Page 87 of Hearts on Ice
Optional skate, nothing heavy. The guys moved well, loose but focused, the way you want a team to look before an elimination game. Miguel tracked pucks clean, eyes sharp, movements tight and economical.
Every time he looked my way, something under my ribs tugged—quiet, fierce, steady.
We finished with a walkthrough, systems talk, reminders about Chicago’s forecheck. By the time we got back to the hotel, the sun was dipping and fatigue was settling into everyone’s shoulders.
I sent the guys to dinner. I met briefly with JB, reviewed special teams, lined up clips we’d show at tomorrow’s meeting.
At eight, I finally stepped back into my room.
Silence. Soft lamplight. The hum of the AC.
And the connecting door.
I showered. Shaved. Tried not to look at the door while I changed into sweats.
By the time I caved and crossed the room, my pulse wasn’t exactly subtle.
I lifted my hand and knocked once—quiet, hardly more than a tap.
The lock clicked. Then the door eased open just enough for Miguel to appear, damp hair curling at his temples, a white T-shirt soft with wear, the smell of his soap drifting into my room like something I’d been holding my breath for.
“Hey,” he said, voice low like he didn’t want to break anything delicate in the moment.
“Hey,” I answered.
He stepped back in silent invitation and then closed the connecting door gently, almost reverently, as if sealing us into a world the universe had accidentally allowed.
His room was identical to mine, just… warmer somehow. His bag half-open, his guitar leaning against the desk, his jacket slung over a chair. Lived-in already in ways that made something in my chest relax.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Couldn’t stay on my side of the wall.”
“That’s what the league would call ‘poor impulse control.’” A smile tugged at him—small, warm, something I felt more than saw.
“I’m off the clock.”
“Liar,” he said, smiling. “You never are.”
He tugged me by a loose handful of my T-shirt, just enough to guide me, not enough to claim anything. I followed willingly, sitting with him on the bed. His thigh brushed mine, a slow slide of warmth that tightened something low in my stomach.
He leaned back first, letting his head fall into the pillows, then pulled me down beside him. I settled on my side, facing him. For a breath we just looked at each other, in the kind of quiet that felt like the edge of something vast.
Miguel lifted his hand and traced a line across my cheekbone—barely there, more air than touch.
A shiver rolled down my spine.
“You always look like this before a big game,” he whispered. “Not nervous… just wired.”
“I am nervous,” I admitted. “Tomorrow matters.”
“Every game matters.”
“Not like this one.”
He just moved closer, resting one hand over my chest, the weight grounding, steady.
“Your brain’s already playing the whole game in fast-forward.”
