Chapter 16
Drew
I should’ve said no. Should’ve driven off, gone home, collapsed in my own empty apartment, maybe stared at the ceiling until exhaustion did its job.
Instead, I heard myself say, “Yeah. Sure.”
We climbed two narrow flights, footsteps echoing soft against concrete. Miguel unlocked the door with a flick of his wrist and pushed it open with his hip.
The apartment was small but lived-in—no mess, just pieces of a life. A jacket over the back of a chair. A guitar stand by the window. The faint smell of coffee and citrus from an open bottle of cleaner. A light hummed low over the kitchen counter.
“Sorry,” he said, nudging his duffel aside with his foot. “Didn’t get around to cleaning before we left.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Better than fine.”
He grinned, then crossed to the fridge. Two bottles clinked together as he pulled them free. When he handed me one, our fingers brushed—nothing, really. Except it wasn’t.
A small spark, low and fast. It hit like static and left my pulse one beat too quick.
We ended up in the kitchen—small space, linoleum underfoot, fridge humming. He leaned against the counter, the bottle hanging loose from his fingers. I stayed opposite, pretending to study the label on my beer instead of the man holding his.
“You look like your mind’s still on the game,” he said after a moment, studying me over the bottle’s rim.
How could I tell him my mind isn’t on the road, but on him?
That it isn’t the ice, or the plays, or even the loss I keep replaying in my head—but him.
The timbre of his voice. The width of his shoulders. The narrow line of his waist when he leaned forward to grab the beers. The way he fills a room without even trying.
He said something—my name, maybe—and I blinked back to the present.
“Sorry,” I said. “What was that?”
“I asked if you think we’ve got a real shot this year,” he said, smiling faintly. “The PHL Cup. The big one.”
“The PHL Cup,” I repeated, as if the name alone carried weight. “Yeah, maybe. Depends which version of us shows up.” I tried to smile, but it didn’t quite hold. “Some days we look ready to take on the league. Others, I’m just hoping nobody breaks a stick over someone’s head.”
Miguel’s grin widened. “That’s hockey, right? Faith and chaos.”
“Something like that,” I said.
The quiet stretched again, but this time it felt easier, like he’d handed me permission to say what I’d been holding back.
I stared at the brown bottle sweating in my hand.
“Thing is,” I said, “I’ve been here five years.
And every season feels like I’m trying to push a mountain uphill.
Two years we didn’t even make the playoffs.
Last year, we clawed our way to semis and lost in overtime.
” My throat worked around the next words.
“That’s the farthest this team’s ever gone with me behind the bench. Close, but not enough.”
He tilted his head. “You think that’s on you?”
“It always is,” I said, too fast. “That’s the job. You don’t just lose games; you lose time, opportunity, people’s faith.”
I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but once I started, it all spilled out—the frustration, the fatigue, the quiet fear I’d been carrying for far too long.
“You tell yourself it’s just a process. You say ‘next year,’ and then it’s five years later, and you’re wondering if maybe you’re not the guy to get the team there. ”
Miguel shifted closer. Not much, just enough that the faint scent of soap and beer reached me, clean and warm. “Maybe it’s not about being the guy,” he said. “Maybe it’s about building the team that can outlast you.”
I huffed a small laugh, rough but real. “You sound like a damn motivational poster.”
“Yeah,” he said with a half-smile, “but I mean it.”
“You’re wasted in the net. You should be doing TED Talks.”
He laughed, the sound low and easy, head tipping back slightly as he took another swallow of beer. The movement drew the light along the line of his throat, the flex of muscle as he swallowed.
Something in my chest tightened before I could look away.
What does that exposed flesh smell like? What would it be like if I flicked my tongue and traced the column of his neck?
I shuddered. Not in disgust, but because I thought I might love it.
Oh fuck! This is ridiculous!
I shifted my weight, pretending to study the label on my bottle. But the image stuck—the clean line of his neck, the warmth of skin that close.
I cleared my throat. “God, you goalies are wired different,” I said, aiming for humor and missing by a mile. “Craziest position in hockey.”
Miguel grinned, a small dimple cutting through the stubble on his cheek. “You think it’s crazy?” He laughed. “You say that like you’re just figuring it out.”
“I’m serious. You’ve got a pack of men skating forty miles an hour toward you, swinging sticks, and you stand there like you’re bulletproof. That’s not strategy. That’s insanity.”
“Maybe,” he said, lifting one shoulder. “Or faith.”
“In what?”
“In myself,” he said simply. “And in the idea that I belong there.”
His voice wasn’t defensive—just sure. It hit somewhere I didn’t expect.
He tipped the bottle back, then rested it lightly on the counter. “My brother used to say that, too. He was the first goalie I ever watched. Five years older, already playing when I was still trying to lace my sneakers, much less a pair of skates. I thought he was fearless.”
“Older brothers usually are,” I said quietly.
“Yeah,” Miguel said, his voice dipping. “He made it look easy—until it wasn’t. I wanted to be just like him. Same pads, same stance, same everything. So when I finally got my shot, I stayed in the crease and never left.”
I studied him—the quiet pride there, the shadow of something heavier underneath. “Guess that explains a lot.”
