Chapter 31
Drew
Six months of hockey had carried us here—six months of wins, losses, long road trips, late practices, bruises blooming purple along ribs and shins. Six months of climbing the standings until we finished second in the Western Conference, higher than this team had reached in years.
And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, four months of Miguel had slipped into my life so quietly I didn’t notice the shift until it was complete.
Four months of shared mornings, quiet dinners, his music drifting through my house, his hand brushing mine in the dark.
Four months of routines that felt like a life we weren’t allowed to name.
The playoffs came early in April, and everything sharpened.
Chicago led the series 2–1—best of five—and if we wanted to advance, we had to take both games on their home ice.
Pressure like that used to hollow me out. This year, it just made every breath feel tighter. More urgent. More possible.
At O’Hare, we collected our bags and loaded onto the bus for the short ride to the hotel. The guys were loose, talking systems, chirping each other, half running on adrenaline and half on exhaustion.
Miguel bumped my shoulder lightly as we walked to the hotel. “You good?” he asked.
I nodded. “You?”
His smile was quick. “As long as you’re mine.”
It still surprised me sometimes—how easy it felt with him. How much harder the road trips had gotten since he started sleeping in my bed. Every time we traveled, we had to step backwards into distance and caution. Tonight would’ve been the same.
But fate had other plans.
The lobby buzzed with travel noise—rolling suitcases, tired voices, the sharp scent of espresso drifting from the café. We filed toward the front desk in loose clusters. A woman in a navy blazer straightened when she saw our group approach, a stack of pre-programmed room keys waiting beside her.
“Welcome, Los Angeles Grizzlies,” she said with a professional smile. “We have your rooming list here. Just a small note before we begin—there was an issue with two of the doubles in your block. I’m very sorry for the inconvenience.”
Tank exhaled through his nose. He hated surprises.
She began reading from the list.
“Room 415—Terrence Tanner and Devin Carter.”
Tank gave a short nod.
Devin lifted a shoulder. “Guess we’re roomies tonight,” he said—nothing more than practical acceptance.
“Because Mr. Tremblay isn’t traveling with the active roster,” she continued, “his room was removed from the block. And unfortunately, one of the remaining doubles had a plumbing issue this afternoon, so we had to take it out of service. That left us short.”
That tracked. Beau’s shoulder hadn’t recovered after that hit in Phoenix, and with Chicago booked solid for playoff week, the hotel didn’t have a spare double to replace it.
She checked the next line. “Room 417—Miguel Rodriguez. King bed.”
Miguel blinked. “I’m by myself?”
“My apologies again,” she said gently. “It was the only single left available. It does have a connecting door, if there’s anything you need. And your neighbor is — ”
Her eyes returned to the list.
“Room 419 — Andrew Mackenzie.”
I kept my reaction flat, neutral. Coach face. Nothing more.
She kept reading—trainers, equipment staff, the rest of the roster—while the team started peeling off toward the elevators with their envelopes.
Miguel shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. For half a second, his eyes found mine.
Not a smile, or even a full look. Just… awareness.
A quiet current passing between us.
“See you upstairs,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” I answered. “See you.”
And for the first time on an away trip, distance wasn’t the rule anymore.
A single door—and in the reservation system—had rewritten the night.
The elevator ride was all noise—guys arguing about dinner, Tank complaining that Chicago air “smelled like someone left a fridge open.”
But under all of it was that pulse in my chest, steady and bright, because for the first time on the road, Miguel and I weren’t separated by distance we had to pretend was natural.
On the fourth floor, we split. The guys drifted away in pairs, keys clicking, doors swinging shut. Miguel disappeared into 417. I forced myself into 419.
Coach first. Everything else after.
I unpacked what needed to be unpacked—suit, shoes, my tablet with the game notes. I changed into practice gear, grabbed my clipboard, and headed back downstairs.
The rink was ten minutes away, an easy ride.
Optional skate, nothing heavy. The guys moved well, loose but focused, the way you want a team to look before an elimination game. Miguel tracked pucks clean, eyes sharp, movements tight and economical.
Every time he looked my way, something under my ribs tugged—quiet, fierce, steady.
We finished with a walkthrough, systems talk, reminders about Chicago’s forecheck. By the time we got back to the hotel, the sun was dipping and fatigue was settling into everyone’s shoulders.
I sent the guys to dinner. I met briefly with JB, reviewed special teams, lined up clips we’d show at tomorrow’s meeting.
At eight, I finally stepped back into my room.
Silence. Soft lamplight. The hum of the AC.
And the connecting door.
I showered. Shaved. Tried not to look at the door while I changed into sweats.
By the time I caved and crossed the room, my pulse wasn’t exactly subtle.
