Chapter 30
Miguel
Beau Trembley’s apartment sat a few blocks off Santa Monica Boulevard—a top-floor walk-up with wide glass doors, a balcony strung with warm lights, and a clean view of the city stretching out beyond the buildings.
Nothing flashy, nothing cluttered. Just…
nice. Nice enough that I couldn’t help thinking he came from the kind of family where places like this weren’t a stretch.
Inside, it smelled like takeout, leather, and the faint rubber bite of well-used gear bags. A few half-unpacked boxes were tucked neatly in a corner—evidence he’d only just settled in.
The team didn’t know him well yet. This was the first time he’d hosted anything.
Every couple weeks, someone took a turn.
Tank and Jester once talked their building manager into unlocking the communal grill after hours because they got it into their heads to grill at ten at night.
Justin usually claimed his turn by finding a cheap bar with enough TVs—his apartment was barely bigger than a closet.
I knocked on Trembley’s door.
“Hey, Maestro!” Trembley said, gesturing for me to enter the house.
“You guys started without me?” I joked over the music and got a chorus of responses.
The room’s energy hit me like warm air—laughter, shouting, the easy chaos that always came with these nights.
Tank had already sunk into the recliner, controller in hand, yelling at Jester, who was laughing hard enough to spill his drink.
JB was perched on a stool arguing calmly with Lily, the kind of argument that was more about the spark between them than whatever they were actually saying.
Trigger stood near the balcony doors, shoulders relaxed for once, accepting pats on the back from guys still buzzing about his goals against Omaha. His cheeks were a little pink, and he kept ducking his head—classic Devin, proud but shy about the attention.
I set the bakery box and chips I’d brought on the counter, slid my guitar case against the wall, and stepped further inside.
Beau handed me a soda, which I accepted with a smile.
The night unspooled easily—Mario Kart races, laughing about that double-header against Omaha, Tank swearing that Trigger’s second-period goal should’ve made the league highlight reel. We kept the talk simple, just the kind of stuff teammates say when they’re finally relaxing.
I’d come alone, of course. Even though I’d spent the past two weeks at Drew’s place more nights than not—his sweatshirt in my duffel, his cologne still clinging to my skin—we’d agreed showing up together would be asking for trouble.
Too obvious. Too soon. The team didn’t need to know that their coach and one of their wingers were figuring out how to be us outside the dark, quiet corners of his apartment.
So I came solo, carrying chips and a smile, pretending it didn’t feel strange to be here without him beside me. Pretending I wasn’t counting the seconds until he walked in.
I was mid-swig of soda when the room shifted.
Not in volume—just in attention.
That tiny, instinctive dip in energy that happens when the coach walks in.
Drew filled the doorway in a burgundy hoodie and a ballcap, balancing two boxes of pizza and a case of sparkling water like he’d intuited what the room needed. His gaze moved over everyone—Tank, Jester, Trigger—and then landed on me.
A heartbeat.
Too long.
Too warm.
The kind of look that found me even in a crowd.
I felt it all the way to my ribs.
And then, just as quickly, his coach mask slid into place. His mouth curved into an easy smile meant for the room, not for me.
I forced myself to look down, to take another sip of soda like nothing had happened. Better to be careful. Better to breathe slowly and pretend every nerve in me wasn’t suddenly awake.
“Coach!” Beau called, bright and grateful. “You made it!”
Drew lifted the pizza boxes in a small salute.
“Wouldn’t miss it; you’ve got a good setup here,” he said, voice steady, eyes already moving past me.
But I caught the smallest thing—his thumb brushing the edge of one box like he needed to do something with his hands.
I knew that tell. I’d seen it when he was trying not to reach for me.
“Still breaking it in,” Beau said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Tonight’s the test run.”
The night settled back into its easy rhythm after that—conversation drifting, music humming low, people breaking off into small groups the way teammates do when they’re comfortable.
Tank and JB set up a card game at the bar-height counter, dealing fast and talking faster.
Lily drifted between them and Jester, who had commandeered the TV to replay a ridiculous save from practice.
Devin and Beau disappeared onto the balcony with sodas, still buzzing from the Omaha sweep.
