Page 82 of Hearts on Ice
I made the beams bolder. Sharper. More obvious.
Drew squinted, forehead creasing the way it did on the bench when he was trying to understand why a play broke down.
“Signal post? Beacon? Radar—”
Devin tapped the pad. “Time.”
I exhaled and flipped the card. “Lighthouse.”
Drew sat back with a short breath. He wasn’t irritated, or frustrated. Just… thoughtful.
Then he looked at me, and the whole room pulled into a quieter focus.
“That was a good drawing,” he said softly, like it was a private correction between periods. “My brain just didn’t get there fast enough.”
And there it was—the difference.
Rink-Drew was sharp, decisive, relentless. If you missed an assignment, he’d break it down, replay it, push you until the fix stuck. He wasn’t cruel—never cruel—but exacting.
This Drew—the one sitting next to me on a rug in someone else’s living room—he let the miss sit without turning it into a lesson.
Just an easy acceptance that the world wouldn’t end because we lost a point in a game that meant nothing.
That gentleness landed deep—not in a vague, fluttery way, but in something solid. A warmth low in my stomach, the kind you feel when you realize someone sees you in more than one dimension.
Beau clapped once. “Still a good pull, Coach. You guys’ll get the next one.”
Drew breathed out a soft laugh. He bumped my shoulder, quick and warm. “Next round,” he said quietly, “I’m trusting your instincts again.”
Something in me unknotted at that. Not because of the game—because of him.
We played a few more rounds—easy, competitive, with the kind of banter that comes from trust and familiarity. Nothing said out loud crossed a line, but between guesses and laughter, Drew’s knee brushed mine several times during the game. Deliberate or not, it lingered.
When the game wound down and Beau stood to stretch, a little lull opened—that natural shift where people wandered toward fresh drinks, the balcony, the couch, whatever was next.
And without thinking, I retrieved my guitar from the corner. I strummed a few test chords, letting the strings settle under my fingers. Music always came easy—steadier than adrenaline, warmer than the buzz sitting under my ribs after a win.
The weight of it settled against my thigh like a familiar exhale. I strummed a few warm-up chords, the sound smoothing something inside me.
“What you got for us, Maestro?” Beau asked.
I launched into a soft cover of a song we all knew—something classic enough the whole room could hum along. Heads nodded. Shoulders loosened. Even Sam’s expression thawed a little.
When I finished, JB let out a low whistle. “Our resident rock star. You get better every time.”
Jester added, “Rock star and goalie. Man collecting careers.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, too even, too sharp beneath the surface. “Not sure how playing guitar benefits your hockey skills.”
The energy shifted—not a crash, just a faint drop. Enough for everyone to feel it.
“Consistency comes from confidence,” Drew said, voice level. “And confidence comes from a team that backs each other.” He tapped the empty pizza box with two fingers, light, deliberate. “So let’s keep it respectful.”
A beat.
The message was clear: Watch your mouth.
And at the same time it was subtle.
