Page 1 of Hearts on Ice
Chapter 1
Miguel
September in Los Angeles was still held in the grip of summer outside—heat wavering over the parking lot, sunlight bouncing off windshields. Inside the Grizzlies’ training facility, everything shifted: cool air, the clean bite of fresh ice, coffee steaming on a table someone had dragged too close to the benches. Voices layered over the steady thrum of skate blades being sharpened somewhere down the hall.
First day of camp always felt the same in my bones. Rookies sat upright in their stalls with brand-new jerseys, trying not to touch anything wrong. Veterans sprawled in the easy way of men who’d done this a hundred times, trading quiet jokes as they laced up. The room carried nerves and hope in equal measure.
Jake Anderson—everyone called him Jester for obvious reasons—was already needling someone. Twenty-three, a defenseman with quick feet and quicker comebacks, he wore mischief like it was another piece of gear. He bent his long body into a stiff, exaggerated stretch that made a couple of rookies snort.
Across from him, Terrence Turner, our other young defenseman, didn’t even blink. Tank was twenty-two and built for the blue line—solid through the chest and shoulders, patient in ways Jester wasn’t. He set his jaw, then gave Jester a shove that thumped him back onto the bench.
“You’ll regret that in the first drill,” Tank said.
“Promises, promises,” Jester answered, rubbing his arm with theatrical offense, a grin already breaking through.
I let their rhythm run in the background and took my seat. Habit steadied my hands. I pulled a roll of black tape from my bag and wound two tight rings near the tip of my stick blade—always two. The small ritual eased my breathing more than any stretch ever had.
The two empty stalls down the row weren’t empty anymore. They belonged to other men now, but in my head they still wore the old names printed over them last season: Ryan ‘Ry’ Bennett, our right wing and captain, and Alexander ‘Xander’ Harrison, our left wing.
Ry had been the steady one—gruff, all business until you caught the flicker of humor he tried to hide. Xander was the opposite: easy with his grin, the kind of guy who made the room lighter just by walking into it.
Now Ryan skated for the Tallahassee Tridents in the naff—NAPH, officially, the North American Professional Hockey League, but everyone saidnaff. Xander had signed with the Newark Eagles. They were a couple, stupidly in love with each other, on different teams in the big show.
Pride for them settled warm in my chest. The sting came right behind it. I was proud they’d made it—Ryan and Xander both—but watching them move up made the gap between us feel wider. Ten years in the minors. Twenty-eight years old. Most guys my age were already established in the big leagues or had hung up their skates. I’d spent a decade waiting for that one phone call every player dreams about—the call-up. Just for a few games, maybe longer. A chance to prove I belonged on the top stage.
Mine hadn’t come. Not yet.
The door opened again, and this time it wasn’t another player straggling in. Jamie ‘JB’ Benjamin, our assistant coach, stepped inside with two men trailing him. JB had the kind of presence that drew eyes without him asking for it—athletic build, smooth-shaved head, trimmed goatee, eyes that carried warmth even when he was all business. Where Coach Mack’s presence quieted a room, JB’s steadied it.
He gestured to the first man trailing him. “Team, this is Beau Trembley. Right wing. Spent the last few seasons with Winnipeg. He wore an A there.” Coach JB meant the Winnipeg Wolves, a solid team at our level in the west. “You’ll see why.”
Beau gave a small nod, calm in the way he stood, then shook hands with the players nearest to him. “Happy to be here. Ready to work.”
Jamie turned to the second man. “And this is Devin Carter. Left wing. Came in from Omaha. He’s got speed to burn and he’s hungry to prove himself.”
Devin’s grin flashed quick, nervous around the edges. He then hurried to the stall Jamie had pointed out. He yanked a roll of tape from his bag, but his hands weren’t steady. The first wrap went crooked, wrinkled, started to peel.
Nerves. I recognized them instantly. Everyone had a first day, but the kid’s energy buzzed so loud it practically rattled the glass. I’d been there once—wanting so badly to prove I belonged that I tripped over the smallest details.
I pushed up from my stall and leaned across the gap. “Straight line, tight pulls. If it wrinkles, it’ll peel off halfway through your first rush.” My tone stayed even. Advice, not a lecture.
He glanced up, cheeks hot, shame creeping into his eyes. Too much pressure on himself already. “Right. Thanks.”
“You’ll get the hang of it after the first drill,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Half of this game’s muscle memory anyway.”
He gave a small nod, still wound tight.
“Breathe,” Jester said from two spots over, his usual edge softened. “First day always feels louder than it is.”
Devin’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but wasn’t sure he’d earned it yet. He tugged the tape slower this time, the line finally lying smooth.
The office door swung open, and Coach Mack stepped inside. He didn’t have to speak to get attention; the shift in the room happened automatically, voices thinning, posture straightening.
He looked the way most of us hoped we’d look at forty—tall, broad through the shoulders, the kind of built-solid strength that didn’t fade with age, just settled in deeper. Dark hair brushed the collar of his charcoal-gray hoodie, the one he wore so often it might as well have been part of the uniform. Fitted black joggers and clean sneakers completed the look, casual but controlled—like everything about him.
There was something quietly commanding in the way he carried himself, a steadiness that came from years of ice time and hard lessons. His hands bore faint scars along the knuckles—souvenirs from seasons past—but his movements were deliberate, unhurried. Confidence didn’t have to be loud.
“Good morning,” he said, voice low and even, but it carried easily to the far wall. “Welcome to camp.”
