Page 50 of Hearts on Ice
We stared at each other, both waiting for the other to move first. His eyes softened once, just enough to hurt.
“Get some rest, Rodriguez.”
The words landed dull but heavy, like a puck against pads. The surname. Formal, safe. A line drawn across ice. I nodded. If I spoke, something would spill that I couldn't gather back up.
He turned, his footsteps fading into the corridor, each one pulling the air tighter until all that was left was the faint echo of the closing door.
I stayed where I was, gloves slack at my sides, the cold seeping through. My lips still tingled with the ghost of him—proof that it wasn’t imagined, that whatever this thing was, it had weight.
Chapter 21
Drew
I fucking kissed him.
Miguel.
A man.
The thought wouldn’t settle; it looped through my head like static as I walked out of the rink and into the cold. The air bit at my skin, sharp enough to hurt, but not enough to ground me. My mouth still remembered him—the heat, the salt, the faint sweetness under it, the soft sound he made when our lips met.I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles went white, as if pressure could bring reason back.
Six years.
Six years since I’d touched anyone like that.
Sinceher.
And now—him. My goalie. My player.
The drive blurred past in streaks of red and gold, L.A. breathing its steady midnight rhythm while I came apart. Every stoplight became another replay: the shock of his mouth, the pulse under his skin, the way neither of us moved fast enough to stop it.
At home, I fumbled the keys and sent them skittering across the tile. The sound cracked the quiet open. Everything else was too still—my jacket on its hook, the faint scent of detergent in the air, the hum of the fridge. Orderly. Lifeless.
I stripped and stepped into the shower. The water hit lukewarm, running over my shoulders, down my chest, over skin that had forgotten what touch felt like. It beat against the back of my neck until I could almost convince myself that the sting was punishment—penance—or maybe it was just proof that I was still here.
But nothing washed him off. His taste. The sound of his breath against mine.
And God help me, I was hard.
Most days I couldn’t even remember what wanting felt like. The muscles, the motion, theneed.I’d buried it all with her.
But thinking about him—his scent, the way he said my name—brought it all back, brutal and immediate.
I braced a hand against the tile, water cascading down, and let my forehead rest there.
Six years of silence, and the first spark to reach me washim.
I didn’t know what that meant.
Only that it terrified me.
And worse—it didn’t feel wrong.
The water continued to beat down, relentless, tracing every line of muscle. I hoped it would eventually wash away my thoughts of him. It didn't. If anything, the privacy made it worse. Heat pooled low in my gut, stubborn, undeniable. My hand drifted downward of its own accord, and I cursed under my breath. This wasn't helping me forget.
Stop thinking about him.But the command had no weight anymore.
I closed my eyes, but that was a mistake. Miguel’s face appeared immediately—those knowing eyes, that teasing smile. I groaned, my hand moving faster now, chasing the memory of his voice, American English colored by Caribbean Spanish melody. Even the scent of his cologne.
