Page 86 of Hearts on Ice
But fate had other plans.
The lobby buzzed with travel noise—rolling suitcases, tired voices, the sharp scent of espresso drifting from the café. We filed toward the front desk in loose clusters. A woman in a navy blazer straightened when she saw our group approach, a stack of pre-programmed room keys waiting beside her.
“Welcome, Los Angeles Grizzlies,” she said with a professional smile. “We have your rooming list here. Just a small note before we begin—there was an issue with two of the doubles in your block. I’m very sorry for the inconvenience.”
Tank exhaled through his nose. He hated surprises.
She began reading from the list.
“Room 415—Terrence Tanner and Devin Carter.”
Tank gave a short nod.
Devin lifted a shoulder. “Guess we’re roomies tonight,” he said—nothing more than practical acceptance.
“Because Mr. Tremblay isn’t traveling with the active roster,” she continued, “his room was removed from the block. And unfortunately, one of the remaining doubles had a plumbing issue this afternoon, so we had to take it out of service. That left us short.”
That tracked. Beau’s shoulder hadn’t recovered after that hit in Phoenix, and with Chicago booked solid for playoff week, the hotel didn’t have a spare double to replace it.
She checked the next line. “Room 417—Miguel Rodriguez. King bed.”
Miguel blinked. “I’m by myself?”
“My apologies again,” she said gently. “It was the only single left available. It does have a connecting door, if there’s anything you need. And your neighbor is — ”
Her eyes returned to the list.
“Room 419 — Andrew Mackenzie.”
I kept my reaction flat, neutral. Coach face. Nothing more.
She kept reading—trainers, equipment staff, the rest of the roster—while the team started peeling off toward the elevators with their envelopes.
Miguel shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. For half a second, his eyes found mine.
Not a smile, or even a full look. Just… awareness.
A quiet current passing between us.
“See you upstairs,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” I answered. “See you.”
And for the first time on an away trip, distance wasn’t the rule anymore.
A single door—and in the reservation system—had rewritten the night.
The elevator ride was all noise—guys arguing about dinner, Tank complaining that Chicago air “smelled like someone left a fridge open.”
But under all of it was that pulse in my chest, steady and bright, because for the first time on the road, Miguel and I weren’t separated by distance we had to pretend was natural.
On the fourth floor, we split. The guys drifted away in pairs, keys clicking, doors swinging shut. Miguel disappeared into 417. I forced myself into 419.
Coach first. Everything else after.
I unpacked what needed to be unpacked—suit, shoes, my tablet with the game notes. I changed into practice gear, grabbed my clipboard, and headed back downstairs.
The rink was ten minutes away, an easy ride.
