Page 39 of Hearts on Ice
The place erupted. Horn blaring, sticks clattering, that roar that hits you somewhere in the ribs and doesn’t let go.
“Hell yeah, T-Train!” Tank hollered, stick hammering against the boards.
“And Trigger with the finish!” Jester crowed, voice cracking over the roar.
Laughter burst down the bench, helmets thumping gloves.
I groaned behind my mask. “God help us, they’re naming people again.”
By the next shift, most of the bench was chanting it anyway.
Winnipeg looked rattled, but Trembley didn’t gloat. He just skated back to the bench with that calm, grounded look he always had—the kind that made the guys skate a little taller.That’s a captain, I thought. Even if he didn’t have the letter yet.
The final horn split the air, and everything inside me finally unclenched. My arms felt like lead, my legs like sandbags, lungs raw—but the scoreboard made it worth it. 4–0, Grizzlies.
Twenty-seven saves.
I’d done it.
I lifted my mask, breath fogging in front of me. Across the ice, Drew stood at the bench, one hand on his clipboard, the other gripping the railing. He wasn’t celebrating, not the way the others were. He was looking at me.
Steady. Focused.
And maybe a little proud.
Something in my stomach tightened. Not nerves, not exactly. Something else I didn’t want to look at too closely.
Coach JB clapped my shoulder pad as I skated past. “Nice work, Rodriguez.”
“Thanks, Coach.” My voice was hoarse. I meant it, but my eyes were already searching for Drew again.
He’d already turned away.
*****
Locker room air always hits different after a win—steam, sweat, the thud of pads hitting the floor, laughter spilling over each other. Trembley got mobbed first; Tank poured a water bottle over his head and yelled, “T-Train’s on fire tonight!”
“Cut it out,” Trembley said, grinning anyway. “You’ll ruin the hair I don’t have.”
“Best you’ve lookedyet, Trembley. Keep it going,” JB told him, patting his shoulder before turning to the other forward. “You too, Carter. You did a damn good job.”
“Thanks.” Carter’s cheeks were a rosy shade of pink.
I could still hear Tank’s voice echoing:T-Train and Trigger.
It fit them—power and precision, motion and aim. Two pieces of the same rhythm.
Every team needed a line like that. Every goalie needed someone up front making the job feel possible.
That’s when the reporters came in—Eva Garcia leading the charge. She was impossible to miss, sharp suit, sharper smile. She’d been covering the PHL longer than most of us had been playing for the Grizzlies, but she had a way of putting you at ease even when the lights were blinding.
“Trembley,” she said, her voice warm but professional, “you played for the Wolves three seasons. What was it like facing your old team tonight?”
He smirked. “Guess it felt like coming home and finding out someone changed the locks.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
Eva turned slightly, mic angled toward Carter. “And you, Carter—two goals tonight, one on that picture-perfect feed from Trembley. The chemistry between you two seems almost telepathic. What’s the secret?”
