Page 27 of Hearts on Ice
“You’ve thought about quitting?” he asked finally.
“Once in a while.” I gave a small shrug. “Sometimes I tell myself I should have gone to college… but it’s not like I’ve got the money for that. I don’t even own a car. But then again, I try to picture what else I’d do—and I can’t. Hockey’s what I’ve got. What I am. But sometimes it feels like the league already decided who gets to climb out.”
He nodded slowly, like he’d been there once. “Ryan Bennett was about thirty-two when he got his call,” he said. “You skated beside him for years—you know that.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “He never stopped believing he’d get there.”
“Exactly.” His tone was quiet but sure. “You’ve got four years till then. More skill in-net than half the guys up top, and more discipline than most. It’s not about who gets seen first; it’s about who keeps showing up after everyone else gives up.”
That sat heavy for a while, but not in a bad way. Like weight you wanted to learn how to carry better.
I swallowed, voice low. “You really think it still could happen?”
“I think you’ve earned the right to keep trying,” he said. Then, softer, “And even if it doesn’t, what you do here matters, Rodriguez. More than you think.”
The words lodged somewhere deep. I couldn’t answer, not right away. The bus hummed, the night stretching around us like a held breath.
The words hit somewhere deep, the kind of place you don’t realize is hollow until someone fills it. I stared at the aisle lights flickering along the floor, trying to find an answer that didn’t sound small.
“Sometimes it’s hard to believe that,” I said finally. “But… thanks for saying it.”
He didn’t say anything more, just gave that small nod that passed for a whole paragraph in Coach-speak.
The silence after wasn’t uncomfortable—just the kind that makes you realize you’re still thinking about what was said.
I reached for my phone, needing something to do with my hands, something that wasn’t looking at him too long.
I scrolled until I found something—Spanish guitar, the kind that fills the air without asking for attention.
“Here,” I said, holding out one side of my earbuds. “Better soundtrack than Tank’s chainsaw.”
He raised a brow, hesitating for a half-second.
“Don’t worry,” I added with a faint smile. “I’m borderline obsessive about keeping them clean.”
That earned a small huff of amusement, and he took it. The music filled the quiet between us, soft and slow. Our shoulders didn’t touch, but the same melody threaded through both of us like we were breathing in sync.
Coach leaned back, eyes half-shut, and the corner of his mouth softened in a way I hadn’t seen before. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee, syncing with the beat.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. The hum of the tires blended with the melody until the bus felt smaller, quieter, almost private.
The song shifted into something slower, and our shoulders edged a little closer—not touching, just close enough that the space between us started to feel alive.
We sat like that for a long while, not talking, not moving much. The lights dimmed. The road hummed. Every so often, our shoulders would shift a little closer, not touching but close enough to feel each other.
My eyelids got heavy, the kind of tired that feels warm instead of worn out. The world narrowed to the beat in our ears and the low hum of the engine.
At some point, my head drifted against the seat. When I half-woke again, the bus was darker, quieter. Coach had tilted slightly toward my side, asleep. His shoulder hovered just shy of mine—an inch of air alive with heat.
It wasn’t contact.
But every nerve in me registered it anyway.
Nothing. It’s nothing. Just gravity. Two people too tired to keep the right distance.
But I stayed awake long after, pretending that inch of air wasn’t the only thing keeping me from falling.
If I moved an inch, we’d touch.