I lifted my hand and knocked once—quiet, hardly more than a tap.
The lock clicked. Then the door eased open just enough for Miguel to appear, damp hair curling at his temples, a white T-shirt soft with wear, the smell of his soap drifting into my room like something I’d been holding my breath for.
“Hey,” he said, voice low like he didn’t want to break anything delicate in the moment.
“Hey,” I answered.
He stepped back in silent invitation and then closed the connecting door gently, almost reverently, as if sealing us into a world the universe had accidentally allowed.
His room was identical to mine, just… warmer somehow. His bag half-open, his guitar leaning against the desk, his jacket slung over a chair. Lived-in already in ways that made something in my chest relax.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Couldn’t stay on my side of the wall.”
“That’s what the league would call ‘poor impulse control.’” A smile tugged at him—small, warm, something I felt more than saw.
“I’m off the clock.”
“Liar,” he said, smiling. “You never are.”
He tugged me by a loose handful of my T-shirt, just enough to guide me, not enough to claim anything. I followed willingly, sitting with him on the bed. His thigh brushed mine, a slow slide of warmth that tightened something low in my stomach.
He leaned back first, letting his head fall into the pillows, then pulled me down beside him. I settled on my side, facing him. For a breath we just looked at each other, in the kind of quiet that felt like the edge of something vast.
Miguel lifted his hand and traced a line across my cheekbone—barely there, more air than touch.
A shiver rolled down my spine.
“You always look like this before a big game,” he whispered. “Not nervous… just wired.”
“I am nervous,” I admitted. “Tomorrow matters.”
“Every game matters.”
“Not like this one.”
He just moved closer, resting one hand over my chest, the weight grounding, steady.
“Your brain’s already playing the whole game in fast-forward.”
“Maybe.”
“You did that before Phoenix too,” he said. “I watched you pacing the hallway like a caged lion.”
“Worked out in the end.”
“Exactly.” His smile tilted. “So maybe next time, trust the lion. Not the cage.”
I laughed quietly. “That what you tell yourself in-net?”
“Pretty much,” he said. “Different cage.”
Miguel reached out, fingertips brushing the side of my arm—soft, familiar.
My whole body exhaled.
After a while, he asked, “What happens if we win it all?”
I huffed a breath. “You mean after the confetti and the hangovers?”
“After that.”
I thought about it. “I don’t know. Maybe I finally believe I didn’t waste the last five years.”
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“That even if we lose, you’ve already changed this team. You made it feel like a family.”
“That’s you talking,” I said. “You’re the heartbeat in that room.”
He shook his head. “No. You are. You keep everyone breathing the same rhythm. You just don’t see it.”
I swallowed hard, because that hit deeper than he probably meant it to.
“I see you, though,” I said.
His smile was tender. “I know.”
He reached up, fingertips brushing the line of my jaw, then tracing down to my collarbone. “I keep wondering how long we can keep this up. The sneaking, the pretending.”
“As long as we have to,” I said.
“And if we get caught?”
I met his gaze. “Then I guess we stop pretending.”
The quiet between us stretched, heavy with the kind of truth that didn’t need three words to name it.
I slid closer until our foreheads touched. “You make it easier,” I whispered. “The pressure. The noise. All of it.”
“Good,” he said. “Because you make everything else harder.”
That earned a laugh out of me, low and rough. “You trying to ruin my focus?”
“Trying to keep you human.”
He kissed me then—slow, certain…
When we broke apart, I brushed my thumb over his lips. “Tomorrow we fight for it.”
He nodded. “Tomorrow we win.”
He pulled me against him, fitting himself against me like we’d done it a thousand times. His hand rested on my chest; my arm curled around his waist.
And that was when it hit me—quietly, almost kindly.
The knowing.
The recognition.
The truth settling where it belonged.
I was in love with him.
The knowledge came softly, like exhaling after holding your breath too long. I’d known I cared about him, needed him—but love had crept in, patient and unseen, until it was simply there.
I hadn’t thought I’d ever feel it again.
Not after losing the first life I built, the one that had ended with sirens and silence.
But somehow, this man—this maddening, steady, bright force beside me—had made room for it to exist again.
He murmured something half asleep, his fingers brushing against my ribs, and I felt the tug of it again, that gentle, terrifying certainty.
For the second time in my life, I was in love.
Miguel drifted off, his hand still curled in my shirt. I stayed awake, staring into the dark, that soft, dangerous truth humming through me.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t just coaching for a title. I was fighting for something that lived off the ice too—for us.
And even as warmth spread through my chest, I couldn’t ignore the flicker of unease that followed.
Because love like this didn’t stay hidden forever.
And when the light finally touched it, something—someone—was bound to burn.