Page 29 of Hearts on Ice
Miguel leaned closer, voice low. “Does anyone ever actually pay attention to that?”
I almost smiled. “Maybe the first time they fly.”
He huffed a small laugh and leaned back. The plane sat still for a while, that familiar limbo before movement—just the faint vibration of the engines building under our feet.
Miguel leaned back, pulling his hoodie tight, his knees just brushing the seat in front of him. “Which one’s worse for you—takeoff or landing?”
“Neither,” I said. “It’s the in-between I don’t trust.”
He laughed quietly. “That’s very coach of you.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Outside, the lights on the tarmac blurred through the window as we started to taxi, slow and steady. The wheels bumped once, twice, before gliding smoother. The cabin dimmed to a dull gold glow.
Miguel exhaled. “You ever wonder what makes that push—when you feel yourself pressed back into the seat?”
“Inertia,” I said. “The plane moves forward, your body resists, and for a second it feels like gravity got it wrong.”
He grinned, amused. “That’s very science of you, Coach.”
“Side effect of too many road trips,” I said. “Air miles make philosophers out of everyone,” I said.
The engines roared higher. A pause—a breath—and then the full thrust hit. The push wasn’t sudden so much as deep, a steady pull that pressed us into the seats as the runway lights turned to streaks.
For a few seconds, gravity and motion argued about who was in charge. Then the nose lifted, the pressure eased, and the city lights dropped away beneath the wing.
The plane leveled out, the hum settling into its rhythm. The seatbelt light pinged off. People stirred, trading earbuds and snacks.
Miguel turned his head toward me, that half-grin returning. “You survived the in-between.”
“For now,” I said.
Miguel stretched, fished something from his hoodie pocket—a deck of cards sealed with a rubber band.
“They pulled this out of my bag at security,” he said, holding it up. “Apparently, it looked suspicious on the X-ray.”
I arched a brow. “A deck of cards?”
“Solid block on the scanner,” he said, half-smiling. “The guy searched my bag like I was smuggling poker chips.”
I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. “You play?”
“Learned young,” he said. “My brother taught me at our kitchen table. We used bottle caps for chips and argued over every hand.”
“And you let him win?”
His grin flashed quick, warm. “You try telling a fourteen-year-old he’s wrong when you’re nine.”
The way he said it—light, but laced with something lived-in—pulled a small smile out of me before I meant to give it.
He flicked the rubber band off the deck and started to shuffle. “What about you? Play any card games?”
“Poker,” I said. “When I was with the Pythons, we played for bragging rights. Nobody wanted to hand over cash to a teammate who’d gloat about it all season.”
He smirked. “Bet you were terrible.”
“Bet you’re about to find out.”
