Chapter 10
Drew
Opening night of the regular season always carried a buzz, but not the kind you got at a Pythons game.
We weren’t the Pasadena Pythons—NAPH spotlight, packed arena, fans lined down the block.
We were the Grizzlies, the farm team. PHL crowds filled in solid enough, teal, turquoise, and maroon banners waving, drums pounding from one section, but there were empty seats too.
You learned to live with it. This was where rookies proved themselves and veterans clawed for a shot to get called up. Two different kinds of hunger.
Edmonton had made the trip down the coast, and if their warm-up told me anything, they’d come to grind. They weren’t a finesse squad; they leaned on size, weight, and shoving until your lungs quit. Exactly the kind of test I wanted.
The locker room was tighter, noisier than usual. Tape ripping, skate blades rasping against the sharpener in the corner, the hiss of Velcro being tugged shut. My voice would cut through in a minute, but I let them have their noise first.
Miguel sat at his stall with the travel guitar he always dragged along, plucking a low riff that threaded through the chaos.
It wasn’t loud, just enough to settle his breathing.
He hummed under it, eyes closed for a beat before he set the guitar aside and pulled his chest protector on.
I waited until the last chord faded, then stepped forward.
I glanced down the bench. Tank cracked his neck, Jester drummed his taped stick against the boards.
Carter bounced his knees, jaw working like he was chewing ice.
Trembley sat still as a stone, eyes narrowed, unreadable as ever.
And Miguel—Miguel rolled his shoulders inside his pads, flexing his glove hand like he had all the time in the world.
“First shift, keep it simple,” I told them, standing where I could see all their faces. “Edmonton’s going to come heavy. They’ll test us early. Don’t cough it up at their blue line—no turnovers high. Make plays through the middle instead of wasting it on the boards.”
Tank nodded, broad shoulders squared like he’d already swallowed the whole speech. Carter shifted, nerves right there on the surface. Trembley’s gaze stayed locked forward, unflinching.
And Miguel—he flexed his glove once, eyes lifting to mine.
It wasn’t just looking. It was steady, unhurried, like he’d settled on me and didn’t plan to move off until he was good and ready. The air in the room thinned. My tongue caught behind my teeth, the next words stuck.
Ridiculous. I’d addressed teams for years. But in that second, it felt like there was no one else in the room but him. Just that dark, unblinking focus, and me forgetting the back half of my sentence.
I cleared my throat, slower than I should have, buying the beat back.
“Keep your feet moving,” I finished, voice rougher than I meant. “Keep your feet moving. Trust your reads. And if it doesn’t go right, let it go. Hockey’s about the next shift, not the last one.” I let the silence hang just long enough. “Alright. Let’s go to work.”
The room broke in a scrape of skates and a clatter of sticks. Anthem done, lights dimmed, we stepped into the tunnel. The smell of popcorn and sweat mixed with the metallic chill rolling up from the ice.
By the time the ref skated to center ice with the puck, Miguel was crouched in his crease.
Same ritual every game: glove brushed the left post, then the right, then back again, lips moving in words I couldn’t hear.
Finally two taps against his chest, one-two, before he dropped into position. Whatever it meant, it steadied him.
The horn sounded, the puck hit the dot, and the season began.
The first ten minutes were chaos. Edmonton slammed bodies into corners, hammered Miguel with scrappy close-range shots right in front of him, and goaded Tank into an early penalty.
We held the kill, but it left my bench rattled.
Carter mishandled the puck trying to clear our zone, and I bit back the urge to bark.
Rookie jitters. I remembered mine—hands shaking so bad I could barely tape my stick.
Miguel was the one who settled them. He snatched a rebound out of the air with his glove, then stretched across the crease to block a wraparound that had the crowd holding its breath.
After the whistle, he tapped each post in turn, cool and unbothered, as if resetting the whole rink.
That calm wasn’t just for him—it carried to the bench, reminding the younger guys they could breathe.
That’s what I needed from him. Not just saves—command.
By the second period, we found a rhythm.
Jester cut off a pass, slid it to Trembley, and the kid notched his first regular-season goal with the Grizzlies.
The crowd roared. Tank flattened a winger at the blue line, Jester cleared the rebound, and for a stretch, we looked like the team we were meant to be.
But Edmonton clawed back. By the third, it was tied 2–2, bodies colliding everywhere, whistles flying.
Midway through, Miguel slid to smother a loose puck, a forward barreling down with no brakes.
The collision rattled the post with a sharp crack, the kind that made the boards shiver.
My chest clenched before I could think. He popped up fast—mask crooked, pads scuffed—but I caught it: the subtle hitch as he rotated his left arm.
The bare flicker of pain before his jaw locked it down.
“Watch that,” I muttered sharply to Lily at my elbow.
“I see it,” she said, already leaning forward, clinical eyes scanning the crease.
Normally, that would’ve been enough to settle me.
I’d coached through a hundred stingers and bruises, catalogued them without a ripple.
But this was different. My pulse didn’t level out.
My gaze stuck on him—on the stubborn set of his shoulders, on the way he shook his glove once like he could reset pain by will alone.
