Page 10 of Hearts on Ice
Post-game notes:
- Too many penalties. Rein it in.
- Cleaner defensive rotations.
- Trembley: strong on the puck, good second effort.
- Carter: nerves fading, finding his rhythm.
- Jester & Tank: earlier communication.
- Rodriguez: composed, led by example.
My phone buzzed with an incoming message.
JB: You good for tomorrow’s video review?
Me: Yes.
I hit send before I could think too long about it. Routine kept the roof up.
A sticky note on the monitor reminded me of the thing I’d promised myself at group—Wednesdays, cook dinner, no takeout. It shouldn’t have made any difference, but seeing it there steadied me. One small new thing. Control where I could have it.
A knock pulled me out of the quiet. I looked up.
Miguel leaned in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his gear bag slung over his shoulder. He still looked keyed up from the ice, but ready to leave it behind. His dark hair was damp, curling a little at the ends from the shower. The teal, turquoise, and maroon team hoodie sat loose on him—roomy enough to hide the frame beneath, but not from a coach who noticed more than he should. The sleeves were shoved to his forearms, skin still faintly pink from the heat and the scrape of pads.
“Coach.”
“Rodriguez.”
He stepped in far enough for the overhead light to catch the cut on his cheekbone—a small thing from a stick in traffic. He didn’t seem to notice it.
“Good game,” he said simply.
“Good work,” I answered. Then added, because I meant it, “Keep an eye on Carter. He’ll think tonight means he can sprint every shift. Teach him he can’t.”
“On it.” He adjusted the strap of his bag. “And hey—nice tie.”
I looked down at the navy one I’d grabbed that morning without thinking. “It’s clean.”
“That’s a start.” The corner of his mouth lifted, there and gone. “See you Monday.”
“See you.” He turned, the hallway light framing him for a second before he disappeared.
I sat a second longer than I needed to, listening to his footsteps fade. The office felt bigger without him in the doorway, which didn’t make sense.
Chapter 7
Miguel
Youth hockey clinics had their own kind of chaos: shouts bouncing off the boards, skates clacking on rubber mats, sticks scraping the floor. I shifted my gear bag higher on my shoulder, stepping into the community center rink where the Grizzlies had volunteered to run a skills session for kids.
Devin was already crouched in the corner, showing a boy how to tape the blade of his stick. Beau stood straighter, arms folded like a man checking for structural flaws in a building, watching two kids wobble on their skates. And Lily—sun-bright Lily—was in motion, ponytail swinging, coaxing a shy girl to stretch her arms overhead.
The smell of popcorn from the vending machine clung to the air, layered over the cold bite that leaked in from the ice. Volunteering wasn’t mandatory, but when PR asked for names, I’d said yes. Not because I was dying to babysit, but because these were the kinds of faces I used to see around my neighborhood rink—wide-eyed, buzzing with possibility. With no practice today, I figured I’d trade the couch for a few hours on the ice.
I dumped my bag near the bench, grabbed a stack of loaner sticks, and stepped onto the ice. The first breath always hit sharp against my lungs, a reminder that ice had its own weather.
