Page 41 of Hearts on Ice
Drew
I closed the laptop with a small, final sound—the kind that meant enough for today. I gathered the printouts, slid them into a folder, and stood. Sundays at the rink had a strange stillness, like the ice itself was catching its breath.
JB leaned against the doorframe, shoulder to the glass. “Pushing film review?”
“To tomorrow,” I said, locking the drawer. “Got a promise to keep.”
He grinned, low and knowing. “Must be some promise.”
“You’ve got no idea.”
I slung my jacket over one arm and stepped out into the afternoon light.
By the time I hit the parking lot, the city had that soft, washed-out glow that happens before dusk.
Miguel had texted an hour ago.
Rodriguez:Still on for East L.A.?
I’d replied before I could overthink it.
Me:Wouldn’t miss it
Now I sat idling at the curb outside his building, thumb hovering over the screen.
Me:Here.
One word. I hit send.
The door opened a minute later, and he came down the steps with his guitar slung over one shoulder, duffel in his hand. He’d traded his usual team hoodie for a faded denim jacket over a gray tee, black jeans that clung like they’d been washed a thousand times, sneakers clean but well-loved. Sun caught the edge of his hair—deep brown, too long at the front—and something in my chest tightened.
It wasn’t new, that reaction. I’d been pretending it was coincidence for weeks. That it was proximity or adrenaline or whatever excuse let me keep my distance. But watching him now, crossing the lot with that easy stride, I knew better. It wasn’t coincidence. It was him.
He spotted me and grinned, bright enough to knock the air sideways.
Breathe, Drew.
He opened the passenger door, carefully set the guitar in the back seat, and slid in.
“You actually showed,” he said, buckling up. “Didn’t think you’d survive a Sunday without film breakdown.”
“I make exceptions for goaltenders who hit twenty-seven saves,” I said.
He laughed, head tipping back. “A promise is a promise.”
“Yeah.” My voice came out lower than I meant. I reached for the ignition, grateful for the distraction of motion.
Spanish guitar filled the cab—one of the playlists I’d been experimenting with. Warm, intricate notes that curled around the silence.
Miguel blinked, surprised. “You’re listening toMon Laferte?”
Heat climbed up my neck. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss was about. Did some research.”
He laughed again, softer this time, the sound catching somewhere in my ribs. “I’m impressed, Coach. You’ve got taste.”
“Don’t tell the guys,” I muttered, easing onto the road.
He started humming along, voice low and smooth. Then, without warning, he sang the next verse under his breath—just enough to vibrate the air between us.
