Chapter 35
Drew
The locker room emptied in slow motion.
Velcro tore, blades clinked against tile, showers hissed somewhere down the hall. Most of the guys dressed in silence, eyes hollow, shoulders slumped.
We’d come so damn far. And still—it ended here.
I gave them what I could: a voice that didn’t crack, words that didn’t show the fracture underneath.
You gave everything you had out there. Every damn shift, every bruise—that’s hockey. Sometimes you do everything right, and it still breaks your heart.
I told them to hold their heads high.
Said I was proud. The truth? I was wrecked. Pride and heartbreak have a way of sounding the same when you’re trying not to lose your voice.
The bus was waiting. PR wanted quotes. The world was already spinning the story of how close we’d come.
But Miguel hadn’t come out yet.
I lingered, pretending to check my phone, pretending to organize a clipboard that didn’t need organizing. When the last voice faded, I crossed the quiet room toward the showers.
Steam hung heavy in the air.
He sat on the wooden bench, towel slung low around his waist, elbows on his knees. His head hung low, wet hair dripping onto his hands.
“Bus leaves in ten,” I said softly.
He didn’t move.
When he finally spoke, his voice was raw. “I should’ve stopped it,” he said finally. “That third goal—I didn’t see it until it was too late.”
“You made forty saves tonight.”
“Forty-one would’ve kept us alive.”
I crouched in front of him, the smell of ice and sweat and loss sharp in my throat.
His eyes lifted, red-rimmed, hollow.
He pressed a palm to his chest, fingers tapping twice over his heart—glove long gone, the ritual the same.
“Una por la familia, una por mi,” he whispered. “That’s what I say before every game. My mom taught me. But tonight…” His voice cracked. “Tonight it was una por ti. One for you.”
The words landed like a body check.
I swallowed hard. “Miguel—”
He shook his head. “You made this team believe again. Gave us something to fight for. Believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. You deserved the finals more than I did.”
“Hey.” I reached out before I could stop myself, my hand finding his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Don’t do that. Nobody gets here alone. Every guy on the team gave something. You just happened to give a little more when it counted.”
His eyes softened, breaking something in me.
“Then why does it feel like I failed you?”
I didn’t have an answer, not one that would make sense to anyone outside this room.
All I knew was that I wanted to pull him in, to tell him that none of it mattered—contracts, standings, the noise. That I’d trade every win just to ease the pain written across his face.
“You didn’t fail me,” I said finally. My voice came out low, rough. “You gave me something I thought I’d never have again. You made me—” I stopped myself, the word alive hanging unsaid between us.
He looked at me like he’d heard it anyway.
And for a heartbeat, the air changed—quiet, charged, the world falling away until it was just us. His breath mingled with mine, our foreheads almost touching.
That’s when the cough came.
A single sharp sound.
We both turned.
Sam stood at the threshold, a frozen look spreading over his face as he took us in—me kneeling in front of Miguel, my hand still on his cheek.
No words. Just that look.
My hand dropped.
And then he was gone, the door banging shut behind him.
Silence swallowed the room.
For a few beats I didn’t move. All I could hear was the slow drag of my own breath.
Miguel’s eyes still fixed on the place Sam had been. His jaw worked.
“He saw us,” he said.
“We don’t know what he saw,” I forced out, keeping my voice neutral, coach-flat.
Miguel’s mouth tugged into something that wasn’t a smile. “You know what he saw.”
My fingers flexed at my sides, useless. I wanted to tell him I’d carry whatever was coming. But footsteps echoed closer in the corridor. Someone laughed. A cart rattled past.
“We’re out of time,” I said gently. “Get dressed.”
He nodded once. I turned and walked for the doorway because that’s what it had to look like—a coach checking on his goalie, nothing more.
Out in the hallway, it felt like stepping from the only safe room into a storm.
*****
Cabin lights low. The plane hummed through the dark sky.
Most of the guys passed out the second the wheels left the ground; bodies learn to sleep wherever the job says sleep.
I stayed upright, seatbelt biting my hip, eyes on the tiny red “No Smoking” sign because it was easier than staring at the back of Miguel’s head.
He was two rows up on the other side, aisle seat. I could see the edge of his jaw reflected in the window, the rise and fall of his chest. His hands were buried in his hoodie pocket like he was keeping them from reaching for anything.
I’d said it a hundred times: what happens off the ice stays off it. The team deserves a coach who keeps the lines clear—no favoritism, no blurred boundaries. I still believed that.
But I also believed in the look he gave me in that empty locker room—eyes red, voice wrecked—like I was the only person left holding him together.
Sam saw it.
He saw the way I crouched in front of Miguel, my hand on his face, trying to pull him back from the edge. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a confession. But I know what it must’ve looked like from where Sam stood.
My guard was down. Every wall I’d built to keep this quiet was gone, and all that was left was how much I loved him.
I hadn’t been thinking about how it looked—I’d been thinking about the man I loved sitting there blaming himself for a loss that belonged to all of us.
And that was enough for Sam to know.
If this comes down on anyone, let it come down on me.
Miguel was twenty-eight. He had years left to climb. I’d used more than my share of second chances. I wouldn’t let mine be the reason his ends.
I closed my eyes and heard his voice in the crease before every game: una por la familia, una por mí. Tonight in that broken room he’d added one more without saying a word. I felt it like a hand against my heart. Una por ti.
I wanted to walk the two rows, slide into the seat beside him, put my palm on the back of his neck, and tell him I was proud. Tell him I loved him. The words sat heavy behind my teeth, the way they had for weeks. It was a secret I was saving for the right time, but now…
I sighed.
We touched down in L.A. just before four. No one said much—just the clack of seatbelts and the scrape of bags as we stood.
We loaded straight onto the team bus. Normally that last ride home felt easy, guys half asleep or cracking jokes. This time there was silence. Miguel sat near the front, hoodie up, earbuds in. I kept to the back, watching the city lights slide by.
My phone buzzed.
Miguel: You want me to wait?
Me: Better not.
A pause.
Miguel: You sure?
Me: Yeah. Go straight home. Text me when you get there.
Three dots blinked, disappeared. Then:
Miguel: Okay.
I stared at the screen until it dimmed. The reflection of my face stared back—drawn, older, a man who’d finally gotten what he wanted and had no idea how to keep it.
I wanted to tell him to screw caution, to wait anyway, to come with me like always. But one wrong move and the whole season wouldn’t be the only thing over.
I shifted my gaze to the front of the bus. He hadn’t looked back once. His shoulder brushed the window, his head tipped just slightly toward the glass. I knew that posture—every mile of exhaustion tucked behind it.
At the rink, the bus doors hissed open. One by one the guys climbed off, shouldering bags, murmuring goodbyes.
Our eyes met once when his car pulled up. A heartbeat—nothing more, but it carried everything.
He got in, shut the door, and the taillights faded into the dark.
I stood there until the lot emptied out, hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, fighting the stupid urge to chase after him.