Edmonton smelled weakness and pressed, swarming the net, but Miguel didn’t crack. Every save he made felt personal, like he was fending off more than rubber and sticks. And I couldn’t shake the thrum in my ribs, the one that shouldn’t have been there at all.
In the final minutes, Carter redeemed himself, muscling the puck out on a desperate clear. Tank sent it forward, Trembley chased it down, and somehow he buried his second goal in Grizzlies colors.
3–2 Grizzlies. Ugly. Scrappy. Ours.
The horn ended it and the boys spilled out, slamming gloves, shouting, their voices bouncing off the rafters. I let them have the moment before corralling them into line for the handshakes. Edmonton looked carved from granite but sullen in defeat. We’d learn from the mess.
I’d start with Miguel.
Locker room noise always came down in waves—roars, then chatter, then the scrape of skates on tile. I gave my post-game talk: proud of the grit, not proud of the penalties, work to do before Friday. A chorus of “yes, Coach” met me, and they turned back to shower and tape and text their girlfriends.
Miguel lingered in his stall longer than the rest, rolling his shoulder as he unlaced his pads. He masked it well, but I’d caught the grimace during the game and I wasn’t letting it slide. When his eyes lifted to mine, I tilted my chin toward my office.
He followed without a word.
Miguel ducked through the doorframe, carrying the heat of the game with him—sweat still damp in his curls, his chest rising steadily under the cling of his undershirt.
“Sit,” I said.
He dropped into the chair, moving like it wasn’t just equipment weighing him down.
“You played through pain.” I didn’t soften it into a question.
His brows rose, a flash of challenge there, but it passed quick. He exhaled, shoulder hitching once. “Took a bump. Nothing I haven’t handled before.”
“Shirt off,” I said, sharper than I intended. “Let me see.”
For a beat he just looked at me, unreadable.
Then he tugged the damp shirt over his head, the motion pulling heat and scent into the air—sweat, leather, something rawer.
Muscle cut lean from years of grinding caught the light, scar lines faint beneath tan skin.
My pulse kicked, but my hands stayed steady as I stepped closer.
“Where?”
“Here.” He touched high on the left shoulder.
I pressed my fingers into the muscle, firm but careful. He sucked in a breath, then let out a low groan when I worked the knot. The sound coiled hot in my gut. Professional, I told myself. Athlete and coach. Still—it threaded through me deeper than it should have.
His lashes lowered, face tipped just slightly toward me. “Feels better already.”
I cleared my throat, forcing my focus back. “Rotator cuff’s tight. No tear. You’ll need Lily on it tomorrow. If she doesn’t clear you, you don’t play Friday.”
His head turned, eyes meeting mine with that same dark steadiness. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be what Lily says you are,” I countered, voice rough.
His mouth quirked, part defiance, part humor. “Sí, Coach.”
I stepped back fast, dropping my hands like I’d touched fire. The space between us felt necessary, even as my chest still hummed with something I didn’t want to name.
“Good work tonight,” I said, quieter. “Not just the saves. You settled the whole bench. That mattered.”
For the first time all night, his face softened, pride lighting it from within. He nodded once, tugged his shirt back on, and rose.
At the door, he hesitated. “See you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I said.
When the latch clicked behind him, I leaned on the desk, palms flat, breath uneven. The room smelled of sweat and soap and something else I couldn’t shake. I’d coached through a hundred bruises, a thousand games. None of them had ever left me like this.
The season had started. And something else had, too.
Chapter 11
Miguel
Apartment lights dimmed, shoulder packed in ice, I should’ve felt nothing but tired. Instead, I felt wired. Like my pulse hadn’t decided the game was over.
The collision still throbbed through muscle, but it wasn’t pain keeping me awake. It was the memory of Coach’s hand pressing firm against my shoulder, working out the knot like he’d known the exact spot. His voice, rough with concern. His eyes on me, closer than they’d ever been.
Too close.
I grabbed my phone, thumb lighting up the Grizzlies’ group chat.
Tank: Ugly win but a win’s a win. *beer mug emoji* *beer mug emoji* Tomorrow’s on me.
Jester: Mark the calendar, boys.
Carter: Thanks for the clear at the end, Tank. Wouldn’t have coughed it up without you.
Trembley: You owe me a beer too, rookie.
Carter: I’m not a rookie.
Trembley: Skating like that? Rookie.
I smiled, despite the ache in my arm. Same post-game ribbing, every team I’d been on.
Sam: Can’t win every game on luck. Edmonton made us look soft.
Typical. Sam never let the night breathe before throwing shade. No emoji, no humor, just that flat tone like he was waiting for someone to agree. Nobody did. They almost never did.
I kept him at arm’s length. When Ry and Xander came out, I’d caught it—the twist in Sam’s mouth, the too-long silence, the quick shift of conversation. A vibe you couldn’t prove but you felt. I trusted my gut on the ice; I trusted it off too. With Sam, it said don’t get close.
Justin: Soft? Scoreboard said 3–2. We’ll clean it up Saturday.
I huffed out a laugh. Kid had bite. He’d fit in.
I muted the chat and set the phone face down. The silence folded around me.
