Chapter 8
Drew
JB was already in the video room when I walked in, sleeves rolled up, laser pointer tapping against his palm like it was keeping time.
The guys filtered in—Tank and Jester shoulder to shoulder, Carter whispering something to Trembley, Justin dragging a chair halfway across the floor. Miguel came last, bag strap slung across one arm, posture easy but eyes sharp. Always reading the room before he spoke.
The air smelled of burnt coffee and last night’s effort. Two days until the season opened, and we still looked like a team that hadn’t decided what it wanted to be.
“Let’s start,” I said, hitting play.
The clips told the truth: slow backchecks, sloppy coverage, a half-step of hesitation that turned good positioning into bad luck. Carter winced. Tank muttered something under his breath.
I froze the frame. “Walk me through this.”
For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Then Miguel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We’re crowding the same lane. If one of us pulls back, the pass dies before it starts.”
JB nodded once. “So what happens next time?”
Miguel glanced at the others, voice calm. “We talk sooner. I can track the play, but I can’t see behind me. If we open our mouths, we close the gap.”
That got a few nods—quiet, thoughtful ones. The kind that meant the point had landed.
“Exactly,” I said. “Communication fixes half your problems before the puck moves.”
The rest of the review went smoother. Mistakes turned into teachable moments, tension easing notch by notch. When I finally clicked the projector off, most of them started to drift toward the hallway.
“Miguel,” I said, stopping him at the door.
He turned, brows lifted. “Yeah, Coach?”
“You see the ice in ways some of them don’t yet. If you speak up, they’ll listen.”
He gave a slow half-smile. “Maybe. I’ve never had the loudest voice in the room.”
“You don’t have to be,” I said. “Just make it count when you use it.”
His gaze held mine—steady, measuring—but there was something softer underneath. Respect, maybe. Or curiosity.
“Understood,” he said quietly. “Thanks, Coach.”
When he left, the hum of the projector filled the silence. I gathered the notes and stood there a beat longer than I needed to, thinking not about the next drill, but about how calm could pull a whole room into focus.
By the afternoon, the training facility had morphed into a PR circus. Banners with the Grizzlies’ logo hung behind a row of chairs, cameras set up like artillery. Bright lights bleached the room, and a staffer with a clipboard buzzed around, herding players like cattle.
I’d never gotten used to the performative part of the job. I could handle cameras when I had to, but they made me feel like I had to measure every blink, every word, just to keep from looking wrong.
Miguel, though—he handled it like it was second nature.
I caught him chatting with a photographer, laughing about lighting angles, easy as if he’d been born in front of a lens.
When PR called us forward together, I half-expected him to hesitate—not out of disrespect, but because standing shoulder to shoulder with a coach wasn’t how the hierarchy usually played.
Instead, he stepped up beside me without hesitation, solid, confident.
“Closer together. Big smiles,” the photographer chirped.
I forced something that might pass for one. Miguel’s came naturally, and I could already picture how the photos would look—him open, me guarded, like we were from two different stories.
When it came time for a short promo video, PR handed us a script—lines about teamwork, community, and the upcoming season. Miguel read his part like he’d done it a hundred times—smooth, warm, perfectly timed. When my turn came, I kept my tone clipped, professional. Functional, not flashy.
The crew seemed happy enough, though one of them laughed. “You two balance each other out. Energy and calm.”
Miguel shot me a sidelong glance, mouth curving. “Guess that makes you calm.”
“And you energy?” I said.
He shrugged lightly. “Somebody’s gotta keep things interesting.”
“Noted,” I said, but there was more amusement in it than warning.
PR called wrap, lights dimmed, and people started packing up. Miguel slung his hoodie back on, waved at the crew, and turned toward the exit.
I should’ve gone the other way, but my eyes tracked him for a few seconds too long—watching how easily he moved, how people stepped aside without him asking. That kind of quiet confidence wasn’t something you learned; it just lived in you.
He paused at the door, turning just enough for our eyes to meet. A half-smile, quick and unguarded, flickered across his face. Then he was gone, leaving the space around me too still, too aware of itself.
I cleared my throat, reached for my coffee, and reminded myself there was film to break down.
By evening, I was home, groceries stacked on the counter. First Wednesday of the ritual—no frozen meals, no excuses.
I filled a pot and set it to boil, laid out what I actually meant to cook: pasta, jar of crushed tomatoes, a handful of basil. Chopped onion, then garlic. The scent rose, filling the air. My knife work was uneven, but steady enough to pass.
Laura’s voice brushed my ear, clear as if she was standing here right beside me. You’ll lose a finger before you learn how to chop straight.
We hadn’t been making dinner that day. Cookies. I’d been chopping chocolate into rough chunks while she measured flour. Our little girl stood on a chair beside her, elbows-deep in sugar and excitement.
Daddy, Mommy, can I stir?
Ellie had bounced on her toes, eyes bright with the kind of excitement that made saying no impossible. Laura had laughed, passing her the spoon while she turned to chop walnuts. Dough clung to tiny fingers; chocolate dusted the counter.
The memory hit hard. My chest tightened, knife frozen mid-cut. For a second, I couldn’t tell if the sting in my eyes came from the onions or from everything else that hurt more quietly.
I set the knife down, palms braced on the counter, breathing through it until the ache eased.
Not tonight. Ritual meant forward, not back.
I dropped the pasta, stirred the sauce that was finally starting to come together.
Let it simmer low, filling the apartment with something that almost felt like home.
When I sat down, the clink of the fork on porcelain sounded too loud, too deliberate—like the house didn’t quite know how to hold a single person anymore.
And then he slipped in.
Miguel.
The focus in his eyes during review. The easy grin under those PR lights. The way he crouched beside that kid at the clinic like time had slowed for him alone.
What kind of man went home after that? Did someone wait for him—or did the guitar keep him company the way silence kept me? Had he lost anyone? Or was he still untouched by that kind of ruin?
The questions startled me. I hadn’t let myself wonder about anyone in six years. Now curiosity was its own ache—and it carried his face.
A knock at the door broke the thought clean. Unexpected.
I froze, frowning. I hadn’t ordered anything. Wasn’t expecting anyone.
Crossing the space, my pulse picked up anyway.
My hand settled on the knob.
And I opened it.