Page 89 of Hearts on Ice
When we broke apart, I brushed my thumb over his lips. “Tomorrow we fight for it.”
He nodded. “Tomorrow we win.”
He pulled me against him, fitting himself against me like we’d done it a thousand times. His hand rested on my chest; my arm curled around his waist.
And that was when it hit me—quietly, almost kindly.
The knowing.
The recognition.
The truth settling where it belonged.
I was in love with him.
The knowledge came softly, like exhaling after holding your breath too long. I’d known I cared about him, needed him—but love had crept in, patient and unseen, until it was simplythere.
I hadn’t thought I’d ever feel it again.
Not after losing the first life I built, the one that had ended with sirens and silence.
But somehow, this man—this maddening, steady, bright force beside me—had made room for it to exist again.
He murmured something half asleep, his fingers brushing against my ribs, and I felt the tug of it again, that gentle, terrifying certainty.
For the second time in my life, I was in love.
Miguel drifted off, his hand still curled in my shirt. I stayed awake, staring into the dark, that soft, dangerous truth humming through me.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t just coaching for a title. I was fighting for something that lived off the ice too—for us.
And even as warmth spread through my chest, I couldn’t ignore the flicker of unease that followed.
Because love like this didn’t stay hidden forever.
And when the light finally touched it, something—someone—was bound to burn.
.
Chapter 32
Miguel
The air inside Chicago’s arena always felt different—colder, heavier, like the ice itself remembered every hit you ever took on it.
Playoff noise was something else too: horns, chants, the echo of sticks slapping against boards, the kind of chaos that pressed against your chest until your heartbeat matched the rhythm.
We were down in the series—2–1—and if we didn’t take this game, it was over. No round three, no redemption, no shot at the PHL Cup.
The crowd wanted our blood.
Fine. They could have everything but that.
First period. The Knights came out hungry.
First shift. Bodies flew. Tank cleared the slot. I caught a snapshot off the shoulder, the puck ricocheting wide. The crowd groaned, then roared again when one of theirs snatched the rebound.
For twenty minutes it was survival.
