Page 80 of Hearts on Ice
I was mid-swig of soda when the room shifted.
Not in volume—just in attention.
That tiny, instinctive dip in energy that happens when the coach walks in.
Drew filled the doorway in a burgundy hoodie and a ballcap, balancing two boxes of pizza and a case of sparkling water like he’d intuited what the room needed. His gaze moved over everyone—Tank, Jester, Trigger—and then landed on me.
A heartbeat.
Too long.
Too warm.
The kind of look that found me even in a crowd.
I felt it all the way to my ribs.
And then, just as quickly, his coach mask slid into place. His mouth curved into an easy smile meant for the room, not for me.
I forced myself to look down, to take another sip of soda like nothing had happened. Better to be careful. Better to breathe slowly and pretend every nerve in me wasn’t suddenly awake.
“Coach!” Beau called, bright and grateful. “You made it!”
Drew lifted the pizza boxes in a small salute. “Wouldn’t miss it; you’ve got a good setup here,” he said, voice steady, eyes already moving past me. But I caught the smallest thing—his thumbbrushing the edge of one box like he needed to do something with his hands. I knew that tell. I’d seen it when he was trying not to reach for me.
“Still breaking it in,” Beau said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Tonight’s the test run.”
The night settled back into its easy rhythm after that—conversation drifting, music humming low, people breaking off into small groups the way teammates do when they’re comfortable. Tank and JB set up a card game at the bar-height counter, dealing fast and talking faster. Lily drifted between them and Jester, who had commandeered the TV to replay a ridiculous save from practice. Devin and Beau disappeared onto the balcony with sodas, still buzzing from the Omaha sweep.
I hung close to the living-room crowd, leaning against the arm of the couch. From across the room, Drew laughed at something Beau said, the sound warm and unguarded in a way I didn’t hear often at the rink. It slid under my ribs before I had time to brace for it.
A few minutes later, someone tugged a stack of board games from a half-open box near the TV. Cards, dice, trivia, a couple party games—the kind of random mix guys toss into a shopping cart their first week in a new city. Everyone drifted into small circles.
“Pictionary?” Beau asked, lifting the pad.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m in.”
It ended up being just four of us around the coffee table—me, Drew, Beau, and Devin—kneeling on the rug, the markers rolling between the legs of the table.
"House rules?” Devin asked.
Beau shrugged. “No words, no letters, thirty-second timer, and you’re not allowed to yell at the artist. Even if they deserve it.”
“That last part feels targeted,” I said.
“Probably is,” Beau replied.
Drew settled beside me, close but not close enough to draw attention. Our knees almost touched.
Almost.
Beau drew first—quick, confident strokes.
Devin squinted, then snapped his fingers. “Snowman.”
I raised a brow. “Okay, that one was obvious.”
Devin grinned. “It’s the hat. Hats give everything away.”
