Chapter 9
Miguel
My knuckles tingled from the knock I’d given. Part of me wanted to turn and pretend I’d never come, but before I could chicken out, the door swung open.
Coach Mack stood there; surprise flared in his eyes, then smoothed out. He wore a plain T-shirt and sweats, bare feet, the kind of off-duty outfit that made him look taller somehow. The scent of garlic and tomato drifted over his shoulder from the kitchen.
“I—” My throat went dry. Smooth, Miguel. Real smooth. I lifted the bag like it was proof of why I belonged there. “Brought dessert. The bakery down the block was still open. I… wanted to uh, say thanks. For earlier.”
His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to me, like he wasn’t sure if I was serious. I almost wasn’t. I’d started walking here without a plan and ended up in front of his place. My throat dried.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know I didn’t, but I wanted to.” I offered a crooked smile. “Figured a cinnamon roll can’t hurt the pre-game plan.”
A breath that might’ve been a laugh. He stepped aside. “Come in.”
His place was small, squared away. Books stacked in one neat column, a muted game playing on a TV with no sound, a single plate on the table beside a pan of pasta on a trivet. It smelled like he’d done something real on the stove, not zapped it into existence.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt dinner,” I said, setting the bakery bag down.
“You didn’t. It’s just that… it’s the first time I’ve actually cooked in a while.” His voice was tight, like he hadn’t meant to confess it.
I blinked. “Looks edible.” The words came out too blunt, so I softened them. “Better than my microwave skills.”
He huffed a laugh.
Coach cleared his throat. “You want a plate?”
I could’ve said no because I’d only planned to stay for a minute, hand over the pastry, thank him for what he said in front of the team, and bail. But the sight of one plate and too much quiet shifted something in me.
“Since you’re offering,” I said, “I’m not going to insult the chef.”
One eyebrow went up, pleased in spite of himself. “The chef is generous.”
“Generosity is the goal.” I rubbed my palms over my thighs, sudden nerves for no good reason.
“Sit. We’ll talk while we eat.”
He pulled out another plate like he’d been expecting company and ladled pasta without skimping. I took the chair across from him, steam rising between us. The first bite hit warm and solid—simple, tomato and garlic done right.
“I didn’t say it then,” I said, “but I appreciated you letting me have a say in review.”
“I needed your voice in the room.” He twirled pasta, watching me over the curve of his fork. “Not because you’re a goalie. Because they listen when you speak.”
I stared down at the spirals on my plate; they were suddenly fascinating. “I didn’t realize that.”
“Now you do.” His delivery was plain, but the words landed clean, no wobble, the way only he could say them.
We ate for a while, the scrape of forks filling the quiet. My thoughts kept circling, restless, until I leaned back and found the thread I’d been chewing on since the weekend.
“You said something at the clinic.” I kept my tone easy. “About not thinking you’re good with kids.”
His fork stilled mid-air. Then he set it down carefully, buying himself a second.
“Yeah,” he said.
“You were,” I said. My chest felt too tight, but the words pressed out anyway. “In case no one told you.”
His jaw eased, fraction by fraction. His eyes stayed on his plate, though. “You told me.”
“Guess I did.”
A beat stretched, longer than it needed to. I should’ve let it drop, but the thought had been gnawing at me. “I’ve seen you at those clinics before. You always keep your distance.”
That got his eyes up. A flicker of something passed through—hesitation, memory, maybe both.
He twirled his fork once more, then set it down, eyes on the plate. “It doesn’t mean it was easy.”
For a second I forgot to breathe. Mack wasn’t a man who offered vulnerability lightly. Not in a rink, not in front of a team, not even here across the table. The words weren’t dramatic, but they cost him something. I felt it.
“No,” I said, my voice low. “It never is. But the way you showed up for them—it mattered. Even if it didn’t feel easy.”
His gaze lifted, brief, and landed on me like the weight of a puck hitting the blade: solid, intentional. He didn’t add anything, and he didn’t have to.
For a moment, it felt like we were standing in the echo of something neither of us wanted to name. He broke it by reaching for his glass, water catching the light.
“You’ll be back out there with them next time,” he said, voice returning to steady ground. “They need players like you.”
“And coaches like you,” I shot back before I thought better of it.
