Chapter 30 #2
We played a few more rounds—easy, competitive, with the kind of banter that comes from trust and familiarity. Nothing said out loud crossed a line, but between guesses and laughter, Drew’s knee brushed mine several times during the game. Deliberate or not, it lingered.
When the game wound down and Beau stood to stretch, a little lull opened—that natural shift where people wandered toward fresh drinks, the balcony, the couch, whatever was next.
And without thinking, I retrieved my guitar from the corner. I strummed a few test chords, letting the strings settle under my fingers. Music always came easy—steadier than adrenaline, warmer than the buzz sitting under my ribs after a win.
The weight of it settled against my thigh like a familiar exhale. I strummed a few warm-up chords, the sound smoothing something inside me.
“What you got for us, Maestro?” Beau asked.
I launched into a soft cover of a song we all knew—something classic enough the whole room could hum along. Heads nodded. Shoulders loosened. Even Sam’s expression thawed a little.
When I finished, JB let out a low whistle. “Our resident rock star. You get better every time.”
Jester added, “Rock star and goalie. Man collecting careers.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, too even, too sharp beneath the surface. “Not sure how playing guitar benefits your hockey skills.”
The energy shifted—not a crash, just a faint drop. Enough for everyone to feel it.
“Consistency comes from confidence,” Drew said, voice level. “And confidence comes from a team that backs each other.” He tapped the empty pizza box with two fingers, light, deliberate. “So let’s keep it respectful.”
A beat.
The message was clear: Watch your mouth.
And at the same time it was subtle.
A warning wrapped in a coach’s tone.
But Sam heard it. Everyone did.
I swallowed, my throat tight in the best way.
Sam’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look at me again.
A quiet pride bloomed low in my chest—warm, startling, a little dangerous.
“All right,” Beau clapped, breaking the tension. “Encore!”
“Yeah, Maestro,” Jester said. “Something that’ll get us in our feelings.”
“You sure?” I teased.
“Bro,” Jester said, hand to heart, “my feelings have feelings.”
So I shifted the guitar.
Softened the chords.
Let the melody slide into something Latin Caribbean, warm and familiar. Bad Bunny—stripped down, acoustic, gentle enough that even the guys who didn’t speak a word of Spanish leaned in.
Lily made a little sound of delight. JB tapped the beat against his knee. Devin whispered, “Damn.”
When the chorus came, the room tried to sing along—a messy blend of accents and half-remembered lyrics—and I couldn’t stop smiling. Drew didn’t sing, but his eyes stayed on me long enough that it felt like a song all by itself.
He looked away before anyone noticed.
But I caught it.
I always did.
When the song ended, Tank threw his arms up. “That’s it. I’m leaving my job to become your manager.”
The laughter rolled again, bright and easy and loud enough that for a second, I forgot Drew and I were hiding anything at all.
I let myself believe we could stay in this pocket forever.
Just the team. Just the warmth. Just the man I couldn’t touch in public leaning against the counter like he belonged in the same room as me.
Because he did.
And because every second of this—even the hidden parts—was worth it.
Later, when I slipped outside for air, the balcony was quiet except for the hum of traffic below.
The breeze carried the salt tang of the coast, cool enough to raise goosebumps along my arms. I leaned on the railing, letting the noise of the living room fade behind me, letting myself be Miguel, not Maestro or the goalie, not the secret.
A moment later, the door clicked open.
I didn’t have to turn.
I felt Drew before I saw him. That subtle shift in the air, the grounded weight he always carried.
He came to stand beside me, not touching, but close enough that the warmth of him skimmed along my side. We looked out at the sprawl of lights, at the city that had no idea what we were to each other.
“You play like you’re trying to seduce half the room.”
I huffed a laugh. “Only one person was supposed to notice.”
“I noticed.”
His tone—warm, rough, threaded with want—hit me in the spine.
“Careful, Coach,” I said quietly. “Someone might think you like me.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m not subtle. I just pretend I am.”
“You’re subtle to everyone else,” I said. “Just… not to me.”
His breath hitched. Barely. But I felt it.
“You ever think about… later?” he asked suddenly.
“Later?”
“After all this. After the hiding. After whatever storm might come our way.”
I studied him—the way the city lights reflected in his eyes, the worry sitting just under the surface.
“You’re scared,” I said softly.
“Terrified,” he admitted. “Not of being with you. Just… of what the world might do with it.”
My throat tightened. “Me too.”
He nodded, almost relieved I’d said it out loud.
“But then I think about waking up next to you,” he said. “And everything gets a little less… impossible.”
The words hit me like a warm hand closing gently around my heart.
“I don’t need a perfect future,” I said. “Just one with you in it.”
He smiled, the kind he didn’t give away lightly.
“We’ll get there,” he whispered. “Even if we have to crawl.”
I laughed under my breath. “You planning to crawl anywhere with that knee?”
He nudged me softly with his elbow. “Smartass.”
But his smile didn’t fade.
He turned slightly, just enough that our arms aligned.
“I wish,” he whispered, “that I could touch you right now. Just… reach over. Take your hand. Pull you close.”
Heat shot through me—sharp, deliberate, unmistakable.
“I’d let you,” I said. “Anytime.”
He laughed under his breath—a small, shaken sound. “Not here.”
“No,” I agreed. “Not here.”
But God, the temptation hung between us like humidity, thick and tense.
He stayed quiet for a moment, watching the city, watching the life neither of us felt entirely part of.
“I want a future with you,” he said softly. “I don’t know what it looks like. I don’t know if it’s possible. But I want it.”
My pulse stuttered.
Because that wasn’t lust.
Or secrecy.
That was truth.
“You don’t need to know the whole future,” I said. “Just the part where we’re in it together.”
He looked at me then, eyes warm, vulnerable in a way he’d never let anyone else see.
“You make that sound easy,” he murmured.
“It won’t be easy,” I said. “But it’ll be worth it.”
He nodded, slow, steady, like he was committing the words to memory. Our fingers brushed, the slightest shift, deliberate on both sides, a touch no one could see but everything inside me felt.
Behind us, someone shouted about drinks. Laughter spilled through the door.
He didn’t move away.
Neither did I.
For a few breaths, we stood there—a quiet ache, a promise, a future neither of us could name yet but both of us wanted.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a murmur.
“Worth every damn second.”
I exhaled, something deep in me settling.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Me too.”