Page 59 of Hearts on Ice
Nothing.
Something in my stomach went tight.
Screw it.
I pulled on jeans, a soft black tee, zipped a hoodie over it, jammed a beanie on my still-damp hair, and grabbed my keys.
If he was fine, I’d get chirped at for being dramatic. If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t find that out by waiting for a read receipt that wasn’t coming.
By the time I left the rink, the sky was the color of cooling steel.
I ordered a rideshare, and luckily, the driver wasn’t the kind that was chatty. The city moved past the window in quiet streaks of light—shop signs, palm trees bending in the evening wind, people heading somewhere that wasn’t heavy.
I told myself I was just checking in. Making sure he was okay.
But the truth sat heavy in my chest: I needed to see him. To know for myself… if he was okay.
When the car stopped outside his place, I thanked the driver, stepped out, and the air hit cool against my face. My heart was pounding harder than it should have for someone just walking up a set of stairs.
I knocked once, then again.
For a few seconds, nothing. Then I heard the lock turn.
Drew opened the door.
And he stood there barefoot in sweats and a gray hoodie, sleeves shoved to his elbows. He looked… worn, but not destroyed. The kind of tired that lives deep, like he’d carried something all day and hadn’t found a place to set it down. His eyes were a little red around the rims, his hair tousled, a few strands falling over his forehead.
He still looked stupid good. The kind of good that made my chest forget how to work for a second… and that he was my coach.
“Hey,” I said. “You didn’t answer my messages, so I figured I’d check in.”
He gave a small nod, his voice low. “Yeah. Sorry about that.” He stepped back. “Come in.”
I’d been here before, but the place felt different tonight. Quieter in a way that wasn’t about sound was the best way I could describe it.
The lamp by the couch cast a soft amber glow across the room. On the coffee table sat an open photo album, pages spread wide, a few loose pictures stacked beside it.
I glanced toward Drew. “Your family?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
He lowered himself onto the couch. I joined him, leaving a respectful space between us.
He slid a photo free from its sleeve and showed it to me. “Laura,” he said.
God. The way he said her name… not as if he was broken, more like reverent. Like he was tasting every memory it carried.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
And it was true. You could feel her goodness through the picture, like she was one of those people who made a room lighter just by standing in it. And that was beauty personified.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “She hated that picture. Said her hair looked like a storm cloud.”
“She was wrong,” I said. “She looks perfect.”
He let out a soft sound—half a laugh, half a breath. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She was.” He set the photo down with care.
He slid another photo free.