This time he didn’t correct me. Just gave the smallest nod, as if to acknowledge the words without holding onto them.
Another pocket of quiet. Comfortable this time. I let it stretch, took in the domestic pieces I’d never seen—dish towel folded just so, magnets on the fridge holding a few schedules and a plain sticky note with his handwriting: Wed — cook. My chest tightened for reasons I didn’t examine.
“Why tonight?” he asked suddenly, setting his fork down. “Why show up?”
I thought about lying. I didn’t. “Two reasons. One, you looked like you could use company. And because I did too.”
His mouth tightened, not quite disapproval, or relief. But he didn’t look away.
“And two?”
“You’ve been my coach for five years,” I said, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “And somehow I don’t really know you. I figured maybe it’s time I started fixing that.”
Something flickered in his face—surprise, maybe, or the ache of being seen when you’d stopped expecting to be. He leaned back a little, as if the air between us had shifted.
“It’s not easy,” he said finally, voice low. “Letting people in again.”
“I don’t think it ever is.” My fork scraped softly against the plate. “But I figure if I can hold my ground against a slap shot, I can risk a conversation too.”
That earned a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Almost.
He reached for his glass, sipped, and let the quiet stretch. “You did good work today. With Carter.”
“Gracias,” I said, the word slipping out in Spanish before I could catch it. His head tilted, like he liked the sound.
“What’s the plan with him?”
“Keep it simple,” I said. “One cue at a time. If I hand him three, he’ll chase all of them and catch none. I’ll loop Beau in—he’s grounded. Carter finds balance in someone else’s calm.
“Loop Beau in,” Coach repeated, filing it away. “Good.”
We went back to eating, the silence between us neither comfortable nor strained—just full.
Across the table, Coach moved with that same quiet certainty he had on the bench. Even sitting still, he seemed deliberate, like a man who’d learned not to waste motion or words.
It hit me how much he gave to the team—how he was always watching, always thinking two steps ahead, making sure every guy was looked after even when we didn’t make it easy on him. He never asked for credit, never showed off. He just held the whole damn team together.
And maybe that was part of what made him.
.. striking. Not just the sharp lines of his face, or the jaw you could cut tape on, or the hair that never quite behaved even when he tried to tame it.
It was all of it—how the calm wrapped around him like armor, how it somehow made him seem taller than he was.
I caught myself staring and blinked hard.
Was there a woman waiting for him somewhere? Someone who got to see that calm up close?
The thought hit like a slap of cold water. Why the hell was I wondering that?
I pushed a hand through my hair, forcing my brain back to neutral. He was my coach. A good one. And whatever had just flashed through my head didn’t belong anywhere near this table.
So I did what I always did when things got complicated—talked hockey.
We drifted there easy enough—neutral-zone spacing, power-play entries, how Tank’s timing had sharpened by a fraction that would matter come Friday. The talk smoothed out edges I hadn’t realized were rough. When the plates were empty, I stood, grabbed them both.
He shook his head automatically. “You’re my guest.”
“Then let me do one thing right,” I said, already stacking them. “Besides, you cooked.”
We carried everything to the kitchen. For a guy who lived alone, he’d somehow managed to use every dish in the place. The counter looked like a small war zone—pasta sauce, a cutting board with garlic skins clinging to it, a wooden spoon that had given up halfway through the battle.
He gave me a look that hovered between apology and amusement. “I was going to clean it up after.”
“Sure you were,” I said, bumping the faucet on with my elbow.
We fell into an easy rhythm—him putting away leftovers, me rinsing dishes. The kitchen wasn’t small, but with both of us there, it felt like it had shrunk in size. My shoulder brushed his once when we reached for the same towel. Neither of us stepped back right away.
“You always cook on Wednesdays?” I asked, handing him a plate to dry.
“Trying to,” he said. “Made a deal with myself—if I’m in L.A. and not on the road, I cook at least one real meal a week.”
“How’s that going?”
“This was week one.”
I laughed. “So you’re undefeated.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh of his own. “Guess I am.”
When the last dish was stacked, I wiped the counter. He leaned against the opposite edge, arms folded, watching me like he wasn’t quite sure how the kitchen had gotten this full.
“So,” he said, “tell me about you.”