But silence didn’t erase sensation. Didn’t erase the heat of Drew’s palm, the way his “Good work tonight” had landed heavier than any praise I’d gotten in years.
I’d lived a decade in this league, teams shuffling, cities changing, always the same cycle of highs and lows.
Coaches barked, coaches drilled, coaches forgot your name when you were sent back down.
Not him.
I shifted, hissed when the ice dug into the bruise. “Stupid,” I muttered, half to my shoulder, half to myself. But as the ache pulsed, I remembered the groan that had slipped out when Drew pressed down. My own voice, low, raw, nothing I could take back.
He hadn’t visibly reacted.
That was worse. Because some part of me had wanted him to. Wanted him to snap back into safe, sharp edges. Instead he’d looked at me and I couldn’t name what I saw there.
I should sleep. Should reset. Edmonton had been just the start. But lying flat, staring at the ceiling, I knew it wasn’t the game that had left me restless.
It was the coach.
And the fact, for the first time, I wasn’t sure I knew how to play it safe.
****
The locker room hummed with noise—skates clacking, sticks tapping, someone’s Bluetooth speaker leaking salsa under the usual pre-game rock. Tonight wasn’t just any game night. It was Hispanic Heritage Night, and it felt like the whole arena was already awake above us.
Our special warm-up jerseys hung in the stalls—turquoise and burnt orange instead of our usual teal, turquoise, and maroon, the Grizzlies’ bear redesigned with Aztec lines. I traced my name stitched across the shoulders. It looked the same, but it didn’t feel the same. Pride carried its own weight.
“Looks good on you,” Carter said, grinning.
“Better on me,” Tank added.
I rolled my eyes. “You two need mirrors or manners.”
Sam muttered near his locker, voice low but clear enough to hit the room. “Feels more like a costume party than a game.”
The air tightened.
Coach Mack looked up from his clipboard. “That costume represents the fans paying your salary,” he said evenly. “Get dressed.”
Sam went quiet. The subject died there.
When Coach turned away, he caught my eye briefly, gave the smallest nod. I didn’t need a speech to know it meant ignore him, you’ve got this.
We hit the ice for warm-ups, and the energy hit back.
The concourse was packed—banners reading Orgullo.
Pasión. Comunidad. draped along the glass.
The smell of tamales, cinnamon, and fryer oil drifted down from the food stalls, mixing with the sharp chill of the rink.
Fans waved flags; someone shouted my name.
I lifted my stick in acknowledgment, trying not to grin too wide.
After warm-ups, we headed back to the locker room. Steam rose from the showers; tape unspooled; gear creaked. The mariachi music echoing faintly from the concourse still thrummed through my chest.
Coach made his pre-game talk short and clean—no speeches, no theatrics. “Play smart. Play fast. Play for each other.”
Then his gaze flicked toward me. “Rodriguez. How’s the shoulder?”
“Lily worked it with ice and tape,” I said. “Good as new.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true—most of the time.”
His half-smile carried both doubt and trust. “If it flares mid-game, you tell me. I’m not interested in heroics in October.”
“Understood.”
He hesitated a second longer, like he wanted to say more, then nodded and turned back to the rest of the room. “Let’s go to work.”
We lined up in the tunnel, helmets on, gloves tucked under arms, sticks in hand. From outside came the echo of trumpets—sharp, bright, unmistakably mariachi.
A youth group in white charro suits stood at center ice, vihuela and guitarrón gleaming under the lights.
When they started the U.S. anthem, every note hit with a different kind of pride.
I saw a man lift a girl, maybe his daughter, so she could see, both of them mouthing the words. My chest squeezed.
My parents weren’t here. They’d wanted to come, but Abuela’s vertigo had flared again and my dad wouldn’t drive after dark. My phone had buzzed earlier with a text from Mami—three heart emojis, a photo of a plate of arroz con pollo, a voice note telling me good luck and I love you.
Whether they were here or not, I knew my family would always support me. “Te quiero,” I’d told her. “Don’t forget to watch the stream.”
When the anthem ended, the folk-dance troupe twirled across the ice, ribbons flaring, skirts sweeping like brushstrokes of red and gold. The arena lights caught every color, every motion, and the roar from the crowd was pure celebration.
This was more than hockey—it was home stitched into every note and spin.
The lights dipped, and the announcer’s voice filled the arena. “Fans, please welcome your Los Angeles Grizzlies!”
One by one, we hit the ice, music pounding through the speakers. My heart was steady, same as any other night—until the track cut and the voice came back.
“And tonight, during Hispanic Heritage Night, we’re proud to recognize our longest-tenured Grizzly—and the team’s first Hispanic player—number twenty-seven, Miguel Rodriguez!”
For a beat, everything inside me went still. My chest felt too full to breathe. The words hung there, heavy and unreal. This wasn’t just about hockey. It was about every mile I’d biked to practice, every time I’d been told this league wasn’t made for guys like me.
The crowd surged, louder than before, a wall of noise that hit somewhere behind my ribs. I lifted a glove, tried to smile, and hoped the camera didn’t catch how hard I was swallowing.