I hung close to the living-room crowd, leaning against the arm of the couch. From across the room, Drew laughed at something Beau said, the sound warm and unguarded in a way I didn’t hear often at the rink. It slid under my ribs before I had time to brace for it.
A few minutes later, someone tugged a stack of board games from a half-open box near the TV. Cards, dice, trivia, a couple party games—the kind of random mix guys toss into a shopping cart their first week in a new city. Everyone drifted into small circles.
“Pictionary?” Beau asked, lifting the pad.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m in.”
It ended up being just four of us around the coffee table—me, Drew, Beau, and Devin—kneeling on the rug, the markers rolling between the legs of the table.
"House rules?” Devin asked.
Beau shrugged. “No words, no letters, thirty-second timer, and you’re not allowed to yell at the artist. Even if they deserve it.”
“That last part feels targeted,” I said.
“Probably is,” Beau replied.
Drew settled beside me, close but not close enough to draw attention. Our knees almost touched.
Almost.
Beau drew first—quick, confident strokes.
Devin squinted, then snapped his fingers. “Snowman.”
I raised a brow. “Okay, that one was obvious.”
Devin grinned. “It’s the hat. Hats give everything away.”
Then it was our turn.
Drew picked up the marker. He glanced at me—quick, subtle, a silent ready?
It shouldn’t have made my chest warm. But it did.
He sketched fast: a square, a peaked triangle roof, a little chimney, a set of lines that looked like steps.
“House,” I said.
He shook his head once.
“Cabin?”
He nodded.
“Cabin,” he confirmed, more softly than necessary.
A pulse of warmth hit my chest before I could suppress it.
“Alright,” Devin said, grabbing the pad from him. “I’m up.”
Beau leaned back on his hands. “You guessed that fast.”
I shrugged lightly. “It was a cabin. Not rocket science.”
“Still,” Beau said, “nice pull.”
Normal praise.
Nothing pointed or exposing.
I let out a slow breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Devin cracked his knuckles dramatically. “Alright. Time to challenge you clowns.”
He drew fast, messy curves, a long shape, little circles around it.
Beau frowned. “Uh… a worm? No. A… submarine? No, wait—hot air balloon?”
Devin barked a laugh. “Dude. That is a hot air balloon. Yes.”
“Okay, but you drew it like it’s melting,” Beau said.
“It’s called style,” Devin said.
We all cracked up.
My turn.
I picked up the top card. Lighthouse.
I bent over the page, drew the tall column, then the little room up top, then the light beams slicing outward. No letters or waves. Nothing that would get me disqualified.
Drew leaned closer, studying it like it was a scouting video. “Building… tower… water tower…” He squinted. “Fire tower?”
Beside us, Beau let out a low whistle—not because he knew the word, but maybe because even he could tell the guesses were circling the target without hitting it. “Tough one.”
“Ten seconds,” Devin added.
I made the beams bolder. Sharper. More obvious.
Drew squinted, forehead creasing the way it did on the bench when he was trying to understand why a play broke down.
“Signal post? Beacon? Radar—”
Devin tapped the pad. “Time.”
I exhaled and flipped the card. “Lighthouse.”
Drew sat back with a short breath. He wasn’t irritated, or frustrated. Just… thoughtful.
Then he looked at me, and the whole room pulled into a quieter focus.
“That was a good drawing,” he said softly, like it was a private correction between periods. “My brain just didn’t get there fast enough.”
And there it was—the difference.
Rink-Drew was sharp, decisive, relentless. If you missed an assignment, he’d break it down, replay it, push you until the fix stuck. He wasn’t cruel—never cruel—but exacting.
This Drew—the one sitting next to me on a rug in someone else’s living room—he let the miss sit without turning it into a lesson.
Just an easy acceptance that the world wouldn’t end because we lost a point in a game that meant nothing.
That gentleness landed deep—not in a vague, fluttery way, but in something solid. A warmth low in my stomach, the kind you feel when you realize someone sees you in more than one dimension.
Beau clapped once. “Still a good pull, Coach. You guys’ll get the next one.”
Drew breathed out a soft laugh. He bumped my shoulder, quick and warm. “Next round,” he said quietly, “I’m trusting your instincts again.”
Something in me unknotted at that. Not because of the game—because of him.