Chapter 21
Six years of silence, and the first spark to reach me was him.
I didn’t know what that meant.
Only that it terrified me.
And worse—it didn’t feel wrong.
The water continued to beat down, relentless, tracing every line of muscle.
I hoped it would eventually wash away my thoughts of him.
It didn't. If anything, the privacy made it worse.
Heat pooled low in my gut, stubborn, undeniable.
My hand drifted downward of its own accord, and I cursed under my breath. This wasn't helping me forget.
Stop thinking about him. But the command had no weight anymore.
I closed my eyes, but that was a mistake. Miguel’s face appeared immediately—those knowing eyes, that teasing smile. I groaned, my hand moving faster now, chasing the memory of his voice, American English colored by Caribbean Spanish melody. Even the scent of his cologne.
“Goddamn it,” I muttered, bowing my head. I wasn’t seventeen. I wasn’t free to feel like this. He was my player. I was supposed to know better.
But want didn’t care about rules. It never had.
I braced my other arm against the tile wall as my body tensed. My release came with a rush of longing so intense I had to bite back his name. As the evidence washed down the drain, I knew I was still just as screwed as before.
After, I toweled dry and pulled on sweats. The bedroom waited dark and still. I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the faint city light bleeding through the blinds.
I tried to name what I was feeling. Shock. Guilt. Want. I’d spent years filing emotions into neat boxes: grief, anger, duty. This didn’t fit any of them.
The phone was on the nightstand. I reached for it before I realized what I was doing. My thumb hovered over his name. Rodriguez. I didn’t even know what I wanted to say. Sorry I crossed a line? Sorry I didn’t stop? Sorry I want to do it again?
I rested the phone face down, as if that could muffle the noise in my head.
Practice was in the morning. Whatever this was, it couldn’t bleed onto the ice. By sunlight, we had to be coach and player again—ordinary, professional, unreadable.
Sleep came in thin strips—on, off, on again—until gray light pried its way through the blinds. My throat burned like I’d argued with someone in my dreams and lost.
I dressed for work—hoodie, track pants, sneakers. When I passed the mirror by the door, I caught my reflection: eyes shadowed, jaw tight, older than I’d felt yesterday.
JB’s truck was already in the lot when I pulled in. Typical. The man treated punctuality like a blood sport.
Morning skates on game day were supposed to be light—twenty minutes of puck movement, line drills, a few special-teams reps. Nothing heavy. Just enough to keep legs warm and hands sharp. We didn’t even call it “practice.” Just morning skate.
Still, my stomach was tight by the time I hit the ice.
The rink hummed with low energy when I walked in—skates cutting lazy arcs, the hollow thud of pucks off boards. JB was already at the bench, clipboard under his arm, running through line adjustments with one of the video guys.
Across the ice, Miguel was with one of the trainers, stretching through his warm-up routine. Helmet off, pads half-strapped, hair damp. He laughed at something the guy said, and that sound—a quiet, unguarded one—almost undid me.
That laugh had an abundance of warmth in a place built for cold. My pulse kicked, and for a heartbeat I almost forgot where I was.
Then muscle memory took over. Breathe, Drew. Focus. Do what you’re paid to do.
I forced my gaze away, clapping my hands. “Let’s get moving, boys. Keep it light. Don’t blow your legs before tonight.”
Sticks tapped. The trainer cleared the ice, and Miguel slid into the crease, pulling his helmet on and snapping the straps beneath his chin. The familiar rhythm started up—the thud of pucks against boards, the hiss of blades cutting tight turns.
Except it wasn’t.
Every time Miguel dropped into a butterfly, I saw the curve of his neck from last night.
Every glove save, the stretch of muscle under his jersey.
He caught me looking once—just once—and for a split second, the world narrowed.
His eyes met mine through the cage, unreadable, and then he looked away, resetting his stance.
My chest felt too tight inside my hoodie.
“Coach,” JB called. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing with Tank’s footwork?”
I blinked hard, dragging myself back to the present. “Yeah. He’s a half-step slow on recovery. Have him shorten the push.”
“Got it.” JB skated off.
By the end of the skate, I’d barely said a word to Miguel, and maybe that was the problem. The silence felt heavier than any talk would’ve been. When the whistle blew, the guys clattered off the ice, chatter echoing through the tunnel. Miguel lingered, finishing a stretch near the crease.
Just wait till they’re gone. Give him space. Keep it professional.
Calling out the goalie in front of the team? That'd draw attention.
Liar.
That wasn’t the truth.
The truth was simpler—and worse. I was drawn to him in ways I hadn't been to anyone in years.
The truth was, I knew if I didn't resist this temptation, it could wreck us both, because I’d just realised another truth.
That kiss wasn't one-sided. The way he whispered my name, the way his breath hitched—he’d wanted it too.
I should go. Clear my head. Figure out how to fix this before either of us made a mistake we couldn’t take back.
But my feet didn’t care about logic. They were already moving.
Toward him.
“Rodriguez.”
He straightened, mask dangling from one hand. “Coach.” His voice was careful—neutral—but his gaze flicked to my mouth before he caught himself. The muscle in his jaw ticked, just once.
“You good?” I asked, aiming for steady. It came out rougher than I wanted.
He nodded. “Always, Coach.”
A beat too fast.
I folded my arms. “Are you sure about that?”
His eyes lifted, meeting mine head-on. For a second, the space between us shrank.
“I’m fine,” he said quietly. “You?”
“Yeah,” I managed. “I’m fine.”
We both knew it was a lie. The air felt crowded with everything we weren’t saying.
He shifted his stick from one hand to the other. “Guess I’ll see you tonight, then.”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Keep your head clear.”
“You too, Coach.”
The corner of his mouth lifted—just barely—and then he turned, skating toward the tunnel. The scrape of his blades echoed long after he was gone, leaving me alone with the sound of my own pulse in the cold.