Page 35 of Hearts on Ice
Yeah, I’d noticed men before—objectively. Same way you notice a clean slapshot or a perfect stretch pass. You see it, you appreciate the precision, then you move on.
But this wasn’t that.
This was heat curling under my skin, a pull I didn’t have a name for. Not admiration, or respect. It was something heavier, sharper, alive. It sat low in my chest, refusing to go away, and the more I tried to ignore it, the louder it got.
Another song bled in, something older, slower. I tried to focus on the lyrics, to mouth the words under my breath, but they tangled in my throat.
The city thinned into quiet streets. Drew turned onto mine, headlights catching the curb. “Guess we made it faster than the app,” he said.
“Guess we did.” I hesitated, hand already on the door handle. The thought of the night ending sat wrong in my chest. “Come up for a beer? You look like you could use one.”
He looked over then, eyes catching mine, unreadable, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
For half a second, the whole car seemed to hold its breath.
Chapter 16
Drew
I should’ve said no. Should’ve driven off, gone home, collapsed in my own empty apartment, maybe stared at the ceiling until exhaustion did its job.
Instead, I heard myself say, “Yeah. Sure.”
We climbed two narrow flights, footsteps echoing soft against concrete. Miguel unlocked the door with a flick of his wrist and pushed it open with his hip.
The apartment was small but lived-in—no mess, just pieces of a life. A jacket over the back of a chair. A guitar stand by the window. The faint smell of coffee and citrus from an open bottle of cleaner. A light hummed low over the kitchen counter.
“Sorry,” he said, nudging his duffel aside with his foot. “Didn’t get around to cleaning before we left.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Better than fine.”
He grinned, then crossed to the fridge. Two bottles clinked together as he pulled them free. When he handed me one, our fingers brushed—nothing, really. Except it wasn’t.
A small spark, low and fast. It hit like static and left my pulse one beat too quick.
We ended up in the kitchen—small space, linoleum underfoot, fridge humming. He leaned against the counter, the bottle hanging loose from his fingers. I stayed opposite, pretending to study the label on my beer instead of the man holding his.
“You look like your mind’s still on the game,” he said after a moment, studying me over the bottle’s rim.
How could I tell him my mind isn’t on the road, but on him?
That it isn’t the ice, or the plays, or even the loss I keep replaying in my head—but him.
The timbre of his voice. The width of his shoulders. The narrow line of his waist when he leaned forward to grab the beers. The way he fills a room without even trying.
He said something—my name, maybe—and I blinked back to the present.
“Sorry,” I said. “What was that?”
“I asked if you think we’ve got a real shot this year,” he said, smiling faintly. “The PHL Cup. The big one.”
“The PHL Cup,” I repeated, as if the name alone carried weight. “Yeah, maybe. Depends which version of us shows up.” I tried to smile, but it didn’t quite hold. “Some days we look ready to take on the league. Others, I’m just hoping nobody breaks a stick over someone’s head.”
Miguel’s grin widened. “That’s hockey, right? Faith and chaos.”
“Something like that,” I said.
The quiet stretched again, but this time it felt easier, like he’d handed me permission to say what I’d been holding back.
