Page 34 of Hearts on Ice
His voice came from behind me, low, unhurried. I turned, and there he was by the bus door, jacket unzipped, duffel over one shoulder. The collar of his shirt was crooked, hair mussed from travel. He looked like he hadn’t slept, but he wore exhaustion like it fit him—solid, unbothered, composed in a way that made me straighten without meaning to.
Coaching had to be brutal. Nights spent breaking down plays, long road trips, half a dozen personalities to manage before breakfast. And yet, somehow, he made it look easy. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Broad shoulders built like he could still step onto the ice, forearms roped with muscle, that calm focus that drew your eye before you even realized it.
He could’ve passed for early to mid-thirties, easily. The only giveaway was a few faint lines around his eyes, evidence of long seasons and longer nights. They didn’t make him look older. Just… lived in.
“Yeah,” I said, shaking myself. “Ten minutes out.”
He gave this quiet snort that almost passed for a laugh. “Ten in L.A. means thirty. Cancel it—I’ll take you home.”
“That’s out of your way,” I said automatically.
He shook his head. “Not by much. Besides, it's faster than waiting.”
I hesitated, then hitcancel.“Thanks, Coach.”
“Drew,” he said. “We’re off the clock.”
I followed him across the lot. Inside his truck, he turned the heater on low, warm air threading through the quiet, the kind that made you realize how cold your hands had gotten without noticing. He smelled faintly of soap and coffee, like someone who didn’t need cologne to smell clean.
We drove without talking. It was quiet enough to hear the soft click of his turn signal and the rasp of his hand against the gearshift.
“You sure it’s not too much out of your way?” I asked again, because silence did weird things to my head.
“Relax,” he said, eyes on the road. “I’ve got the time.”
It was the calm in his voice that got me. Not just what he said, but how—like it actually mattered that I wasn’t left standing in some parking lot with a duffel and nobody thinking twice. Most nights, I booked rides. Nobody ever offered.
But he had. And it shouldn’t have meant anything, just a ride, but it did. Gratitude rose up fast, tangled with something else—something warmer, heavier, the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with food.
My gaze drifted to him before I could stop it—the line of his jaw, the way the dashboard glow brushed over his skin, softening the edges travel had carved there. He looked tired, sure, but still grounded in a way that made it hard to look away.
Too hard.
I cleared my throat and reached for my phone, breaking the quiet before it could turn into something I’d have to name.
A few lights later, I pulled out my phone. “You mind if I play something?”
He nodded. “Go for it.”
I queued up a playlist—soft Spanish guitar, low vocals, the kind of song that fills space without demanding anything from it. The rhythm melted into the quiet, slow and familiar, like breathing after a long shift.
“You good with this?”
“I don’t know what he’s saying, but it’s better than anything I’d have picked.”
“He’s saying love’s a bastard,” I told him, half-grinning. “And he’d do it all again anyway.”
He huffed a small laugh. “That’s honest.”
“The best kind of music,” I said. “It doesn’t lie to you.”
His fingers tapped along to the rhythm against his thigh. I caught myself watching the motion, the small flex of tendons under skin, the way he seemed grounded in the rhythm even when everything else was still. My eyes drifted up, tracing the line of his forearm to the hand on the wheel—strong, sure, veins shifting with each turn. Stupid thing to notice. Stupider that it made my chest feel tight.
I turned toward the window, watching the blur of palm trees and streetlights. A few seconds later, my gaze slipped back again, helpless. He looked good. Too good. Calm, in control, quiet.
Drew’s a good-looking man.
The realization hit like a check to the ribs.What the hell, Rodriguez?
