Chapter 27
Drew
The studio still smelled like coffee and old foam padding, the same round table and black mics in their usual places. Only one thing had changed—the air. It buzzed now, alive with something neither of us had named yet.
Miguel sat across from me, headphones around his neck, fingertips tapping a muted rhythm against the tabletop. His grin was easy, but when our eyes met, there was something new there—heat, memory, the echo of skin against skin.
Jester was supposed to join him today, but a last-minute family emergency had taken him out of town.
So once again it was just me and Miguel filling the slot.
The last time that happened, I’d been all nerves and rough edges.
This time, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Miguel’d whispered te deseo in my ear.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Let’s make it a good one.”
The red light glowed to life. Showtime.
“Welcome back to Roaring Success—your behind-the-scenes look at the L.A. Grizzlies,” Miguel began, smooth and professional. “I’m Miguel ‘Maestro’ Rodriguez, and today I’m joined by our head coach, Drew Mackenzie.”
I leaned toward the mic. “Appreciate the invite, Maestro. Guess it’s your turn behind the mic this week.”
He laughed under his breath, soft enough the mic barely caught it. “You know I need backup, Coach.”
The way he said Coach hit different now—soft, like it meant more than it used to. My pulse ticked faster.
We started with the obvious.
“Six straight wins,” I said. “That’s a good run by any standard.”
Miguel nodded. “Feels like everything’s clicking. Defense clearing the slot, forwards actually remembering what backcheck means.”
“And the goalie?”
He smirked. “Doing his job. Most days.”
I let a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “You’ve been the backbone of this streak. What’s been working?”
“Focus,” he said. “We’ve been keeping things simple in front of the net. Trusting the system. When the team trusts, I can see the ice better. The rest follows.”
I nodded. “From behind the bench, that’s exactly it—trust. Discipline. Little details adding up. There’s always more to tighten, but right now, everyone’s locked in. You can feel it.”
Our knees brushed under the table. He didn’t move his away, and neither did I.
Next segment.
“We’ve got Omaha twice this weekend,” Miguel said. “The Spartans like to crowd the net, crash hard for rebounds. Big, physical team.”
“They hit to make you feel it,” I said. “They’ll test patience.”
“Guess I’ll have to remind them the crease is mine.”
“Make sure you do.”
He grinned. “They move quick off the break, but if we stay tight through center, they’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Two-game road trip. Let’s take the first and earn the sweep.”
Fan-question stack next. He shuffled the cards. “Alright, here’s one for me: ‘What’s the hardest save for a goalie?’”
He read it aloud, then looked to me like he already had the answer.
“The next one,” he said. “Always the next one. Doesn’t matter how many you stopped before—if you’re still thinking about the last one, you’re already late.”
That line hit something deep. I’d said almost the same thing to him once in practice about coaching decisions—how you can’t fixate on yesterday’s mistake. Our eyes met, long enough for it to feel like too much for a live mic.
Then he flipped to another card. “Coach, you’ve got one.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He hesitated just a fraction. “A fan asks… how you handle the holidays after losing your family.”
The air in the booth went still. Even the hum of the monitors seemed to fade.
I breathed once, slow. The ache never left; it just changed shape.
“I remember them,” I said quietly. “I try to make space for the good parts. Some years that’s harder than others. But lately…” I glanced at Miguel. “Lately I’ve learned that sometimes the people you least expect are the ones fate brings along to help you heal.”
Under the table, his fingers brushed mine. A light touch—quick, grounding.
“Beautifully said,” he murmured, not for the audience, just for me.
The red light blinked, signaling the next segment.
He cleared his throat. “Okay, before we both cry on air—top threes. Movies, songs, snacks. Ready?”
I smiled, grateful for the shift. “You start.”
“Top three hockey movies,” Miguel said. “Miracle, Goon, Mystery, Alaska.”
“Good list,” I said. “I’ll swap Goon for The Mighty Ducks. You’re too young to appreciate real underdog hockey.”
He laughed. “You just dated yourself, Coach.”
“That’s experience, not age.”
“Pump-up songs?”
I shrugged. “Springsteen—‘Born to Run.’ AC/DC—‘Back in Black.’ Tom Petty—‘Runnin’ Down a Dream.’”
Miguel grinned. “You’re basically a classic rock station.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Bad Bunny, Ozuna, something with enough bass to rattle the glass?”
“You know me too well, Coach.”
The way he said it—low, familiar—made something inside me tighten in the best way.
The rest of the podcast flowed easily. We finished with predictions:
“Two wins,” Miguel said. “One shutout. I’ll expect tacos as payment.”
“Two wins,” I said. “No brawls. And if you get that shutout, I’ll cook ’em myself.”
He grinned. “Careful, Coach, I’m holding you to that.”
The red light went dark. Recording over.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he reached across the table, slipped my headset off, and set it down beside his. His fingers brushed the side of my neck, slow and deliberate.
“Good episode,” he said softly.
“Yeah.” My voice felt rough. “Good partner.”
His smile was small and it undid me anyway.
Miguel leaned back in his chair, stretching, the fabric of his T-shirt pulling tight across his chest. His headset sat askew on the table between us, cords tangled like we’d left a piece of ourselves in the static.
“Guess we survived another one,” he said, voice rough with that post-record rasp.
“Yeah, we did,” I answered, smiling despite myself.
He reached out, brushed a thumb over the back of my hand where it rested on the table—just a ghost of a touch, quick enough that if anyone walked in, it could’ve been nothing.
It wasn’t nothing.
I stood, gathering the notes. “You’ve got practice in an hour.”
“Yeah,” he said, still watching me. “You coming?”
“I’m the coach, aren’t I?”
It came out dry, but he heard what sat under it.
His grin deepened, the one that always started crooked and ended up dangerous.
*****
The rink air hit like cold steel.
The team loosened up, sticks tapping, laughter bouncing off the boards. I moved through drills—clear, steady, professional—but my focus kept drifting to the crease.
Miguel moved like a storm contained inside glass: all balance and heat and control. Every save was clean, each drop to his knees fluid, economical. When the puck snapped against his pad and shot wide, he rose in one motion, eyes already on the next play.
I’d coached a lot of goalies. None of them made my pulse trip the way he did.
JB skated past me with a smirk. “Coach looks impressed.”
“Coach looks busy,” I said.
JB blew the whistle. The session wrapped, chatter scattering across the ice.
As the players filed out, Miguel caught my gaze from the far end of the rink. Nothing blatant—just a look that found its mark and stayed there.
He peeled off his blocker, raised a hand in a quick salute, and vanished down the tunnel.
I stayed another minute, listening to the echo fade. Then I exhaled, slow and even, and told myself to focus on the next thing.
By the time I got home, the apartment was dim, washed in the gold light that came right before sunset. I’d barely kicked off my shoes when a knock sounded—three quick raps. Familiar. Confident.