Page 69 of Hearts on Ice
“Six straight wins,” I said. “That’s a good run by any standard.”
Miguel nodded. “Feels like everything’s clicking. Defense clearing the slot, forwards actually remembering what backcheck means.”
“And the goalie?”
He smirked. “Doing his job. Most days.”
I let a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “You’ve been the backbone of this streak. What’s been working?”
“Focus,” he said. “We’ve been keeping things simple in front of the net. Trusting the system. When the team trusts, I can see the ice better. The rest follows.”
I nodded. “From behind the bench, that’s exactly it—trust. Discipline. Little details adding up. There’s always more to tighten, but right now, everyone’s locked in. You can feel it.”
Our knees brushed under the table. He didn’t move his away, and neither did I.
Next segment.
“We’ve got Omaha twice this weekend,” Miguel said. “The Spartans like to crowd the net, crash hard for rebounds. Big, physical team.”
“They hit to make you feel it,” I said. “They’ll test patience.”
“Guess I’ll have to remind them the crease is mine.”
“Make sure you do.”
He grinned. “They move quick off the break, but if we stay tight through center, they’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Two-game road trip. Let’s take the first and earn the sweep.”
Fan-question stack next. He shuffled the cards. “Alright, here’s one for me: ‘What’s the hardest save for a goalie?’”
He read it aloud, then looked to me like he already had the answer.
“The next one,” he said. “Always the next one. Doesn’t matter how many you stopped before—if you’re still thinking about the last one, you’re already late.”
That line hit something deep. I’d said almost the same thing to him once in practice about coaching decisions—how you can’t fixate on yesterday’s mistake. Our eyes met, long enough for it to feel like too much for a live mic.
Then he flipped to another card. “Coach, you’ve got one.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He hesitated just a fraction. “A fan asks… how you handle the holidays after losing your family.”
The air in the booth went still. Even the hum of the monitors seemed to fade.
I breathed once, slow. The ache never left; it just changed shape.
“I remember them,” I said quietly. “I try to make space for the good parts. Some years that’s harder than others. But lately…” I glanced at Miguel. “Lately I’ve learned that sometimes the people you least expect are the ones fate brings along to help you heal.”
Under the table, his fingers brushed mine. A light touch—quick, grounding.
“Beautifully said,” he murmured, not for the audience, just for me.
The red light blinked, signaling the next segment.
He cleared his throat. “Okay, before we both cry on air—top threes. Movies, songs, snacks. Ready?”
I smiled, grateful for the shift. “You start.”
