Page 61 of Hearts on Ice
I bent and pressed a slow, careful kiss to the top of his head.
“Duérmete,” I whispered into his hair. “Rest. I’ve got you.”
On the coffee table, his whole world was laid out in photos—his wife’s smile, his daughter’s little hand reaching out. The life he’d had. The love he’d lost.
And here he was, curled into me.
Trusting me with the part that still hurt.
I held him, feeling his breaths, and let the realization settle in:
I was already gone for this man.
Chapter 25
Drew
Three days later, the apartment didn’t feel so heavy.
Maybe that was Miguel’s fault.
I’d thought the awkwardness would hang around after that night—after he held me on the couch while I came apart quietly in his arms. I remembered waking up against him the next morning, disoriented, my cheek pressed to his chest, his arm still around me. The faint scent of his shampoo. The steady rhythm of his breathing. For a moment, I just let myself stay there—without guilt, without the need to hide, letting the quiet settle somewhere deep. It had been a long time since I’d felt that kind of peace.
And he’d just been… solid. Calm. Making coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world. Talking about what we should have for breakfast, about practice, about anything but my breakdown. The normalcy in that had made everything easier.
When he’d started to leave that evening, I’d followed him to the door. I wanted to ask him to stay but couldn’t make the words work.
He paused anyway, like he could read it in my silence. Then he stepped close—close enough for his breath to brush my cheek—and said quietly, “Another time.”
His hands came up to my face, warm and sure, and he kissed me—slow, deep, sure—a promise wrapped in restraint. Until my knees forgot what they were for. And before I could catch my breath, he was gone, the air still warm where he’d been.
Since then, practice had been a minefield of almosts.
Accidental touches that weren’t accidents. Lingering looks that lasted a beat too long. Texts that read casual but felt anything but.
He’d messaged me this morning:
Miguel:Don’t forget it’s Wednesday. I’m coming hungry.
Miguel:And wear something you don’t mind getting dirty. Cooking’s serious business.
I’d stared at the screen longer than I’d admit. There was nothing flirty in the words, not really—but it stillfeltlike flirting, because it was him.
I couldn’t stop smiling after that.
JB had given me a look during practice—half suspicion, half amusement. Justin flat-out asked if I was dying because I was smiling too much. I’d just shrugged. Let them think what they wanted.
What I wanted was Miguel.
Alone.
By the time evening rolled around, my pulse had been running ahead of me all day.
I must’ve checked the clock a dozen times, pretending it was about the chicken slowly simmering in its lemon-and-caper sauce—not the man I knew was on his way.
Then came the knock.
Three quick raps—confident, familiar. He’d done that to my office door before entering for the last five years.
