Chapter 14
Drew
Air travel always made me restless. Maybe it was the waiting, the cramped seats, or the way the engines roared just loud enough to drown out thought.
We’d taken the bus to LAX. Everyone looked half-dead or half-wired—the usual travel limbo.
I’d ended up by the window, Carter beside me.
A minute later, he swapped with Miguel so he could sit across the aisle with Tank.
Which left Miguel sliding into the seat next to mine—same as always.
He stowed his bag, then looked over with a sheepish grin. “Guess I’m back in your row.”
“Guess so.”
We both buckled in. The cabin door sealed with a muffled click, and the air changed—thicker, quieter, that hush before the engines wake. A few last zippers rasped, overhead bins slammed shut, and the flight attendants began their safety demo, all bright smiles and hand signals.
Miguel leaned closer, voice low. “Does anyone ever actually pay attention to that?”
I almost smiled. “Maybe the first time they fly.”
He huffed a small laugh and leaned back. The plane sat still for a while, that familiar limbo before movement—just the faint vibration of the engines building under our feet.
Miguel leaned back, pulling his hoodie tight, his knees just brushing the seat in front of him. “Which one’s worse for you—takeoff or landing?”
“Neither,” I said. “It’s the in-between I don’t trust.”
He laughed quietly. “That’s very coach of you.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Outside, the lights on the tarmac blurred through the window as we started to taxi, slow and steady. The wheels bumped once, twice, before gliding smoother. The cabin dimmed to a dull gold glow.
Miguel exhaled. “You ever wonder what makes that push—when you feel yourself pressed back into the seat?”
“Inertia,” I said. “The plane moves forward, your body resists, and for a second it feels like gravity got it wrong.”
He grinned, amused. “That’s very science of you, Coach.”
“Side effect of too many road trips,” I said. “Air miles make philosophers out of everyone,” I said.
The engines roared higher. A pause—a breath—and then the full thrust hit. The push wasn’t sudden so much as deep, a steady pull that pressed us into the seats as the runway lights turned to streaks.
For a few seconds, gravity and motion argued about who was in charge. Then the nose lifted, the pressure eased, and the city lights dropped away beneath the wing.
The plane leveled out, the hum settling into its rhythm. The seatbelt light pinged off. People stirred, trading earbuds and snacks.
Miguel turned his head toward me, that half-grin returning. “You survived the in-between.”
“For now,” I said.
Miguel stretched, fished something from his hoodie pocket—a deck of cards sealed with a rubber band.
“They pulled this out of my bag at security,” he said, holding it up. “Apparently, it looked suspicious on the X-ray.”
I arched a brow. “A deck of cards?”
“Solid block on the scanner,” he said, half-smiling. “The guy searched my bag like I was smuggling poker chips.”
I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. “You play?”
“Learned young,” he said. “My brother taught me at our kitchen table. We used bottle caps for chips and argued over every hand.”
“And you let him win?”
His grin flashed quick, warm. “You try telling a fourteen-year-old he’s wrong when you’re nine.”
The way he said it—light, but laced with something lived-in—pulled a small smile out of me before I meant to give it.
He flicked the rubber band off the deck and started to shuffle. “What about you? Play any card games?”
“Poker,” I said. “When I was with the Pythons, we played for bragging rights. Nobody wanted to hand over cash to a teammate who’d gloat about it all season.”
He smirked. “Bet you were terrible.”
“Bet you’re about to find out.”
A few hands in, the cards stopped mattering. Conversation found its own rhythm—away trips that blurred together, half-decent diners near rinks, hotels that all smelled like the same recycled air. The kind of talk that fills long miles.
I found myself watching the way his eyes lit when he talked, the small crease that formed near his mouth when he smiled. There was something boyish about it—like the grin had outlasted every bruise life tried to give him.
Miguel told me about his parents’ place in East L.A.—his mom’s cooking that could fill the whole block with spice, his dad’s radio always playing merengue, bachata, or boleros. His abuela still ran the house from her armchair.
Something tightened in my chest. I hadn’t realized how long it’d been since I’d heard that kind of affection—ordinary, uncomplicated.
Miguel leaned back. “You ever miss home?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “I grew up in British Columbia. Winters bite harder there. The lakes freeze solid enough to skate before school—before the sun’s even up. You come home numb and think it’s normal.”
