Page 79 of Hearts on Ice
A message preview stared back at me.
It was PR asking to schedule a quick meeting tomorrow. Nothing unusual.
Miguel glanced at me.
“All good?”
“Yeah. Just work stuff.”
We walked home in thoughtful silence. The sun had risen fully now, warming our backs. As soon as the front door closed behind us, I stepped behind him, slid my arms around his waist, and let my forehead rest against the back of his shoulder. He melted into me instantly.
“Shower?” he asked, voice low.
I nodded.
The steam rose around us, wrapping us in warmth. We washed each other slowly—fingertips over shoulders, soap sliding over skin, soft laughter echoing against tile. His thumb traced circles along my hip; my hands brushed through his damp hair.
Everything slowed, quiet and warm around us.
Just the two of us, choosing each other again in the quiet.
When we finally pressed close—skin to skin, breath against breath—it wasn’t about urgency. It was about tenderness. About how he touched me with a softness that made my chest pull tight. About the way I held the back of his neck like I’d found something I never thought I’d have again.
We moved together slowly, reverently, the water warm around us.
After, we dried off and fell into bed still warm from the shower, bodies loose, breaths syncing as we drifted into that soft afterglow.
For a little while longer, the world could wait.
Chapter 30
Miguel
Beau Trembley’s apartment sat a few blocks off Santa Monica Boulevard—a top-floor walk-up with wide glass doors, a balcony strung with warm lights, and a clean view of the city stretching out beyond the buildings. Nothing flashy, nothing cluttered. Just… nice. Nice enough that I couldn’t help thinking he came from the kind of family where places like this weren’t a stretch.
Inside, it smelled like takeout, leather, and the faint rubber bite of well-used gear bags. A few half-unpacked boxes were tucked neatly in a corner—evidence he’d only just settled in.
The team didn’t know him well yet. This was the first time he’d hosted anything. Every couple weeks, someone took a turn. Tank and Jester once talked their building manager into unlocking the communal grill after hours because they got it into their heads to grill at ten at night. Justin usually claimed his turn by finding a cheap bar with enough TVs—his apartment was barely bigger than a closet.
I knocked on Trembley’s door.
“Hey, Maestro!” Trembley said, gesturing for me to enter the house.
“You guys started without me?” I joked over the music and got a chorus of responses.
The room’s energy hit me like warm air—laughter, shouting, the easy chaos that always came with these nights. Tank had already sunk into the recliner, controller in hand, yelling at Jester, who was laughing hard enough to spill his drink. JB was perched on a stool arguing calmly with Lily, the kind of argument that was more about the spark between them than whatever they were actually saying.
Trigger stood near the balcony doors, shoulders relaxed for once, accepting pats on the back from guys still buzzing about his goals against Omaha. His cheeks were a little pink, and he kept ducking his head—classic Devin, proud but shy about the attention.
I set the bakery box and chips I’d brought on the counter, slid my guitar case against the wall, and stepped further inside.
Beau handed me a soda, which I accepted with a smile.
The night unspooled easily—Mario Kart races, laughing about that double-header against Omaha, Tank swearing that Trigger’s second-period goal should’ve made the league highlight reel. We kept the talk simple, just the kind of stuff teammates say when they’re finally relaxing.
I’d come alone, of course. Even though I’d spent the past two weeks at Drew’s place more nights than not—his sweatshirt in my duffel, his cologne still clinging to my skin—we’d agreed showing up together would be asking for trouble. Too obvious. Too soon. The team didn’t need to know that their coach and oneof their wingers were figuring out how to beusoutside the dark, quiet corners of his apartment.
So I came solo, carrying chips and a smile, pretending it didn’t feel strange to be here without him beside me. Pretending I wasn’t counting the seconds until he walked in.
