Page 19 of Hearts on Ice
Miguel sat at his stall with the travel guitar he always dragged along, plucking a low riff that threaded through the chaos. It wasn’t loud, just enough to settle his breathing. He hummed under it, eyes closed for a beat before he set the guitar aside and pulled his chest protector on. I waited until the last chord faded, then stepped forward.
I glanced down the bench. Tank cracked his neck, Jester drummed his taped stick against the boards. Carter bounced his knees, jaw working like he was chewing ice. Trembley sat still as a stone, eyes narrowed, unreadable as ever. And Miguel—Miguel rolled his shoulders inside his pads, flexing his glove hand like he had all the time in the world.
“First shift, keep it simple,” I told them, standing where I could see all their faces. “Edmonton’s going to come heavy. They’ll test us early. Don’t cough it up at their blue line—no turnovers high. Make plays through the middle instead of wasting it on the boards.”
Tank nodded, broad shoulders squared like he’d already swallowed the whole speech. Carter shifted, nerves rightthere on the surface. Trembley’s gaze stayed locked forward, unflinching.
And Miguel—he flexed his glove once, eyes lifting to mine.
It wasn’t just looking. It wassteady, unhurried, like he’d settled on me and didn’t plan to move off until he was good and ready. The air in the room thinned. My tongue caught behind my teeth, the next words stuck.
Ridiculous. I’d addressed teams for years. But in that second, it felt like there was no one else in the room but him. Just that dark, unblinking focus, and me forgetting the back half of my sentence.
I cleared my throat, slower than I should have, buying the beat back.
“Keep your feet moving,” I finished, voice rougher than I meant. “Keep your feet moving. Trust your reads. And if it doesn’t go right, let it go. Hockey’s about the next shift, not the last one.” I let the silence hang just long enough. “Alright. Let’s go to work.”
The room broke in a scrape of skates and a clatter of sticks. Anthem done, lights dimmed, we stepped into the tunnel. The smell of popcorn and sweat mixed with the metallic chill rolling up from the ice.
By the time the ref skated to center ice with the puck, Miguel was crouched in his crease. Same ritual every game: glove brushed the left post, then the right, then back again, lips moving in words I couldn’t hear. Finally two taps against his chest, one-two, before he dropped into position. Whatever it meant, it steadied him.
The horn sounded, the puck hit the dot, and the season began.
The first ten minutes were chaos. Edmonton slammed bodies into corners, hammered Miguel with scrappy close-range shots right in front of him, and goaded Tank into an early penalty. We held the kill, but it left my bench rattled. Carter mishandled the puck trying to clear our zone, and I bit back the urge to bark. Rookie jitters. I remembered mine—hands shaking so bad I could barely tape my stick.
Miguel was the one who settled them. He snatched a rebound out of the air with his glove, then stretched across the crease to block a wraparound that had the crowd holding its breath. After the whistle, he tapped each post in turn, cool and unbothered, as if resetting the whole rink. That calm wasn’t just for him—it carried to the bench, reminding the younger guys they could breathe.
That’s what I needed from him. Not just saves—command.
By the second period, we found a rhythm. Jester cut off a pass, slid it to Trembley, and the kid notched his first regular-season goal with the Grizzlies. The crowd roared. Tank flattened a winger at the blue line, Jester cleared the rebound, and for a stretch, we looked like the team we were meant to be.
But Edmonton clawed back. By the third, it was tied 2–2, bodies colliding everywhere, whistles flying.
Midway through, Miguel slid to smother a loose puck, a forward barreling down with no brakes. The collision rattled the post with a sharp crack, the kind that made the boards shiver. My chest clenched before I could think. He popped up fast—mask crooked, pads scuffed—but I caught it: the subtle hitch as he rotated his left arm. The bare flicker of pain before his jaw locked it down.
“Watch that,” I muttered sharply to Lily at my elbow.
“I see it,” she said, already leaning forward, clinical eyes scanning the crease.
Normally, that would’ve been enough to settle me. I’d coached through a hundred stingers and bruises, catalogued them without a ripple. But this was different. My pulse didn’t level out. My gaze stuck on him—on the stubborn set of his shoulders, on the way he shook his glove once like he could reset pain by will alone.
Edmonton smelled weakness and pressed, swarming the net, but Miguel didn’t crack. Every save he made felt personal, like he was fending off more than rubber and sticks. And I couldn’t shake the thrum in my ribs, the one that shouldn’t have been there at all.
In the final minutes, Carter redeemed himself, muscling the puck out on a desperate clear. Tank sent it forward, Trembley chased it down, and somehow he buried his second goal in Grizzlies colors.
3–2 Grizzlies. Ugly. Scrappy. Ours.
The horn ended it and the boys spilled out, slamming gloves, shouting, their voices bouncing off the rafters. I let them have the moment before corralling them into line for the handshakes. Edmonton looked carved from granite but sullen in defeat. We’d learn from the mess.
I’d start with Miguel.
Locker room noise always came down in waves—roars, then chatter, then the scrape of skates on tile. I gave my post-game talk: proud of the grit, not proud of the penalties, work to do before Friday. A chorus of “yes, Coach” met me, and they turned back to shower and tape and text their girlfriends.
Miguel lingered in his stall longer than the rest, rolling his shoulder as he unlaced his pads. He masked it well, but I’d caught the grimace during the game and I wasn’t letting it slide. When his eyes lifted to mine, I tilted my chin toward my office.
He followed without a word.
Miguel ducked through the doorframe, carrying the heat of the game with him—sweat still damp in his curls, his chest rising steadily under the cling of his undershirt.