He smiled faintly. “So that’s where the stoicism comes from.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Cold teaches you patience. You wait for ice to hold before you trust it.”
He tilted his head. “Sometimes I forget you’re Canadian.”
“Most people do,” I said. “Guess I’ve been south long enough to lose the edge.”
“You still got anyone up there?” he asked after a beat.
I hesitated. “Not really. My folks passed a while back. No siblings. After my wife and daughter…” I trailed off, unsure if I’d said too much. “It’s been a quiet few years.”
Miguel’s gaze didn’t waver, just softened a little. “That’s a long kind of quiet.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You learn to fill it with work. Rinks. Noise.”
He nodded, like he understood more than I’d meant to give away. “You talk like a man who’s seen forty-five winters and didn’t complain once.”
“Forty,” I corrected with a smirk. “Let’s not add five just to make a point.”
He laughed, the sound low and easy. “Still more winters than me.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You’ve still got time, kid. Life’s not done with you yet.”
His smile faded to something smaller, softer. “Guess that’s what I’m counting on.”
Before I could reply, the plane jolted and made the overhead bins rattle.
Turbulence.
My pulse jumped before I could control it. My stomach dropped. The cards blurred in my hand.
Miguel glanced at me. “You good?”
“Yeah.” It came out too fast, too flat.
The plane shuddered again—harder this time.
A child cried somewhere up front. A bag shifted in the overhead bin with a dull thump.
Come on, Drew. Calm the fuck down.
The seatbelt light pinged on, that fake-cheerful ding I’d always hated. Flight attendants moved briskly, buckling in. My fingers had already found the armrest, gripping tight.
Miguel’s hand landed on the one between us, not quite touching mine. “Hey,” he said lightly. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “You don’t look fine.”
Another bump.
Miguel didn’t look away. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now. “It’s just a bit of chop—air currents shifting up ahead. Sometimes warm air hits cooler air and the plane rides the change. It feels rough, but it’s normal. We’ll clear it soon.”
He wasn’t explaining to impress me. He was explaining to keep me here, in the now, not six years back.
I nodded, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the seat in front of me. The sound of the engines changed—deeper, then higher, that half-second wobble where gravity feels like it forgot you exist. My chest pulled tight, same way it had the night I read the crash report and memorized every word.
Another dip. My stomach lurched. I forced out a breath through my nose—slow—counting quietly. One, two—
“Hey,” he said, voice deliberately bright. “Want to know the most terrifying thing I’ve ever eaten?”
I blinked at him. “What?”
He leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to leak state secrets. “Goat-eyeball stew.”
I stared. “That’s… specific.”
“One of my older cousins’ idea of a prank,” he said, eyes glinting. “One summer cookout, he told me it was a traditional island dish that’d make me wise. I spent the rest of the day throwing up wisdom in the backyard.”
A startled laugh cracked out of me. “Jesus.”
“Every family’s got that one cousin who thinks he’s a comedian.”
That earned another laugh—softer this time, the kind that unknotted something in my chest.
“Then there’s the real stuff,” he went on easily. “Tostones, mofongo, arroz con gandules—fried plantains, mashed plantains, rice with pigeon peas. The Holy Trinity at my mom’s table. She’d throw in pollo guisado—stewed chicken—just to keep us from fighting over the last plantain.”
“Sounds like a lot of syllables,” I said, grateful for the distraction.
He chuckled, low and warm. “You’d like tostones—crunchy, salty, perfect after a game.”
“Which side of the family’s responsible for that menu?”
“My mom’s Puerto Rican. Dad’s Dominican. Means I get double holidays and double the food.” He tipped his head, smile softening. “If you ever come to dinner, you’ll eat until you can’t breathe.”
“You assume I’d survive meeting your family.”
He laughed. “You assume they wouldn’t adopt you on sight.”
Something about the way he said it made it land somewhere deeper than humor. The grin that passed between us was half a joke, half something else.
The plane steadied, engines smoothing out again. The seatbelt light clicked off.
Miguel leaned back with a quiet sigh, eyes still on me. “Better?”
“Yeah,” I exhaled slowly. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I didn’t mean to—”
“To what? Be human?”
The corner of my mouth twitched, but shame burned under my skin anyway. “It’s stupid. I’ve flown a hundred times since… since then. I thought I’d stopped reacting.”
He didn’t rush in with comfort. Just waited, quiet.
