Page 49 of Hearts on Ice
When he finally drew back, the edge of his palm skimmed the side of my glove—skin against fabric. It shouldn’t have meant anything. Still, the jolt of contact ran straight through me, a current under the armor.
For a heartbeat, even the rink seemed to hold its breath.
Then he looked at me and something in his expression shifted.
My body moved before my brain caught up. There was no thought in it, no warning, just heat and gravity and months of pretending I didn’t notice the way his voice changed when he said my name.
One moment I was staring at his mouth. The next, I wasn’t.
The first touch of his lips stole my breath. My pulse kicked, wild and reckless.
He tasted like coffee and mint—a little bitter, a little sweet. His lips were rough, chapped from long days at the rink, but they softened when I brushed my tongue against them. Heat surged straight through me. The faint scrape of stubble grazed my skin.
His hand came up—hesitant, trembling—and settled at the back of my neck. That single touch undid me.
I leaned in, the scent of him closing around me: clean soap, worn leather, the faint bite of cedar from his jacket. The rest of the world dropped away.
No rink, no season, no noise—just heat and breath and the ache of wanting something I’d never dared imagine.
My lips parted without permission. The first slide of tongue against tongue set off a spark that tore right through my defenses. He made a sound—soft, desperate, caught halfway between surprise and need—and it was over for me.
I was gone, lost in him. In the weight of his hand, the give of his mouth, the rhythm that found us without either of us looking for it. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask—it remembers. The kind that rewrites everything you thought you knew about yourself.
“Oh god, Drew…”
I didn’t know how long we stayed like that—seconds, minutes, hours—but when he finally drew back, our breaths tangled between us, the air thin and electric. His eyes were wide, wrecked, searching.
Reality seeped in in slow, cruel inches—the silence, the space between us, the pounding of my heart that wouldn’t settle.
He swallowed hard, gaze flicking to my mouth, then away. “Miguel…”
My name in his voice felt like another touch. And then—just like that—he stepped back.
And the distance hit harder than the kiss.
He broke the most amazing kiss I’d ever had.
One second he was there—solid, warm,real—and the next, the cold came rushing back. The air hit where his mouth had been, sharp enough to sting.
Drew stepped back fast, almost stumbling into the bench. His eyes were wide and wrecked, his lips still parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe. The hand that had held my neck hung useless at his side.
“Jesus,” he said, voice low and torn. “I—”
He didn’t finish. Probably couldn’t.
My body was still trying to catch up, lungs burning, heart crashing against my ribs. I could still taste him on my tongue. My hands wanted to reach for him again, to prove it had happened, but he looked soshakenthat I stayed still.
“This shouldn’t—” He swallowed, voice unsteady. “This can’t happen again, Miguel.”
The way he said my name—rough, almost pleading—made it worse.
I didn’t answer. My pulse was everywhere, loud in my ears, loud enough to drown out the hum of the rink.
He took another step back. “I crossed a line.”
“So did I.” The words scraped their way out.
“That’s not the point.” His jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, he looked like he wanted to say more—something softer, something honest—but the muscle at his temple ticked, and the coach mask came down.
