Chapter 18
Drew
I closed the laptop with a small, final sound—the kind that meant enough for today. I gathered the printouts, slid them into a folder, and stood. Sundays at the rink had a strange stillness, like the ice itself was catching its breath.
JB leaned against the doorframe, shoulder to the glass. “Pushing film review?”
“To tomorrow,” I said, locking the drawer. “Got a promise to keep.”
He grinned, low and knowing. “Must be some promise.”
“You’ve got no idea.”
I slung my jacket over one arm and stepped out into the afternoon light.
By the time I hit the parking lot, the city had that soft, washed-out glow that happens before dusk.
Miguel had texted an hour ago.
Rodriguez: Still on for East L.A.?
I’d replied before I could overthink it.
Me: Wouldn’t miss it
Now I sat idling at the curb outside his building, thumb hovering over the screen.
Me: Here.
One word. I hit send.
The door opened a minute later, and he came down the steps with his guitar slung over one shoulder, duffel in his hand.
He’d traded his usual team hoodie for a faded denim jacket over a gray tee, black jeans that clung like they’d been washed a thousand times, sneakers clean but well-loved.
Sun caught the edge of his hair—deep brown, too long at the front—and something in my chest tightened.
It wasn’t new, that reaction. I’d been pretending it was coincidence for weeks. That it was proximity or adrenaline or whatever excuse let me keep my distance. But watching him now, crossing the lot with that easy stride, I knew better. It wasn’t coincidence. It was him.
He spotted me and grinned, bright enough to knock the air sideways.
Breathe, Drew.
He opened the passenger door, carefully set the guitar in the back seat, and slid in.
“You actually showed,” he said, buckling up. “Didn’t think you’d survive a Sunday without film breakdown.”
“I make exceptions for goaltenders who hit twenty-seven saves,” I said.
He laughed, head tipping back. “A promise is a promise.”
“Yeah.” My voice came out lower than I meant. I reached for the ignition, grateful for the distraction of motion.
Spanish guitar filled the cab—one of the playlists I’d been experimenting with. Warm, intricate notes that curled around the silence.
Miguel blinked, surprised. “You’re listening to Mon Laferte?”
Heat climbed up my neck. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss was about. Did some research.”
He laughed again, softer this time, the sound catching somewhere in my ribs. “I’m impressed, Coach. You’ve got taste.”
“Don’t tell the guys,” I muttered, easing onto the road.
He started humming along, voice low and smooth. Then, without warning, he sang the next verse under his breath—just enough to vibrate the air between us.
I didn’t dare look at him.
The sun hit the windshield, scattering light across the dash. His reflection wavered in the glass—jawline, smile, the shape of someone I should not be thinking about this way.
But I was.
The freeway stretched ahead, wide and sunlit, traffic humming in a steady rhythm. After a few miles, I said, “Give me the quick scout report.”
He glanced over, brows lifting. “Scout report?”
“Old coach reflex,” I said. “Figure I should know what I’m walking into.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “Oh, that’s easy.
Loud house. My mom will feed you until you tap out.
My dad will quiz you on baseball stats and maybe try to rope you into a debate about who the greatest heavyweight of all time was.
And Abuela?” He grinned. “She’s the real boss.
If she likes you, everyone else falls in line. ”
“That helps,” I said dryly.
“Don’t worry,” he said, smirking. “You’ll pass. Just don’t say you hate cilantro.”
“Noted.”
Silence settled in again—comfortable, filled with the hum of tires on asphalt and the faint rhythm of the song spilling from the speakers.
The last time I’d driven anywhere to meet someone’s family, I’d been holding my wife’s hand. We were twenty-four, nervous as hell, both of us pretending not to be. Her parents had opened the door like they already knew me, like I belonged there. For years afterward, it had felt like a second home.
After the accident, I kept visiting for a while—dropping by on birthdays, sending gifts at Christmas—but grief has a way of sanding down connections until all that’s left is politeness. Now it was just a yearly text, a halfhearted thinking of you that carried more ghosts than comfort.
Miguel’s voice pulled me back. “Left at the murals,” he said, nodding ahead.
He pointed out the window as we slowed near an underpass.
“That one’s La Virgen de Guadalupe,” he said, nodding at a wall washed in gold and turquoise. “Every neighborhood’s got at least one.”
We passed another mural: bright masks and flying capes. “Luchadores,” he said, grinning. “Wrestlers. My dad swears he met one once.”
A few blocks later, he gestured again. “Those lines? They’re from a ranchera, an old love song. Most of these artists sneak music or poetry into their work. It’s how we remember where we came from.”
The light flickered across his face as he talked, his voice softer now.
I didn’t know what to say except, “It’s beautiful.”
And maybe I wasn’t just talking about the murals and music.
He smiled. “Yeah. It is.”
He pointed to a narrow street lined with single-story homes, fences bright with bougainvillea and wind-tossed laundry. “This is us.”
Most of the driveways were already full: cars pressed up against gates, a couple parked half over the sidewalk.
I pulled in close to the curb in front of a faded stucco house with a red-tiled roof and a mailbox shaped like a fish.
The street was quiet except for a low hum of traffic from a few blocks over and the faint sound of music drifting from an open window.
The air hit us warm when we stepped out—sunlight, something frying, a hint of soap from the houses nearby. A small dog barked once and lost interest.
The walkway to the porch was narrow, cracked concrete patched over the years, lined with flowerpots that didn’t match but somehow made sense together.
Before we reached the steps, the screen door creaked open. A small woman hurried out. “?Mijo!” she called, her voice full and bright. Son.
