Chapter 15
Miguel
The flight home was smooth—mercifully smooth.
No jolts, or dips, or reason to keep watching Coach like I had on the way to Chicago.
But even without turbulence, I couldn’t unsee it.
The way his hand had gripped the armrest. The muscle jumping in his jaw when the plane dropped.
How hard he’d fought to keep that calm coach mask in place.
I’d had a head’s knowledge of what he’d lost—of who he’d lost. Everyone in the hockey community did.
The headlines, the sympathy pieces, the quiet respect that followed him when he joined the Grizzlies.
But reading about loss is one thing. Watching someone live with it, even for thirty seconds of rough air, is another.
He’d gone still when the plane bucked. Too still.
Every instinct I had wanted to reach for him, to anchor him, to let him borrow whatever calm and strength I had—whatever he needed.
My hand had hovered inches from his. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Not close enough to cross the line.
And maybe that was what threw me most. That wanting. Not pity or curiosity. Just this pull, sharp and simple: don’t let him carry it alone.
He’d found his footing again after that, of course. He always did. By the time we landed in Chicago, it was back to business: meetings, line drills, game film. He didn’t mention it. Neither did I. But the memory stayed, like the hum that lingers after engines cut.
We hit L.A. air just past three. The landing was soft, the kind that makes you forget you ever left the ground.
The cabin came back to life: guys groaning awake, gear bags scraping overhead, someone sneezing, a couple of others reminiscing about the two games against the Knights, two solid wins. Not clean, but clean enough.
Outside, the California light felt different—brighter, wider, like the air itself had more room. The bus ride from the airport blurred by in that half-silence that comes after victory: heads tipped against windows, phones lighting up with texts from home, the low hum of contentment.
By the time we pulled into the Grizzlies’ lot, the sun had started to dip behind the palm tops. Shadows stretched across the asphalt as guys climbed off the bus, bumping shoulders, joking about missing home comforts like a real shower, good coffee, and their own beds.
I pulled out my phone and called a rideshare. Ten minutes, the screen said. But that was only if I was lucky.
“Is your ride coming?”
His voice came from behind me, low, unhurried.
I turned, and there he was by the bus door, jacket unzipped, duffel over one shoulder.
The collar of his shirt was crooked, hair mussed from travel.
He looked like he hadn’t slept, but he wore exhaustion like it fit him—solid, unbothered, composed in a way that made me straighten without meaning to.
Coaching had to be brutal. Nights spent breaking down plays, long road trips, half a dozen personalities to manage before breakfast. And yet, somehow, he made it look easy.
Maybe it was the way he carried himself.
Broad shoulders built like he could still step onto the ice, forearms roped with muscle, that calm focus that drew your eye before you even realized it.
He could’ve passed for early to mid-thirties, easily. The only giveaway was a few faint lines around his eyes, evidence of long seasons and longer nights. They didn’t make him look older. Just… lived in.
“Yeah,” I said, shaking myself. “Ten minutes out.”
He gave this quiet snort that almost passed for a laugh. “Ten in L.A. means thirty. Cancel it—I’ll take you home.”
“That’s out of your way,” I said automatically.
He shook his head. “Not by much. Besides, it's faster than waiting.”
I hesitated, then hit cancel. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Drew,” he said. “We’re off the clock.”
I followed him across the lot. Inside his truck, he turned the heater on low, warm air threading through the quiet, the kind that made you realize how cold your hands had gotten without noticing. He smelled faintly of soap and coffee, like someone who didn’t need cologne to smell clean.
We drove without talking. It was quiet enough to hear the soft click of his turn signal and the rasp of his hand against the gearshift.
“You sure it’s not too much out of your way?” I asked again, because silence did weird things to my head.
“Relax,” he said, eyes on the road. “I’ve got the time.”
It was the calm in his voice that got me. Not just what he said, but how—like it actually mattered that I wasn’t left standing in some parking lot with a duffel and nobody thinking twice. Most nights, I booked rides. Nobody ever offered.
But he had. And it shouldn’t have meant anything, just a ride, but it did. Gratitude rose up fast, tangled with something else—something warmer, heavier, the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with food.
My gaze drifted to him before I could stop it—the line of his jaw, the way the dashboard glow brushed over his skin, softening the edges travel had carved there. He looked tired, sure, but still grounded in a way that made it hard to look away.
Too hard.
I cleared my throat and reached for my phone, breaking the quiet before it could turn into something I’d have to name.
A few lights later, I pulled out my phone. “You mind if I play something?”
He nodded. “Go for it.”
I queued up a playlist—soft Spanish guitar, low vocals, the kind of song that fills space without demanding anything from it. The rhythm melted into the quiet, slow and familiar, like breathing after a long shift.
“You good with this?”
“I don’t know what he’s saying, but it’s better than anything I’d have picked.”
“He’s saying love’s a bastard,” I told him, half-grinning. “And he’d do it all again anyway.”
He huffed a small laugh. “That’s honest.”
“The best kind of music,” I said. “It doesn’t lie to you.”
His fingers tapped along to the rhythm against his thigh.
I caught myself watching the motion, the small flex of tendons under skin, the way he seemed grounded in the rhythm even when everything else was still.
My eyes drifted up, tracing the line of his forearm to the hand on the wheel—strong, sure, veins shifting with each turn.
Stupid thing to notice. Stupider that it made my chest feel tight.
I turned toward the window, watching the blur of palm trees and streetlights. A few seconds later, my gaze slipped back again, helpless. He looked good. Too good. Calm, in control, quiet.
Drew’s a good-looking man.
The realization hit like a check to the ribs. What the hell, Rodriguez?
Yeah, I’d noticed men before—objectively. Same way you notice a clean slapshot or a perfect stretch pass. You see it, you appreciate the precision, then you move on.
But this wasn’t that.
This was heat curling under my skin, a pull I didn’t have a name for. Not admiration, or respect. It was something heavier, sharper, alive. It sat low in my chest, refusing to go away, and the more I tried to ignore it, the louder it got.
Another song bled in, something older, slower. I tried to focus on the lyrics, to mouth the words under my breath, but they tangled in my throat.
The city thinned into quiet streets. Drew turned onto mine, headlights catching the curb. “Guess we made it faster than the app,” he said.
“Guess we did.” I hesitated, hand already on the door handle. The thought of the night ending sat wrong in my chest. “Come up for a beer? You look like you could use one.”
He looked over then, eyes catching mine, unreadable, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
For half a second, the whole car seemed to hold its breath.