Page 12 of Hearts on Ice
“Maybe she’s just warning goalies what happens when they let one in.”
He laughed, low and real. It curled in my chest like heat. I swallowed it down, forcing my eyes back to the kids before I lingered too long.
We wrapped drills with a messy scrimmage, letting the kids chase the puck more than actually play. Laughter filled the rink,small bodies colliding, sticks clattering. Mack clapped when a tiny winger managed a clean steal, his voice carrying enough command that every head lifted. For a moment, he wasn’t the coach who needed some cheering up, even if he mightn’t admit it. He was just a man enjoying kids being kids.
Markers squeaked against plastic and paper, caps clicking as the kids swarmed us with sticks, programs, and ball caps to sign. I crouched, scribbling my name while one boy squinted up at me. “How many teeth have you lost?”
“More than you want to know,” I said with a grin, showing him the one that had been capped. His laughter shot through me like a spark.
Nearby, Carter leaned down, tying a girl’s stubborn laces. “Double-knot, champ. Otherwise, you’ll spend more time on the ice than your skates will.” His voice was light, easy.
Trembley stayed composed, signing neatly and offering the occasional quiet nod when a parent thanked him. Before leaving, he shook Lily’s hand—respectful, professional—then inclined his head to Mack. “Appreciate you being here, Coach.”
Ready to head out?” Carter asked Trembley, who gave a simple nod. They drifted out together, Carter tossing a wave back at us.
The room thinned. Lily packed away the medical kit she always carried. When she turned to me, her ponytail swung. “Take care, Maestro.” A wink, and she was gone.
Mack was by the boards, watching the last few stragglers circle the ice.
When his eyes met mine, something shifted—small, quiet, but real.
“Good work today,” he said.
“You too, Coach.” I should’ve left it there. Instead, I heard myself say, “Some of the guys’ll probably swing by The Crossbar later. You’re welcome to come.” I kept my voice casual, like it was no big deal, though my pulse gave me away.
His mouth tightened, but not unkindly. “Not tonight. Appreciate it, though.”
I nodded, covering whatever disappointment tried to creep in. My bag felt heavier than it was as I slung it over my shoulder. We walked out together into the cooling afternoon, side by side but silent.
Chapter 8
Drew
JB was already in the video room when I walked in, sleeves rolled up, laser pointer tapping against his palm like it was keeping time.
The guys filtered in—Tank and Jester shoulder to shoulder, Carter whispering something to Trembley, Justin dragging a chair halfway across the floor. Miguel came last, bag strap slung across one arm, posture easy but eyes sharp. Always reading the room before he spoke.
The air smelled of burnt coffee and last night’s effort. Two days until the season opened, and we still looked like a team that hadn’t decided what it wanted to be.
“Let’s start,” I said, hitting play.
The clips told the truth: slow backchecks, sloppy coverage, a half-step of hesitation that turned good positioning into bad luck. Carter winced. Tank muttered something under his breath.
I froze the frame. “Walk me through this.”
For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Then Miguel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We’re crowding the same lane. If one of us pulls back, the pass dies before it starts.”
JB nodded once. “So what happens next time?”
Miguel glanced at the others, voice calm. “We talk sooner. I can track the play, but I can’t see behind me. If we open our mouths, we close the gap.”
That got a few nods—quiet, thoughtful ones. The kind that meant the point had landed.
“Exactly,” I said. “Communication fixes half your problems before the puck moves.”
The rest of the review went smoother. Mistakes turned into teachable moments, tension easing notch by notch. When I finally clicked the projector off, most of them started to drift toward the hallway.
“Miguel,” I said, stopping him at the door.