“Guess I didn’t,” I said finally. “It’s not the flying. It’s the drop. Feels like that moment before everything goes wrong.”
Miguel nodded once. “Makes sense to me.”
“You’ve never felt that?” I asked.
He thought about it. “Not with planes. For me it’s sirens. Or hospitals. That smell of antiseptic—it hits, and suddenly I’m a kid again, waiting to hear if my brother’s okay. I hate not being able to fix something.”
My chest loosened. It wasn’t the same, but it was close enough—the way fear rewires you, leaves an echo.
“Thanks,” I said quietly. “For not making a thing out of it.”
He gave a small smile. “Why would I? Everyone’s afraid of something.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.” He leaned back, arms crossed loosely. “House lizards. Those little things that run across the wall? Can’t stand ’em.”
That pulled a laugh out of me—real, startled. “House lizards?”
“Don’t judge me, Coach.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
For the first time since the jolt of the plane, I noticed the warmth between us—not from fear, but from the quiet relief of being seen.
“We didn’t talk for a while after that. He gathered the cards, thumb brushing the edges.
“You were winning, by the way,” he said finally.
I looked at him. He met my gaze without a trace of teasing.
“Call it even,” I said.
He smiled faintly. “Even works.”
All too soon, the plane began its descent. The pilot’s voice came over the intercom, routine, calm. Nose down, trays locked, chatter climbing again.
The cabin shifted back to normal—jokes, yawns, the rustle of gear bags.
By the time we touched down in Chicago, the spell had broken, replaced by the clatter of a team on the move.
Miguel’s shoulder brushed mine when we stood. It was nothing, a brush of fabric—and somehow everything.
Whatever charged the air between us didn’t survive the landing. It stayed up there, in the quiet above the clouds.
Except—I could still feel it, faint as static. The weight of the quiet, the memory of warmth that had no business being there.
What was that? Gratitude? Curiosity? Something I hadn’t let myself feel in years?
I wanted to shake it off, blame fatigue, blame the hour, the flight, anything but him. But it clung, steady as my pulse, a reminder that something in me had shifted, and I didn’t know how to put it back.
Cold slapped us the second we stepped outside O’Hare. California blood didn’t prepare you for that kind of wind. By the time we reached the hotel, everyone looked half-frozen and ready to fight for the nearest heater.
Miguel stretched beside me after he stepped out of the bus, hoodie pulled tight. “Remind me again why we left California?”
“For character building,” I said.
He groaned. “I’d rather build it somewhere warmer.”
Dinner was already waiting—team-mandatory. A long table, plates of chicken and overcooked pasta. Players filled in, voices overlapping. I found a spot near the middle, clipboard half-forgotten.
Miguel slid into the seat across from Sam. I saw the flicker in his jaw as soon as he realized it. Too late to move.
“Rough flight?” Sam asked, voice all casual twang as he twirled his fork.
“Not bad,” Miguel said easily.
Sam cut his chicken, didn’t look up. “Coach looked a little tense during the turbulence.”
The words landed quiet but sharp. A few heads turned, curious.
Miguel didn’t blink. “You’re observant, Sam. Maybe try that during drills.”
Laughter sparked down the table—quick, nervous, the kind that knows not to pick a side. Sam’s mouth flattened.
I didn’t intervene—my fork stayed poised above my plate, every muscle wired tight. A public defense would only feed him. Miguel had already handled it.
The conversation shifted—Jester talking about some movie, Tank arguing about sauce ratios. The noise picked up again, and the moment died. But it stayed in my chest, heavy.
Later, when the plates were cleared and most of the guys drifted toward the elevators, Miguel lingered by the coffee urn, sleeves pushed up, steam ghosting around him. I caught his eye.
“You handled that well,” I said quietly.
He frowned. “Handled what?”
“Sam.”
A small shrug. “Not worth it.”
“Maybe not.” I paused. “Still—you didn’t let him get to you.”
He tilted his head, that easy grin sliding back in place. “Someone had to save your reputation, Coach.”
I huffed out a laugh before I could stop it. “Guess I owe you.”
“You can buy me dinner after we win.” He smiled again—small, quick, unguarded, adorable—and something in my brain short-circuited. Adorable.
Adorable? What the hell? Since when was another man’s smile adorable? My chest gave an involuntary pull, a quiet betrayal of logic. Maybe I really was that tired.