Page 51 of Hearts on Ice
“Goddamn it,” I muttered, bowing my head. I wasn’t seventeen. I wasn’t free to feel like this. He was my player. I was supposed to know better.
But want didn’t care about rules. It never had.
I braced my other arm against the tile wall as my body tensed. My release came with a rush of longing so intense I had to bite back his name. As the evidence washed down the drain, I knew I was still just as screwed as before.
After, I toweled dry and pulled on sweats. The bedroom waited dark and still. I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the faint city light bleeding through the blinds.
I tried to name what I was feeling.Shock. Guilt. Want.I’d spent years filing emotions into neat boxes: grief, anger, duty. This didn’t fit any of them.
The phone was on the nightstand. I reached for it before I realized what I was doing. My thumb hovered over his name.Rodriguez.I didn’t even know what I wanted to say.Sorry I crossed a line? Sorry I didn’t stop? Sorry I want to do it again?
I rested the phone face down, as if that could muffle the noise in my head.
Practice was in the morning. Whatever this was, it couldn’t bleed onto the ice. By sunlight, we had to be coach and player again—ordinary, professional, unreadable.
Sleep came in thin strips—on, off, on again—until gray light pried its way through the blinds. My throat burned like I’d argued with someone in my dreams and lost.
I dressed for work—hoodie, track pants, sneakers. When I passed the mirror by the door, I caught my reflection: eyes shadowed, jaw tight, older than I’d felt yesterday.
JB’s truck was already in the lot when I pulled in. Typical. The man treated punctuality like a blood sport.
Morning skates on game day were supposed to be light—twenty minutes of puck movement, line drills, a few special-teams reps. Nothing heavy. Just enough to keep legs warm and hands sharp. We didn’t even call it “practice.” Justmorning skate.
Still, my stomach was tight by the time I hit the ice.
The rink hummed with low energy when I walked in—skates cutting lazy arcs, the hollow thud of pucks off boards. JB was already at the bench, clipboard under his arm, running through line adjustments with one of the video guys.
Across the ice, Miguel was with one of the trainers, stretching through his warm-up routine. Helmet off, pads half-strapped, hair damp. He laughed at something the guy said, and that sound—a quiet, unguarded one—almost undid me.
That laugh had an abundance of warmth in a place built for cold. My pulse kicked, and for a heartbeat I almost forgot where I was.
Then muscle memory took over.Breathe, Drew. Focus. Do what you’re paid to do.
I forced my gaze away, clapping my hands. “Let’s get moving, boys. Keep it light. Don’t blow your legs before tonight.”
Sticks tapped. The trainer cleared the ice, and Miguel slid into the crease, pulling his helmet on and snapping the straps beneath his chin. The familiar rhythm started up—the thud of pucks against boards, the hiss of blades cutting tight turns.
Except it wasn’t.
Every time Miguel dropped into a butterfly, I saw the curve of his neck from last night. Every glove save, the stretch of muscle under his jersey. He caught me looking once—just once—and for a split second, the world narrowed. His eyes met mine through the cage, unreadable, and then he looked away, resetting his stance.
My chest felt too tight inside my hoodie.
“Coach,” JB called. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing with Tank’s footwork?”
I blinked hard, dragging myself back to the present. “Yeah. He’s a half-step slow on recovery. Have him shorten the push.”
“Got it.” JB skated off.
By the end of the skate, I’d barely said a word to Miguel, and maybe that was the problem. The silence felt heavier than any talk would’ve been. When the whistle blew, the guys clattered off the ice, chatter echoing through the tunnel. Miguel lingered, finishing a stretch near the crease.
Just wait till they’re gone. Give him space. Keep it professional.
Calling out the goalie in front of the team? That'd draw attention.
Liar.
That wasn’t the truth.
