wasreal, and somehow the room leaned in with him until the last chord faded.
“Good lungs,” Beau said from the end of the booth.
Devin leaned forward. “He looked like he was gonna pass out.”
“First nights do that,” I said.
Our food arrived—wings slick with sauce, jalapeños curling on the nachos, Tank’s plain burger because he treated his body like it was a contract with small print. Lily forced a celery stick into my hand. “Vegetables,” she said sternly, then stole one of my wings.
A woman took the stage next in a weathered denim jacket and boots that said she knew her way around a room. No instrument; the host handed her a mic. The second she opened her mouth, the room quieted. Not silence, but that hush that meant people wanted to listen. She had a smoky alto, filling the corners of the room with a song about leaving and staying gone, about the ache of driving past your old street in a rented car. I forgot about the celery. I forgot about everything except the way a held note can make your chest sting in a good way. When she finished, every table cheered.
“Glad I’m not following her,” someone yelled good-naturedly from across the room.
“Damn,” Jester said softly, reverent for once.
“She’s excellent,” Lily murmured, eyes on the stage.
A couple of other performers went up on stage after. I nursed a glass of water, palms restless against the smooth table edge. The buzz under my ribs wasn’t fear. I’d been on stages before. It was the same nerves I felt in-net—waiting for the first shot, waiting for the rhythm to find me.
I felt the old pull in my fingers—the itch to make sound. Not for applause. For quiet. My uncle’s guitar had been the first thing I ever practiced on because it felt like prayer without church: wood, wire, and breath finding a shape together.
The next act brought a man in suspenders and a harmonica rigged to a neck holder, foot slamming time on a wooden box. He went at it like he was wrestling a storm—notes bending, squealing, then suddenly sweet. The room whooped and clapped along; even Tank’s mouth tugged toward a smile.
The host came back, wipeing sweat from his brow with a bar towel. “Next up—Maestro.”
Chairs scraped. Jester’s whistle cut through the buzz. Tank clapped loudly. Lily squeezed my knee under the table, quick and sure. “Go knock them out.”