He nodded, then smiled faintly. “My parents didn’t get it at first. Hockey was nothing where they came from. My dad grew up in San Juan, my mom in Santo Domingo. They thought baseball, sure, maybe boxing. But ice?” He huffed a laugh. “Ice was something you put in a glass.”
“So how’d you both get started anyway?” I asked.
“Manu found it first,” he said. “There was this community rink across from the rec center near my mom’s school.
She taught Spanish there, and after class she’d pick us up.
One afternoon, Manu wandered inside to see what the noise was about—kids skating, music blaring through busted speakers.
The next thing I knew, he was begging to try. ”
“And she said yes?”
“Not right away. But the coach offered to loan him gear for a week, just to see if he liked it. By the end of the week, she was sewing name patches on a borrowed jersey.”
He smiled, distant. “I used to sit in the bleachers, feet swinging, watching him. When I was finally old enough to lace up, I copied everything he did. Same stance. Same number. He used to call me ‘Mini-Manu.’”
“That stuck?” I asked.
“For a while,” he said softly.
He took a slow sip of beer, eyes still far away.
“My mom cleaned the rink on weekends to cover our fees. My dad fixed the vending machines for extra ice time. They didn’t always understand it, but they never said no.
Guess that’s why quitting’s never been an option.
I just keep showing up and giving it all I’ve got. ”
Something in me went still. I wanted to tell him that was exactly what he did, every damn game—that most of the team trusted him more than they trusted themselves—but the words stuck somewhere between my chest and throat.
Five years of coaching and I still didn’t know if I was showing up for the right reasons.
For a heartbeat too long, I was aware of everything—the faint scrape of his bottle on the counter, the soft hum of the fridge, the scent of soap still clinging to his skin.
The slow rise and fall of his chest. The way the light hit the curve of his jaw, catching in the stubble that had grown in over the road trip.
Every detail sharp, like the world had narrowed to the space between us.
He leaned back slightly, easy and unguarded. My pulse kicked for no good reason.
I’m probably so exhausted my body doesn’t recognize itself. Travel messes with your head.
And it’s time to head home too.
But none of that explained why I couldn’t look away.
He smiled—a small, lopsided thing that short-circuited my brain—and I wondered if my being here did the same to him.
Miguel turned to the counter, opening a drawer with the easy familiarity of someone who lived alone. The kitchen wasn’t big—two steps and you could touch the stove, the sink, or the narrow breakfast bar that separated it from the living room.
He pulled out a small bowl, tore open a bag of pretzels, and poured a handful in. The sound—dry pieces clattering against ceramic—felt louder than it should have.
“Dinner of champions,” he said, sliding the bowl onto the stretch of counter between us.
“Perfect fit for our record,” I said, earning a small laugh.
The space barely fit the two of us.
When I reached for a pretzel, my knuckles brushed his—a small thing, almost nothing—but it jolted through me anyway. I froze, pulse spiking, every nerve suddenly aware of how close we were standing.
I pulled away quickly, as if I’d been burned.
He looked at me then, his dark brown eyes piercing my soul. The distance between us shrank without either of us moving.
My pulse picked up. A thrum low and unwelcome. Not fear exactly, just awareness. Heat where there shouldn’t be any.
He lifted one pretzel, bit down, and smiled like he hadn’t just lit something electric under my skin.
Jesus. Pull it together.
But even as I told myself that, I couldn’t help glancing down at his hand, inches from mine, and wondering what the hell was happening to me.
He broke the silence first.
“Hey,” he said lightly, as if nothing had happened. “My mom’s been threatening to send flan to the arena. You should just come by and try it before she mails it to the wrong coach.”
I huffed a laugh, grateful for the out, for something normal to grab onto. “Your mom makes flan?”
“Best you’ll ever have. She’ll take it personally if you disagree.”
“Dangerous territory.”
He shrugged, grin crooked. “So? You in?”
I should’ve said no. I had enough on my plate—practice schedules, scouting reports, the thousand things that kept me between the lines. But he was watching me with that open, patient kind of expectation that made it hard to look away.
“Tell you what,” I said, straightening. “You stop twenty-five shots next game, I’ll come eat your mom’s flan.”
His mouth curved wider. “You got yourself a deal, Coach.”
Something in the way he said my name made my throat go dry. Six years of feeling nothing since the crash, and suddenly I couldn’t stop feeling everything.
I’d built walls around myself. Loss, loneliness… but now? Now I feel the sheer, aching relief of having company that didn’t demand I be fine.
He reached past me again to toss our bottles in the recycling bin. His hand brushed my forearm this time. His eyes met mine.
I didn’t move.
A heartbeat. Two.
He stepped back first, breaking the current.
“I should go,” I said, though leaving was the last thing I wanted.
“Yeah.”
At the door, Miguel hovered—one hand on the frame, the other rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Thanks for the beer.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Anytime.”
I hesitated long enough to feel stupid, then turned down the hall. My pulse still hadn’t settled.
Six years without letting anyone get close. And tonight, a look, a touch had managed to shake something loose inside me, and I wasn’t sure what it was.
His grin stayed with me the whole drive home.