Page 23 of Hearts on Ice
Heat, maybe. Or nerves. Or Coach?
I dropped my gaze to the ice, jaw tight.
Focus. Just play the damn game.
Calgary skated like they had rockets stitched into their socks. I won’t pretend the game didn’t matter; it always mattered. I’ll just say it wasn’t the headline tonight. We traded chances, traded mistakes, and by the time the horn cut us loose, the scoreboard read 4–3 Comets. An ugly one-goal loss to carry on a night that was supposed to celebrate heritage, pride, all the things that made me stand a little taller in the warm-ups.
Still, as the boys clapped sticks and banged gloves in the line, I heard the concourse music pour in again—trumpet and drum and dancers who hadn’t stopped when we did.
Back in the room, Tank tossed me a towel. “We’ll get ‘em tomorrow.”
“Today’s done,” Beau said, folding his jersey with neat corners. “Next shift starts day after tomorrow.”
Justin slumped, then straightened. “I’ll watch the tape. Fix my reads.”
Jester flapped the heritage patch on his jersey. “At least we looked hot doing it.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Priorities.”
“Culture is a priority,” I said, even. I wasn’t loud, but the room heard it.
Coach came in, voice low and controlled. He gave praise with spine, criticism without theatrics. No one looked away. When his eyes cut to me, they didn’t linger. They didn’t have to. I felt the weight anyway.
Showers hissed. Steam lifted. My phone buzzed on the shelf in my stall. The group chat lit up with the usual mix: Tank’s beer mug emoji, Justin’s promise to be sharper, Devin’s apology he didn’t owe anyone. Sam dropped a “Maybe we focus more on hockey next time, less on costumes,” which he knew would land wrong. I stared at it until Jester sent a bear emoji that ate a clown face. The chat exploded with laughing gifs. Sam went quiet.
I packed slow, shoulder warm, not screaming. Lily would be happy with that. A knock tapped the edge of my stall. Coach stood there, dressed down to shirt sleeves, tie stuffed in a pocket.
“How’s the arm?” he asked.
“Held up,” I said. “Didn’t bite.”
“Good.” He paused, then repeated, softer, “Good.”
We looked at each other over the rim of my helmet bag. There was a whole conversation there, no words. I had the strangest urge to tell him about Mami’s voice note. About Manuel and churros. About the way a trumpet could reach inside your chest and tune you.
“Good night, Rodriguez.”
“Night, Coach.”
I walked out into a concourse that still smelled like cinnamon. A little girl in a tiny heritage jersey skipped past me, her braid swinging, her father holding her hand. She looked up, saw me, and waved like we knew each other. I waved back and felt stupidly, sharply grateful for a second I couldn’t explain.
Outside, L.A. had cooled to a soft edge. My bike lock clicked open. I swung my leg over, shoulder testing the air. The lossstung, sure. But the night pressed warm against my skin. I pedaled toward home, music still in my head.
Tomorrow would be treatment, drills, maybe a short skate. And then in a few days, we’d be packing for the first road trip of the season.
A week into the schedule and I could already feel the ground shifting under me. On the ice, and in the quiet spaces where Drew’s gaze lingered a second too long.
Chapter 12
Drew
Road miles have a way of sorting a team. Two hours out of L.A., sun slanted through the bus windows, dust floating in the light like we were dragging half the highway with us. Jester worked a running commentary from three rows back, Tank slept with his hood up and one earbud dangling, and Carter hadn’t stopped jiggling his knee since we left.
“Breathe, DC,” Miguel said, quiet enough that it sounded private even with twenty bodies around. DC was the nickname some of the guys called Carter—Devin Carter.
Miguel sat across the aisle from me, travel guitar on his knee, thumb brushing a lazy pattern over the strings. Not a song—just enough sound to pull the air into a rhythm.
Carter tried to laugh. “I’m fine.”
