Hearts on Ice (The Games We Play – Season 2)

Chapter 1

Miguel

September in Los Angeles was still held in the grip of summer outside—heat wavering over the parking lot, sunlight bouncing off windshields.

Inside the Grizzlies’ training facility, everything shifted: cool air, the clean bite of fresh ice, coffee steaming on a table someone had dragged too close to the benches.

Voices layered over the steady thrum of skate blades being sharpened somewhere down the hall.

First day of camp always felt the same in my bones.

Rookies sat upright in their stalls with brand-new jerseys, trying not to touch anything wrong.

Veterans sprawled in the easy way of men who’d done this a hundred times, trading quiet jokes as they laced up.

The room carried nerves and hope in equal measure.

Jake Anderson—everyone called him Jester for obvious reasons—was already needling someone.

Twenty-three, a defenseman with quick feet and quicker comebacks, he wore mischief like it was another piece of gear.

He bent his long body into a stiff, exaggerated stretch that made a couple of rookies snort.

Across from him, Terrence Turner, our other young defenseman, didn’t even blink. Tank was twenty-two and built for the blue line—solid through the chest and shoulders, patient in ways Jester wasn’t. He set his jaw, then gave Jester a shove that thumped him back onto the bench.

“You’ll regret that in the first drill,” Tank said.

“Promises, promises,” Jester answered, rubbing his arm with theatrical offense, a grin already breaking through.

I let their rhythm run in the background and took my seat. Habit steadied my hands. I pulled a roll of black tape from my bag and wound two tight rings near the tip of my stick blade—always two. The small ritual eased my breathing more than any stretch ever had.

The two empty stalls down the row weren’t empty anymore. They belonged to other men now, but in my head they still wore the old names printed over them last season: Ryan ‘Ry’ Bennett, our right wing and captain, and Alexander ‘Xander’ Harrison, our left wing.

Ry had been the steady one—gruff, all business until you caught the flicker of humor he tried to hide. Xander was the opposite: easy with his grin, the kind of guy who made the room lighter just by walking into it.

Now Ryan skated for the Tallahassee Tridents in the naff—NAPH, officially, the North American Professional Hockey League, but everyone said naff. Xander had signed with the Newark Eagles. They were a couple, stupidly in love with each other, on different teams in the big show.

Pride for them settled warm in my chest. The sting came right behind it.

I was proud they’d made it—Ryan and Xander both—but watching them move up made the gap between us feel wider.

Ten years in the minors. Twenty-eight years old.

Most guys my age were already established in the big leagues or had hung up their skates.

I’d spent a decade waiting for that one phone call every player dreams about—the call-up.

Just for a few games, maybe longer. A chance to prove I belonged on the top stage.

Mine hadn’t come. Not yet.

The door opened again, and this time it wasn’t another player straggling in.

Jamie ‘JB’ Benjamin, our assistant coach, stepped inside with two men trailing him.

JB had the kind of presence that drew eyes without him asking for it—athletic build, smooth-shaved head, trimmed goatee, eyes that carried warmth even when he was all business.

Where Coach Mack’s presence quieted a room, JB’s steadied it.

He gestured to the first man trailing him. “Team, this is Beau Trembley. Right wing. Spent the last few seasons with Winnipeg. He wore an A there.” Coach JB meant the Winnipeg Wolves, a solid team at our level in the west. “You’ll see why.”

Beau gave a small nod, calm in the way he stood, then shook hands with the players nearest to him. “Happy to be here. Ready to work.”

Jamie turned to the second man. “And this is Devin Carter. Left wing. Came in from Omaha. He’s got speed to burn and he’s hungry to prove himself.”

Devin’s grin flashed quick, nervous around the edges. He then hurried to the stall Jamie had pointed out. He yanked a roll of tape from his bag, but his hands weren’t steady. The first wrap went crooked, wrinkled, started to peel.

Nerves. I recognized them instantly. Everyone had a first day, but the kid’s energy buzzed so loud it practically rattled the glass. I’d been there once—wanting so badly to prove I belonged that I tripped over the smallest details.

I pushed up from my stall and leaned across the gap. “Straight line, tight pulls. If it wrinkles, it’ll peel off halfway through your first rush.” My tone stayed even. Advice, not a lecture.

He glanced up, cheeks hot, shame creeping into his eyes. Too much pressure on himself already. “Right. Thanks.”

“You’ll get the hang of it after the first drill,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Half of this game’s muscle memory anyway.”

He gave a small nod, still wound tight.

“Breathe,” Jester said from two spots over, his usual edge softened. “First day always feels louder than it is.”

Devin’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but wasn’t sure he’d earned it yet. He tugged the tape slower this time, the line finally lying smooth.

The office door swung open, and Coach Mack stepped inside. He didn’t have to speak to get attention; the shift in the room happened automatically, voices thinning, posture straightening.

He looked the way most of us hoped we’d look at forty—tall, broad through the shoulders, the kind of built-solid strength that didn’t fade with age, just settled in deeper.

Dark hair brushed the collar of his charcoal-gray hoodie, the one he wore so often it might as well have been part of the uniform.

Fitted black joggers and clean sneakers completed the look, casual but controlled—like everything about him.