Miguel was already grinning by the time we hit the porch. He laughed. “Hola, Mamá.”
His mom didn’t wait—she reached up, wrapping her arms around his middle, all heart, murmuring something in Spanish against his shoulder.
I caught maybe half a word, the rise and fall of her voice soft and musical. It hit me in the chest harder than I expected—the kind of welcome you can’t fake.
She was small, maybe five foot nothing, hair threaded with silver, eyes bright and alive. You could see Miguel in her smile, in the warmth that filled the doorway.
Then her gaze found me. “Coach Mack! Bienvenido.” Welcome.
I started to offer my hand. “Thank you for having me, Mrs—”
“No, no, no.” She waved the formality away and wrapped me in a hug that smelled like flour and citrus. “Call me Lucía. You are family now.”
It had been years since anyone hugged me like that—without hesitation, without pity. Just warmth. Years since anyone’s arms had felt like home.
By the time she let go, my throat felt tight.
Miguel’s dad appeared behind her—taller, broad through the shoulders, with laugh lines that said he’d earned every one. He stuck out his hand to me.
“Coach Mack,” he said, voice rich with that easy rhythm. “You take good care of my boy. Gracias.”
I shook his hand—firm grip, palm callused.
“He does most of the work himself.”
“Ah,” he said, eyes crinkling. “That part he gets from his mamá.”
“Papá,” Miguel said, rolling his eyes, but there was no real bite in it. “This is my dad, Ramón. And this—” He gestured toward the woman shuffling out from the kitchen, her gray hair tied in a neat braid, slippers soft against the tile. “—is my abuela, Teresa.”
She didn’t wait for introductions either. She pressed a kiss to my cheek before I could blink, muttering something rapid-fire in Spanish that made Lucía laugh.
Miguel translated, smiling. “She says you look tired. You need a hearty meal and rest. She’ll make sure you eat well today.”
I tried not to laugh, but it came out anyway. “Guess I don’t have a choice.”
“Not in this house,” Ramón said, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he steered us toward the living room, a small, sun-bright space that felt like the heart of the house.
The couch was a little worn at the arms, a crocheted blanket draped over the back.
Family photos covered every wall, spilling into each other: Miguel in youth-league gear, a boy I assumed was his brother in goalie pads that swallowed him whole, birthdays, graduations, the kind of snapshots that told you this family celebrated everything.
Two kids bounded in from the hallway: a boy around nine and a girl a little older. The boy wore a Lakers jersey; the girl clutched a tablet like it was treasure.
“Estos son mis primos, my cousins,” Miguel said, crouching to ruffle the boy’s hair. “Leo and Sofia.”
Leo grinned up at me. “You’re the coach?”
“Guilty,” I said, shaking his hand solemnly. He chuckled.
We talked for a while, nothing deep, just the kind of easy chatter that fills a house when everyone’s comfortable. Ramón asked about the season. Teresa handed me a plate of pastelitos “just to taste.” I could already feel my waistband protesting.
After a while, Lucía stood, brushing her hands on her apron. “I just have a few more things to finish in the kitchen.”
Miguel started to rise. “Need any help, Mamá?”
She waved him off. “You rest. I have Coach now.”
I blinked. “Uh—”
“Come, help me,” she said, smiling.
I followed her into the kitchen, trying not to knock into anything. The space was narrow, every counter busy with bowls and spice jars. The air smelled of garlic, lime, and frying oil.
“Here,” she said, handing me a plantain and a knife. “You slice. Thin, like this.” She demonstrated, deft and quick.
“Are you sure you trust me with that?”
“You are a coach, yes?” Her eyes sparkled. “You give instructions all week. Now you take some.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
Miguel appeared in the doorway, grinning. “Good luck saying no.”
“Traitor,” I muttered.
He laughed, quiet but warm, and something in me wanted to hear it again.
It was a tight kitchen, so every move brushed an elbow or shoulder. His arm grazed mine once, twice—nothing intentional, just too close not to notice. Warm skin. My pulse tripped, but I focused on not cutting my fingers.
Lucía moved between us, narrating as she worked. “First, the tostones. Then the mofongo. Two ways, both the best, you’ll see.” She set a spoon in front of me. “Taste.”
I hesitated. “What is it?”
“Sofrito,” she said proudly. “Base for everything and can be a dip.”
I tried it, and the flavors hit bright and green—garlic, onion, cilantro, and heat that lingered almost long enough to make me reach for water.
“That’s really good,” I said, and meant it.
“Of course,” she said, satisfied. “You cannot cook without heart.”
By the time we carried everything to the table, the kitchen was a symphony of smells: fried plantains, stewed meat, rice fragrant with beans and bay leaf. Plates clinked, laughter tangled with the hiss of oil cooling on the stove.
When we finally sat down, the room filled with easy noise—laughing, flatware clinking, someone passing a bowl across the table. Ramón poured a light-green drink from a pitcher.
“Lime agua fresca,” Miguel said. “Fresh lime, sugar, mint. My mom swears it fixes everything.”
I believed her after one sip—sweet, sharp, alive.
Lucía teased Miguel about eating too fast while the cousins argued over the last tostone.
And I just sat there, taking it all in: the color, the noise, the way everything fit together like it had been this way forever.
I’d sat at loud tables before—team dinners, post-game celebrations, banter that filled every corner. But this was different. This wasn’t adrenaline or victory talk. This was belonging without having to earn it. Noise made from love, not relief.
And somewhere between Lucía’s laughter and Miguel’s easy grin across the table, I realized I wasn’t thinking about the rink, or strategy, or next week’s games.
I was thinking about belonging.