Chapter 24
Miguel
Coach: Proud of you last night.
My thumbs moved before my brain did.
Me: Thanks, Coach. Glad to hear that.
Delivered.
But the three dots didn’t appear.
Drew’s text sat on my screen and I stared at it way too long for a five-word message.
Okay, that’s normal. Drew isn’t the type to sit on his phone all morning.
He was probably already at video review or going over clip breakdowns or doing whatever head coaches did the day after a win.
It didn’t stop me from checking my phone again two minutes later.
And again.
And again.
At the gym, I moved through my sets—stretch, balance work, a few sprints—just muscle memory doing its job while my head was anywhere but here.
I did the reps. I stretched what I was supposed to stretch. I laughed when I was supposed to laugh.
But my head wasn’t here.
It was back on the ice last night—Drew behind the bench, one hand on the rail, eyes locked on me like I was the only thing moving. It was in the buzz of my phone this morning. It was in the silence that followed.
By the time I hit the showers, the room had mostly cleared. Steam hung heavy in the air, water hitting tile in steady rhythm. I sat on the bench, towel slung around my neck, and checked my phone again.
Still nothing. No reply. No read receipt.
Still nothing. No messages from Drew… not even one.
I typed: You okay?
Deleted it.
Typed: Everything good?
Deleted that, too.
I don’t know why I was nervous. It’s not like we hadn’t crossed every possible line already. The kiss. The way he looked at me after. The way I still felt that look in my skin. The way I wanted to kiss him again. The way I wanted more.
Finally I just wrote what I meant.
Me: Haven’t heard from you. Getting a little worried. You good?
Send.
I waited, pretending not to wait.
Nothing.
Something in my stomach went tight.
Screw it.
I pulled on jeans, a soft black tee, zipped a hoodie over it, jammed a beanie on my still-damp hair, and grabbed my keys.
If he was fine, I’d get chirped at for being dramatic. If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t find that out by waiting for a read receipt that wasn’t coming.
By the time I left the rink, the sky was the color of cooling steel.
I ordered a rideshare, and luckily, the driver wasn’t the kind that was chatty. The city moved past the window in quiet streaks of light—shop signs, palm trees bending in the evening wind, people heading somewhere that wasn’t heavy.
I told myself I was just checking in. Making sure he was okay.
But the truth sat heavy in my chest: I needed to see him. To know for myself… if he was okay.
When the car stopped outside his place, I thanked the driver, stepped out, and the air hit cool against my face. My heart was pounding harder than it should have for someone just walking up a set of stairs.
I knocked once, then again.
For a few seconds, nothing. Then I heard the lock turn.
Drew opened the door.
And he stood there barefoot in sweats and a gray hoodie, sleeves shoved to his elbows.
He looked… worn, but not destroyed. The kind of tired that lives deep, like he’d carried something all day and hadn’t found a place to set it down.
His eyes were a little red around the rims, his hair tousled, a few strands falling over his forehead.
He still looked stupid good. The kind of good that made my chest forget how to work for a second… and that he was my coach.
“Hey,” I said. “You didn’t answer my messages, so I figured I’d check in.”
He gave a small nod, his voice low. “Yeah. Sorry about that.” He stepped back. “Come in.”
I’d been here before, but the place felt different tonight. Quieter in a way that wasn’t about sound was the best way I could describe it.
The lamp by the couch cast a soft amber glow across the room. On the coffee table sat an open photo album, pages spread wide, a few loose pictures stacked beside it.
I glanced toward Drew. “Your family?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
He lowered himself onto the couch. I joined him, leaving a respectful space between us.
He slid a photo free from its sleeve and showed it to me. “Laura,” he said.
God. The way he said her name… not as if he was broken, more like reverent. Like he was tasting every memory it carried.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
And it was true. You could feel her goodness through the picture, like she was one of those people who made a room lighter just by standing in it. And that was beauty personified.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “She hated that picture. Said her hair looked like a storm cloud.”
“She was wrong,” I said. “She looks perfect.”
He let out a soft sound—half a laugh, half a breath. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She was.” He set the photo down with care.
He slid another photo free.
A little girl this time—round cheeks and wild curls, and big brown eyes. A grin that could’ve lit a whole rink. Her small hand reaching for whoever had been behind the camera. She couldn’t have been older than two.
“She’s adorable,” I said. There was something radiant in her face.
Drew almost smiled, the kind of half-smile that comes from remembering something you’ll never forget.
His thumb brushed over the corner of the photo, a small, careful motion.
“We wanted her for a long time. Years of trying. Tests, shots, calendars, all of it. There were months when Laura would sit on the bathroom floor and cry, and I’d just hold her because there wasn’t anything else to do.
We kept hoping, even when hope felt stupid. Then one day, it worked.”
He laughed softly—one exhale that sounded more like wonder than sadness. “When we found out, I thought I already loved her. But when I held her for the first time, I learned there’s more than one kind of love that can fill a heart—and somehow it never runs out.”
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His voice carried everything that mattered.
He set the picture back in the sleeve, his fingers lingering on it for a second longer than necessary.
“It’s been six years today,” he said. His tone wasn’t heavy, just factual. The kind of truth that had already settled into his bones.
Six years of waking up without them. Of carrying love that had nowhere to land.
He set the photo down and pressed his palm to the page, the movement careful, almost tender.
“I went to see them today,” he said. “Brought flowers. Talked to them.” He paused, like he was searching for the words. “Told them… told them I think I might be ready to live again.”
Something in his tone made me stop breathing for a second. It wasn’t raw or shaky, just showing the weight of the day.
“I’m glad you did,” I said. My voice felt steady, even though my chest didn’t. “They’d want to hear from you.”
A small nod. A tear slipped free and tracked down his cheek before he brushed it away. That was it. Just a man letting himself feel something without drowning in it.
I shifted closer. “Hey,” I said softly, and when he didn’t move away, I let my arm slide around his back. He leaned in, the way people do when they’re too tired to pretend they’re fine.
His forehead rested against my shoulder, his breath shaking once, twice, then finding a rhythm again.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured. “Respira, Drew. Solo respira.”
He let out a rough sound—not quite a sob, or a sigh—and exhaled.
His hand came up, fisted in the edge of my hoodie, more to anchor himself than anything else.
We stayed like that for a long moment. The air between us felt different now, softer somehow, like grief had made room for something gentler.
I adjusted just enough so he could rest more comfortably, his weight fitting naturally against mine.
His voice came out low, almost slurred with exhaustion. “Thank you.”
“Siempre,” I whispered. Always.
After a while his shoulders eased. The hard tension in his grip softened. His breathing evened out—slow in, slow out.
He didn’t let go, though.
Good. I’m not planning to move anyway.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time got weird and slow around us, in a way that felt… safe. Outside, the night moved on. Inside, it felt like peace.
And softly, he drifted off to sleep.
With my free hand I reached up and brushed a few strands of hair off his forehead.
Couldn’t help it.
I bent and pressed a slow, careful kiss to the top of his head.
“Duérmete,” I whispered into his hair. “Rest. I’ve got you.”
On the coffee table, his whole world was laid out in photos—his wife’s smile, his daughter’s little hand reaching out. The life he’d had. The love he’d lost.
And here he was, curled into me.
Trusting me with the part that still hurt.
I held him, feeling his breaths, and let the realization settle in:
I was already gone for this man.