“You already know I’m a goalie.”
“I meant the rest. Who’s Miguel Rodriguez off the ice?”
“Honestly?” I rinsed the sponge, buying time. “kind of boring. I used to binge Friends—knew every Chandler line by heart—but after Matthew Perry died, it started feeling weird. Haven’t watched it since.”
He nodded slowly, like he understood that kind of loss even when it was something small.
“I bike to the rink most days,” I added. “Not great for the quads, but cheaper than gas. Sometimes I just ride around the city, see what I find.”
“You ever get lost?”
“Sometimes on purpose.” I grinned. “Helps me reset.”
He smiled, faint but real. “You and me both.”
“You get lost too?”
He shrugged. “Not exactly. “I take a brisk walk every morning before sunrise. Old habit. If I don’t move first thing, my head starts to spiral.”
“What else don’t I know about you?”
“I’ve got a lemon tree out back that refuses to die no matter how long I forget to water it. I talk to it sometimes.”
“You what?”
He chuckled. “Don’t judge me. It’s stubborn. I respect that.”
I leaned on the counter, still smiling. “So this Wednesday-cooking thing—why did it start?”
He hesitated, gaze flicking to the empty pot on the stove. “I used to cook one dish my wife taught me—pasta. For a while after… I kept making it every Sunday. Just like we used to. Guess it was habit, or hope. I’d instinctively cook enough for three and tell myself it was tradition.”
He drew a slow breath, eyes on the sink. “It took me a year—maybe two—to admit they weren’t coming back for dinner. I stopped cooking after that.”
He cleared his throat. “Anyway. You want to take some for later?”
I shook my head. “Nah, I’m good. You earned the leftovers.”
“Fair enough.”
He cleared his throat, nodding toward the paper bag sitting on the table. “You brought these to ruin my discipline, didn’t you?”
I blinked, grateful for the shift. “Pretty much.”
“Cinnamon rolls?”
“From that place on Melrose. You’ll see why I risk the carbs.”
We moved to the table again, unwrapping the baked goodies. The smell of sugar and spice filled the space that had gone too quiet a moment before. His mouth curved as he took the first bite.
“Damn,” he said, almost reverent. “You’re forgiven.”
“For what?”
“For not bringing two bags.”
The laugh lingered between us, softening everything that had come before. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then I noticed a crumb near the corner of his mouth—right by his fuller bottom lip.
Before I could stop myself, my hand twitched like I might brush it away. Heat climbed my neck. What the hell was I thinking?
He must’ve felt the attention because he paused, swiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, then stood and crossed to the cupboard. When he came back, he set a small stack of napkins between us, pulling one free.
He wiped his mouth, casual, unbothered, as if nothing had passed between us—but I felt it anyway.
The quiet that followed hummed with something I didn’t want to name.
“Well,” I said finally, rising to my feet. “I should get out of your hair.” My body wasn’t ready to move.
“Thanks for the company,” he said quietly.
“Anytime, Coach.”
I meant it more than I should have.
He followed me to the door, an arm’s length of space between us in the narrow hall. My shoulder brushed his, a whisper of contact that sent a clean, inexplicable current through me. I straightened like good posture could disguise it.
“Tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Be ready early. I want you out for first shots.”
“I’m always ready,” I said. Too soft, but I didn’t take it back.
His nod was deliberate, like he believed me more than I believed myself. He looked like he might say something else, then didn’t. I wasn’t brave enough to ask.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said instead. “And for the talk.”
“Thanks for dessert,” he returned, mouth tugging. “And the company.”
“Anytime, Coach.” I should’ve left it there. I even stepped into the hall. But then I looked back, because I couldn’t help myself.
“You were right,” I said.
His brow lifted. “About?”
“My voice.” The words felt bigger than they should have. “You said it mattered.”
This time, he didn’t deflect. His gaze steadied on mine, quiet and unflinching. “Then use it.”
“Sí, Coach.”
That earned me the faintest shake of his head—and God help me, a flicker of warmth at the edges of his eyes I wanted to memorize.
I left with my pulse drumming too high, the night air cool against skin that still ran hot. On the steps I lingered, knowing it had only been dinner, only strategy, only talk.
But it hadn’t felt like only.