Page 32 of Hearts on Ice
“You’ve never felt that?” I asked.
He thought about it. “Not with planes. For me it’s sirens. Or hospitals. That smell of antiseptic—it hits, and suddenly I’m a kid again, waiting to hear if my brother’s okay. I hate not being able to fix something.”
My chest loosened. It wasn’t the same, but it was close enough—the way fear rewires you, leaves an echo.
“Thanks,” I said quietly. “For not making a thing out of it.”
He gave a small smile. “Why would I? Everyone’s afraid of something.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.” He leaned back, arms crossed loosely. “House lizards. Those little things that run across the wall? Can’t stand ’em.”
That pulled a laugh out of me—real, startled. “House lizards?”
“Don’t judge me, Coach.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
For the first time since the jolt of the plane, I noticed the warmth between us—not from fear, but from the quiet relief of being seen.
“We didn’t talk for a while after that. He gathered the cards, thumb brushing the edges.
“You were winning, by the way,” he said finally.
I looked at him. He met my gaze without a trace of teasing.
“Call it even,” I said.
He smiled faintly. “Even works.”
All too soon, the plane began its descent. The pilot’s voice came over the intercom, routine, calm. Nose down, trays locked, chatter climbing again.
The cabin shifted back to normal—jokes, yawns, the rustle of gear bags.
By the time we touched down in Chicago, the spell had broken, replaced by the clatter of a team on the move.
Miguel’s shoulder brushed mine when we stood. It was nothing, a brush of fabric—and somehow everything.
Whatever charged the air between us didn’t survive the landing. It stayed up there, in the quiet above the clouds.
Except—I could still feel it, faint as static. The weight of the quiet, the memory of warmth that had no business being there.
What was that? Gratitude? Curiosity? Something I hadn’t let myself feel in years?
I wanted to shake it off, blame fatigue, blame the hour, the flight, anything but him. But it clung, steady as my pulse, a reminder that something in me had shifted, and I didn’t know how to put it back.
Cold slapped us the second we stepped outside O’Hare. California blood didn’t prepare you for that kind of wind. By the time we reached the hotel, everyone looked half-frozen and ready to fight for the nearest heater.
Miguel stretched beside me after he stepped out of the bus, hoodie pulled tight. “Remind me again why we left California?”
“For character building,” I said.
He groaned. “I’d rather build it somewhere warmer.”
Dinner was already waiting—team-mandatory. A long table, plates of chicken and overcooked pasta. Players filled in, voices overlapping. I found a spot near the middle, clipboard half-forgotten.
Miguel slid into the seat across from Sam. I saw the flicker in his jaw as soon as he realized it. Too late to move.
