Page 8 of Hearts on Ice
His gaze cut to mine, warm with amusement. “Including you?”
“Especially me,” I said before I could think better of it.
The next one was mine: “What’s the hardest part of being a goalie?”
I let the pause hang, then answered honestly. “Every shot has to be a first shot. Doesn’t matter if you stopped twenty before it—if you carry the last one in your head, you’re late.”
We wrapped with quick predictions.
“Trembley scores twice and Jester sings during warm-up,” I said, letting the grin play at my lips.
“Grizzlies score inside ten minutes,” Mack replied. “No singing.”
The red light dimmed. Recording over.
I slipped off the headset and exhaled, the nerves I’d carried in now nothing but a faint hum in the background. I rolled my shoulders, stretching out the tightness.
“You ever get used to that sound in your ears?” I asked, rubbing at one.
“Not really,” he said, smiling faintly. “But it’s easier when the person across from you knows what they’re doing.”
I laughed softly. “Didn’t expect you to enjoy that.”
He met my eyes. “Didn’t expect you to make it feel like a real conversation.”
Something in his tone held me still. I met his eyes a beat too long. Something in them—even, grounded—held me there. For a second it felt like standing in-net before the drop, the whole rink waiting on a puck I couldn’t yet see.
I blinked, gave a little shake of my head, and busied myself with a cord, winding it too tightly.
Then he checked his watch, a small, habitual glance that told me he lived by schedules.
“See you on the ice,” he said, voice shifting back to business.
“Yeah. See you, Coach.”
And just like that, the distance was back—him in his lane, me in mine.
Chapter 6
Drew
The Grizzlies had one preseason game before the regular season kicked in—a tune-up against a farm club from the Hockey League of Western North America, the HLWNA. Different league, same hunger. For them, it was a chance to test themselves against pros; for us, a way to see who could handle the lights.
Half the seats were filled—families in Grizzlies jerseys, kids waving foam paws and handmade signs. Not the roar of playoffs, but loud enough to matter. For some of the rookies, it was the biggest crowd they’d ever faced.
The tunnel felt the same as always: rubber mat underfoot, cold air spilling off the ice, that low hum in the walls that belonged only to rinks. I tugged my tie, settled the clipboard under my arm. The old knee ached, dull and familiar, a ghost that wanted acknowledgment I wouldn’t give.
In the room, Jester was chirping Tank about his warm-up playlist. Trembley paced, stopped, stretched his shoulders, paced again. Carter’s knee bounced hard enough to rattle a water bottle. Nerves wore different masks. Veterans hid theirs; rookies hadn’t learned how yet.
And then there was Miguel. Half-dressed, pads open, tape looped around two fingers, eyes taking in the room without moving his head. Calm on the outside—always. The soft tap of his stick against his pad made a rhythm under the chatter. It took me a second to realize I was matching my own breath to it.
“Rodriguez,” I said quietly, tilting my chin toward Carter. “First shift’s going to swallow him whole if we don’t get in front of it.”
Miguel didn’t hesitate. Tape still on his fingers, he crouched in front of the kid, spoke low and steady. I couldn’t hear the words, just the tone—measured, grounding. Carter’s shouldersloosened, the bounce in his knee slowed. A small clap to the shoulder, then Miguel was back in his stall, calm restored. Exactly why I’d called him over.
Warm-ups blurred into anthems. Lights dimmed; spotlights cut through the cold air. I stepped behind the bench and let the sound roll over me.
Puck drop.
