Page 25 of Hearts on Ice
His mouth did that almost-smile again. “You tell Carter that, he’ll explode with happiness.”
“Then don’t tell him,” I said. “Just show up and make him feel like he figured it out himself.”
He laughed under his breath—quick, warm, gone. Not the locker room kind. Closer. I felt it more than heard it.
“Shoulder?” I asked, eyes flicking to the place Lily had worked last week.
“Good.” He rotated the joint once, no hitch. “She said if I stop trying to win the weight room every time we travel, I might even keep it that way.”
“Listen to Lily,” I said. “She’s smarter than both of us.”
He tipped his head. “Debatable, Coach.”
“Not really,” I said, and he grinned like he liked that answer.
We stood there a beat too long for two men who were supposed to keep things moving.
I remembered watching him during and after the anthem last week—how the spotlight hit his face, how proud he looked, and how alone he seemed under all that noise. Something about it had caught me off guard. He wasn’t just one of my players in that moment. He was a man who carried something I suddenly wanted to understand. Someone I wanted to know beyond the rink, beyond the mask and the pads. Someone I shouldn’t have been thinking about this much.
That same feeling stirred again now, quieter but just as insistent, threading through the space between us.
I cleared my throat, breaking whatever that was. “Four o’clock,” I said. “Don’t be late.”
He grinned, eyes catching mine for a beat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
*****
Game one in San Diego wasn’t pretty. It didn’t have to be. We clogged the middle, forced them to shoot through legs, and let Miguel see the puck clean. Tank hammered their winger on the half-wall halfway through the first, Jester cleared the crease like a bulldozer, and Carterpicked his one thing—which earnedhim a seat-bump from Justin on the bench—and did it with a stubbornness I hadn’t seen from him yet. Backchecked. Again and again. He didn’t need a goal to matter.
We won 2–1. In the handshake line, the Giants’ eyes were flinty. They’d want the split.
Back in the room, Lily met Miguel at his stall, palms firm over his shoulder blade, fingers testing. I hovered and pretended I wasn’t. She flicked a glance up at me that said what I already knew—minor tightness from the travel, not injury. I let my breath out slow.
“You’re fine,” she told him. “Ice and bands. Then go sleep like a human.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and the corner of her mouth lifted. Mine did too, before I caught it.
Game two bit back. San Diego’s speed blew wide on us early; we chased the first ten minutes and looked heavy through the middle frame. Miguel kept us from falling down a well. We tied it late, then gave one up on a deflection with ninety seconds left. 3–2, Giants. The split.
Miguel’s jaw worked once and then went still, like he’d already filed the loss where it belonged. He was good at that. Better than I was, most days. Lily checked the shoulder again—no drama, only maintenance.
Outside the arena, the air smelled of salt and cooling asphalt. The guys filed toward the bus in twos and threes, trading tired chirps that sounded more like habit than celebration. Tank thumped Carter’s shoulder; Jester swore next time the universe owed him a goal. Trembley said nothing, which fit him fine.
Miguel was last up the stairs. He caught my eye for half a second—no words, no nod, just that steady, unreadable look that somehow felt like its own language.
On the ride back, conversation ebbed around us: Justin arguing a faceoff call, JB jotting lineup tweaks beside me. Across the aisle, Miguel sat angled toward the window, the city blurring past in streaks of sodium light. One hand drummed an idle rhythm on his knee, the kind you play when you’re running something over in your head.
“You played clean tonight,” I said quietly. It came out unexpectedly soft.
He turned, one brow lifted. “You watching everyone that close?”
“Just the ones who make it look easy.”
A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “It’s never easy, Coach.”
I wanted to ask what he meant but didn’t. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it just hung there, alive with things better left unsaid. I closed the notebook that had been open on my lap and watched the reflection of him ripple in the bus window until the city lights swallowed it.
When we reached the hotel, the team scattered toward elevators and vending machines. I pulled Sam aside long enough to tell him he’d be sitting out the next game. His jaw tightened, but he nodded and moved on.
