Page 72 of Hearts on Ice
Something in my chest pulled tight. “You’re allowed to be confused, Drew.”
He looked up. “I’m not even sure it’s confusion. I just—when my wife died, that part of me shut off. Desire. Touch. It felt… done. Like my sexuality died with Laura. I didn’t look at anyone—not men or women romantically. Just didn’t have it in me.” He paused, the next words almost shy. “Then you happened, and it’s like something woke up I didn’t even know was asleep.”
“You don’t have to label it, you know.”
He nodded slowly. “Maybe not. But I want to understand it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Then here’s me trying to understand mine. I’ve never looked twice at a guy before you. Not once. And I’ve been around plenty of guys, trust me. But you…” I blew out a breath. “You’re different. So if that makes me bisexual, fine. If it just makes me yours, I can live with that too.” I swallowed. “You make me realize maybe it’s not about gender. Maybe it’s just… you.”
That got him to look up—really look at me, eyes warm and searching. “You think I’ve noticed another man since you?”
I smirked. “I’dhopethe fuck not.”
That made him laugh, quiet but real, his shoulders easing. “No,” he said. “Just you.”
We let the words sit there for a while, the air between us thick but not heavy.
Then I asked, softer, “So… what are we, Drew? Friends with benefits? A situationship? Or—” I hesitated, heart kicking, “—boyfriends?”
He ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “That’s the question, huh? Because if we were two regular guys on different sides of town, maybe it’d be easy to name it. But I’m your coach. You’remy goalie. There’s a line there, and I don’t know what crossing it costs.”
I nodded. “There’s no official clause in the contract about it, not unless one of us tries to make it something public. But still—reputation. The team. The press.”
He looked at me then, steady. “Are you willing to risk that?”
“I’m not willing to risknotdoing this right,” I said. “I don’t want something half-formed. I wantus.”
His breath hitched, the smallest sound, but I caught it.
Then I smiled. “So yeah, I want you to be my boyfriend,papi.”
His brow arched. “You’ve called me that before. Are you calling me your daddy?”
I laughed, stepping closer, close enough that the warmth of him hit my chest. “No.Papi’s… versatile. Depends on the tone. Could mean handsome. Could mean someone you care about. Could mean someone you want.”
He studied me with that quiet curiosity that always made me feel too seen. “And which one am I?”
“All three,” I said.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. There was just the sound of the city outside, the hum of the fridge, our breathing syncing in the middle. Then he smiled—wrecking me completely.
“Come with me, Coach,” I said, gesturing for him to follow me out of the kitchen to the living room, where I shifted the coffee table to the side.
He raised an eyebrow. "What're you on about now, Rodriguez?"
I dug out my phone from my pocket.
“What’re you doing?” he asked.
“Changing the mood,” I said.
I thumbed through my playlist to find a low guitar, steady percussion, that smooth pulse you can feel more than hear. That bachata music that made your body remember how to flirt, or fuck, without a word. I grinned, cranking up the volume before resting the phone on the coffee table.
“It’s bachata,” I said. “Pretty damn sensual, but relax—you don’t need to be a TikTok choreo guy. I’ve got you.”
He hesitated just long enough to sigh like he knew he didn’t stand a chance. “Miguel, I can’t dance.”
“Good,” I said. “Less pressure.”
