Chapter 17
Miguel
Energy buzzed through our home rink—first matchup of the season against Winnipeg, Trembley’s old team.
My focus narrowed until it was just me, the ice, and the blur of jerseys streaking across it.
Every save was a heartbeat, every rebound a test. Winnipeg came hard, desperate.
Maybe because Trembley used to wear their colors—nobody liked watching one of their own switch sides and shine brighter somewhere else.
He was electric tonight.
Relentless on the forecheck, reading plays two seconds ahead of everyone else.
He cut off passing lanes, turned broken plays into breakaways, and drew their defense out of position like it was a game of chess he’d already won.
Twice he dropped back to cover when our D pinched too deep—small things that never made highlight reels but won games anyway.
Every time our eyes met after a shift change, he gave the smallest nod. No panic or ego. Just we got this.
JB’s voice cut through the noise from the bench. “Heads up, Rodriguez—left side!”
Glove out. Caught clean. The puck smacked leather, familiar and sharp. I sent it down the line and reset.
The rhythm took over after that: save, pass, reset, repeat.
The kind of groove goalies live for. My shoulders burned, sweat sliding under my gear, but I didn’t mind.
Somewhere behind me, I could feel Drew’s presence.
He wasn’t yelling or pacing. Just watching.
Steady. The way you watch someone you trust not to screw up.
By the third period, we were up three–nothing, but the Wolves weren’t quitting. They came at us harder—stretch passes, bodies crashing the net, desperation leaking through every shot. I could feel it in my legs, in my lungs, in the way each save reverberated through my gear.
Then Trembley’s line jumped back on. He’d been all energy since puck drop—pure forecheck, no quit. He and Carter chased a loose puck into Winnipeg’s zone, both of them on it like wolves. Trembley stripped their defenseman clean behind the net, spun out, and fed the puck across the crease.
Carter was already there. He met the pass in one motion, a quick snap of his stick that sent the puck sailing high, over the goalie’s glove and into the back of the net.
The place erupted. Horn blaring, sticks clattering, that roar that hits you somewhere in the ribs and doesn’t let go.
“Hell yeah, T-Train!” Tank hollered, stick hammering against the boards.
“And Trigger with the finish!” Jester crowed, voice cracking over the roar.
Laughter burst down the bench, helmets thumping gloves.
I groaned behind my mask. “God help us, they’re naming people again.”
By the next shift, most of the bench was chanting it anyway.
Winnipeg looked rattled, but Trembley didn’t gloat. He just skated back to the bench with that calm, grounded look he always had—the kind that made the guys skate a little taller. That’s a captain, I thought. Even if he didn’t have the letter yet.
The final horn split the air, and everything inside me finally unclenched. My arms felt like lead, my legs like sandbags, lungs raw—but the scoreboard made it worth it. 4–0, Grizzlies.
Twenty-seven saves.
I’d done it.
I lifted my mask, breath fogging in front of me. Across the ice, Drew stood at the bench, one hand on his clipboard, the other gripping the railing. He wasn’t celebrating, not the way the others were. He was looking at me.
Steady. Focused.
And maybe a little proud.
Something in my stomach tightened. Not nerves, not exactly. Something else I didn’t want to look at too closely.
Coach JB clapped my shoulder pad as I skated past. “Nice work, Rodriguez.”
“Thanks, Coach.” My voice was hoarse. I meant it, but my eyes were already searching for Drew again.
He’d already turned away.
*****
Locker room air always hits different after a win—steam, sweat, the thud of pads hitting the floor, laughter spilling over each other. Trembley got mobbed first; Tank poured a water bottle over his head and yelled, “T-Train’s on fire tonight!”
“Cut it out,” Trembley said, grinning anyway. “You’ll ruin the hair I don’t have.”
“Best you’ve looked yet, Trembley. Keep it going,” JB told him, patting his shoulder before turning to the other forward. “You too, Carter. You did a damn good job.”
“Thanks.” Carter’s cheeks were a rosy shade of pink.
I could still hear Tank’s voice echoing: T-Train and Trigger.
It fit them—power and precision, motion and aim. Two pieces of the same rhythm.
Every team needed a line like that. Every goalie needed someone up front making the job feel possible.
That’s when the reporters came in—Eva Garcia leading the charge. She was impossible to miss, sharp suit, sharper smile. She’d been covering the PHL longer than most of us had been playing for the Grizzlies, but she had a way of putting you at ease even when the lights were blinding.
“Trembley,” she said, her voice warm but professional, “you played for the Wolves three seasons. What was it like facing your old team tonight?”
He smirked. “Guess it felt like coming home and finding out someone changed the locks.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
Eva turned slightly, mic angled toward Carter. “And you, Carter—two goals tonight, one on that picture-perfect feed from Trembley. The chemistry between you two seems almost telepathic. What’s the secret?”
Carter grinned, still breathing hard from the game. “No secret. We just play fast and trust each other. T-Train drives the lane, I pull the trigger.”
“Hence the nickname?” she said, amusement flickering in her eyes.
“Guess it’s sticking,” he admitted with a shrug.
More laughter rolled through the locker room.
Eva smiled, then turned to me. “Rodriguez, another shutout for the record books. What clicked for you tonight?”
I tried to sound composed. “We just kept it simple. Smart defense, clear communication. The guys in front of me made my job easy.”
“Modest, as always.” Her gaze flicked past me to Drew. “Coach, it seems like the Grizzlies are settling in early this season. Why is that?”
“Belief,” Drew said. Calm, controlled. “They believe in themselves—and each other.”
There was pride in his voice.
It shouldn’t have meant so much, but it did.
Eva thanked us and moved on. The microphones lowered, the cameras clicked off, and the chaos faded into small talk and the hiss of showers turning on.
I sank onto the bench, untying my pads. My body screamed, but it was a good hurt. Trembley dropped beside me, towel around his neck.
“Winnipeg’s probably crying in their Gatorade,” he said. “Feels good.”
“You earned it,” I told him. “Captain stuff.”
He glanced over, half-smiling. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
His grin deepened. “We’ll see what Coach thinks.”
Maybe I imagined it, but I thought I saw Drew watching us then—expression unreadable, eyes catching mine before he looked away.
JB clapped his hands. “Alright, boys, hydrate, rest up. Back at practice tomorrow.”
The team broke into small clusters. Trembley headed off for press follow-ups, a couple of reporters already flagging him down for extra quotes. Tank started his victory playlist, and I leaned back against my locker, letting the noise wash over me.
Drew stood a little apart, clipboard tucked under one arm, his other hand pushing through his hair the way he did when he was already thinking three steps ahead. The overhead lights caught on the edge of his profile—jaw tight, eyes shadowed, that calm focus that never seemed to slip.
He didn’t look my way again, but I couldn’t stop watching him. The broad line of his shoulders under his dress shirt. The trim waist. The solid power in his legs—the kind of strength that came from years of discipline, not vanity.
My pulse kicked.
Damn leftover adrenaline. The game was still humming in my veins. Maybe it was relief—the shutout, the crowd, the win, knowing I’d get to see my family soon.
But when he turned slightly, head angled toward JB, the muscles in his back flexed through the thin fabric and a breath caught in my throat before I could stop it.
I dropped my gaze fast, shaking it off.
Jesus. Get it together.
It’s just adrenaline.
That’s all.