There was something quietly commanding in the way he carried himself, a steadiness that came from years of ice time and hard lessons. His hands bore faint scars along the knuckles—souvenirs from seasons past—but his movements were deliberate, unhurried. Confidence didn’t have to be loud.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low and even, but it carried easily to the far wall. “Welcome to camp.”

His gaze moved across the room, steady and assessing. A couple rookies straightened in their stalls. Jester stopped tapping his blade against his skate.

“We finished last season without two important people,” Coach continued. “Ryan Bennett and Alexander Harrison worked their way up to the naff. They earned it. We’re proud of them. For us, it means there’s space to fill—on the wings, and in leadership.”

A pause. Not long, but long enough for the words to land.

“As of today, we don’t have a captain.” He didn’t dramatize it; he just told the truth.

“We’ll rotate alternates during the preseason. The letter on your chest is an outcome, not a starting point. Show me how you lead—on the ice, and in this room. We’ll make the decision when the team makes it clear.”

A low ripple of acknowledgment passed through the room—veterans giving short nods, a few murmured yes, Coach under their breath.

The rookies went still, the weight of his words settling over them.

Nobody spoke, but everyone straightened a little, like they’d just been handed something worth earning.

That was the thing about Mack. He didn’t need volume or bravado. He spoke like a man who expected to be heard—and somehow, you wanted to listen. He wasn’t the kind of coach who barked orders just to fill silence; when he talked, it was to make you better.

Ryan had been our voice in the room last season. With him gone, it was quieter, more uncertain. But as Mack looked around the benches, meeting each player’s eye for a beat longer than necessary, something steadied.

He’d only been behind our bench for five full seasons, but the respect was already there. Not because he demanded it—because he’d earned it.

Coach uncapped a marker and drew a few clean lines on the whiteboard—nothing complicated, just the bones of how we’d start: breakout lanes, responsibilities on the half wall, reminders to support the puck so no one got stranded. No jargon. He explained each spot as he mapped it.

“If you’re pinned along the boards,” he said, “your first job is to protect the puck. Get your body between the pressure and the rubber. Then make a simple play—up to the point, or off the glass and out. It won’t get you a highlight, but it wins shifts.”

His eyes found Devin for one beat. Not a call-out. A signal. Devin dipped his head.

He moved on. “Defenders—keep your sticks low so our goalie can see. Screens are part of the job, but if Rodriguez can see the puck, he’ll stop it.”

He finally looked my way. “Rodriguez.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“I’ll lean on you during camp. Help the young guys read where the shots are coming from. Keep the talk going out there so everyone knows what you see.”

“I’ve got it.”

That was our whole exchange. It still warmed something in my chest—the trust of a man who’d stood in these rooms for the last five years.

Coach capped the marker. “We’ll keep things simple today.

Short sets, good habits. If you’re new, speak up if you need to look at a drill twice.

If you’re returning, take care of each other.

We get better faster when we do it together.

” He gave the room one final glance, not to intimidate anyone, but to tell us he was paying attention.

“Questions?”

“Will Jester be banned from jokes until the second week?” Tank asked, deadpan.

Laughter rippled through the stalls. Jester threw an arm around Tank’s shoulders like he’d been waiting for the cue. “I’m an essential service.”

Coach almost smiled. “Keep it within reason.” Then he nodded to the hallway. “Ten minutes to gear up. Equipment staff is outside if you need new edges or adjustments. Let’s go to work.”

That was how it always went. He could loosen the room without losing it. The best coaches had that gift—the line between approachable and in charge drawn so neatly you never had to guess which side you were on.

The hum returned—voices low, gear buckles snapping, the soft pull of tape over socks.

Beau unpacked his bag with the tidy movements of someone who’d done a lot of miles in this league; he checked each piece twice, then sat with his elbows on his knees for a moment, just breathing the room in.

He didn’t try to take up space he hadn’t earned yet.

It told me more about him than any speech would have.

Devin kept his eyes mostly on his hands.

When the tape finally lay flat across his blade, he exhaled like he’d just finished a sprint.

Jester wandered by and tapped the top of Devin’s stick with his own.

“Good line. That thing’ll last you longer than your first shift.

” The joke softened the edges. Devin managed a real smile this time.

I glanced back to those old stalls—Ryan’s and Xander’s—and pictured them in new colors now, under brighter lights in different cities. They’d both made it, chasing their dreams all the way to the big leagues. Good men. Good players. They’d found something rare—on the ice and off—and held onto it.

The ache that pressed behind my ribs wasn’t jealousy. It was time, ticking a little louder every year.

I ran my glove over the two black rings of tape I’d just set on my blade. Small things kept me centered. When I stood, my knees creaked the way they do after too many butterfly drops and bus rides, and I told myself the sound meant I’d worked hard, not that I’d gotten old.

At the bench gate I always made space for one quiet moment before the noise swallowed us. I pressed my glove to my chest twice and breathed the words I’d said since I was a kid, when my mother kissed my forehead through the cage before peewee games.

“Una por la familia, una por mí,” I whispered—one for my family, one for me.

Then, softer: “Vamos.”

Not a shout. A promise.