Page 55 of Hearts on Ice
“¡Te quiero, Tío!” my niece shouted, blowing me a kiss.
“Yo más,” I told her—I love you more—even as I caught the kiss with my palm.
Then she hopped off Manu’s lap and darted out of frame, a flash of color and laughter disappearing down the hall.
“I’m proud of you, Miguelito,” he added when the laughter faded. “Not for the games. For still showing up when it’s hard.”
“Gracias, Manu.” The lump in my throat didn’t move easily. “For everything… for not… for not making things weird.”
“Pfft.” He waved me off. “You forget who raised us? We’ve seen weird.”
I laughed, and it felt like air after being underwater.
He nodded. “Listen, if this man’s good for you, if he makes you breathe easier, don’t waste time worrying about labels. Live. Life’s already short.”
“I’ll try,” I said.
“Try less,” he said. “Just… let it happen.”
I grinned. “Go easy on the passion fruit juice, viejo”—old man—“you’re getting sentimental.”
He snorted. “Call it wisdom, sabelotodo.”Smart-ass.“Text me after the game.”
“Deal.”
He gave a two-finger salute toward the camera. “Go stop some pucks,Maestro.”
“Buenas noches, hermano,” I said—good night, brother.
“Buenas noches.”
The screen flickered to black, leaving my reflection staring back at me. Behind it, the faint echo of my brother’s voice lingered—full of the kind of love that never needed proof.
I set the phone down, the silence softer now. I wasn’t sure what came next, only that, for the first time in a long while, I wanted to find out.
Chapter 23
Drew
I didn’t sleep.
We’d beaten St. Louis 3–1. They came hard, heavy on the forecheck, but we answered early and never let them dictate pace. Miguel read them like he’d studied their breathing. Glove, blocker, pad, chest—he absorbed everything St. Louis threw athim, every rebound dying against his gear. Goalies “standing on their head,” that’s what people call it when a netminder steals you a game. I’d said those words for years, but last night, I felt them.
He was… beautiful out there. Not pretty.Beautiful.Balanced, calm, economy of movement, shoulders set, eyes locked in. He moved like music—nothing wasted, nothing panicked. We went into the third up 2–1. They threw everything at him—players blocking his sightlines, rebounds, chaos—but he didn’t flinch. When the horn blew and the scoreboard read 3–1, the building shook, the crowd erupted. Gloves and sticks scattered, the boys thundering toward the bench. Across the ice, Miguel lifted his mask, breath fogging in the cold air, and our eyes met. Just for a heartbeat.
Not long enough for anyone else to notice—at least I hoped not—but long enough for the spark that look caused to shoot up my spine.
I drove home wired and woke up empty.
Six years.
By 8:55, I was in the community center lot, palms too dry on the steering wheel. My stomach felt like I’d swallowed glass. The sun was out, the air too bright for a day like this.
Inside, the room hadn’t changed.
Same burned coffee smell. Same folding chairs in a quiet circle. Same cheap art print of a lighthouse taped crooked on the wall. Like calm could be stapled to drywall.
Marsha sat in her usual spot with that steady, grounded posture of hers. “Hi, Drew,” she said gently.
