Page 38 of Hearts on Ice
I should’ve said no. I had enough on my plate—practice schedules, scouting reports, the thousand things that kept mebetween the lines. But he was watching me with that open, patient kind of expectation that made it hard to look away.
“Tell you what,” I said, straightening. “You stop twenty-five shots next game, I’ll come eat your mom’s flan.”
His mouth curved wider. “You got yourself a deal, Coach.”
Something in the way he said my name made my throat go dry. Six years of feeling nothing since the crash, and suddenly I couldn’t stop feeling everything.
I’d built walls around myself. Loss, loneliness… but now? Now I feel the sheer, aching relief of having company that didn’t demand I be fine.
He reached past me again to toss our bottles in the recycling bin. His hand brushed my forearm this time. His eyes met mine.
I didn’t move.
A heartbeat. Two.
He stepped back first, breaking the current.
“I should go,” I said, though leaving was the last thing I wanted.
“Yeah.”
At the door, Miguel hovered—one hand on the frame, the other rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Thanks for the beer.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Anytime.”
I hesitated long enough to feel stupid, then turned down the hall. My pulse still hadn’t settled.
Six years without letting anyone get close. And tonight, a look, a touch had managed to shake something loose inside me, and I wasn’t sure what it was.
His grin stayed with me the whole drive home.
Chapter 17
Miguel
Energy buzzed through our home rink—first matchup of the season against Winnipeg, Trembley’s old team.
My focus narrowed until it was just me, the ice, and the blur of jerseys streaking across it. Every save was a heartbeat, every rebound a test. Winnipeg came hard, desperate. Maybe because Trembley used to wear their colors—nobody liked watching one of their own switch sides and shine brighter somewhere else.
He was electric tonight.
Relentless on the forecheck, reading plays two seconds ahead of everyone else. He cut off passing lanes, turned broken plays into breakaways, and drew their defense out of position like it was a game of chess he’d already won. Twice he dropped back to cover when our D pinched too deep—small things that never made highlight reels but won games anyway.
Every time our eyes met after a shift change, he gave the smallest nod. No panic or ego. Justwe got this.
JB’s voice cut through the noise from the bench. “Heads up, Rodriguez—left side!”
Glove out. Caught clean. The puck smacked leather, familiar and sharp. I sent it down the line and reset.
The rhythm took over after that: save, pass, reset, repeat. The kind of groove goalies live for. My shoulders burned, sweat sliding under my gear, but I didn’t mind. Somewhere behind me, I couldfeelDrew’s presence. He wasn’t yelling or pacing. Just watching. Steady. The way you watch someone you trust not to screw up.
By the third period, we were up three–nothing, but the Wolves weren’t quitting. They came at us harder—stretch passes, bodies crashing the net, desperation leaking through every shot. I could feel it in my legs, in my lungs, in the way each save reverberated through my gear.
Then Trembley’s line jumped back on. He’d been all energy since puck drop—pure forecheck, no quit. He and Carter chased a loose puck into Winnipeg’s zone, both of them on it like wolves. Trembley stripped their defenseman clean behind the net, spun out, and fed the puck across the crease.
Carter was already there. He met the pass in one motion, a quick snap of his stick that sent the puck sailing high, over the goalie’s glove and into the back of the net.
