Chapter 19
Miguel
I hadn’t realized how good it would feel to see him like this—relaxed, smiling, sleeves pushed up while my mom bossed him around the kitchen like he’d been part of the family for years.
Inviting him had seemed like a small thing at the time, a promise half-made.
But watching him now, laughing at something my dad said, it felt bigger. Like I’d done something right.
He looked different here. Softer, somehow. The lines around his eyes had eased, his shoulders weren’t carrying the whole team for a change. And I couldn’t stop watching him. Couldn’t stop feeling that quiet pull under my ribs every time he smiled.
What the hell is happening to me?
My dad leaned back in his chair, eyes twinkling. “So, Coach, you play baseball?”
Drew smiled, the kind that pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Not since Little League. I didn’t make it past the orange slices.”
My dad blinked, amused. “Orange slices?”
He chuckled. “Halftime snacks. That’s where my baseball career peaked.”
That got a laugh out of everyone—Abuela shaking her head, my mom covering her smile with her napkin.
“Then let’s talk boxing,” my dad said, his grin widening. “Ali or Tyson?”
Drew tipped his head, pretending to think. “Depends on who’s throwing the first punch.”
They cracked up together, the sound filling the room, deep and easy. Watching my dad and my coach click so effortlessly, despite coming from different generations, cultures and upbringings, hit somewhere low in my chest. It messed me up, how natural it looked.
And me? I sat there like an idiot, watching Drew’s mouth curve around the laugh, loosening his whole face. God, I’m in trouble.
I reached for my guitar before my brain could start looping again. The feel of it grounded me—the worn wood, the calluses on my fingers finding their marks.
“Play something for us, mijo,” my mom said, already smiling.
So I did.
The first chords of “Bésame Mucho” filled the room, slow and honey-smooth. My dad started tapping the table; my abuela hummed along. I didn’t plan to sing, but the lyrics came out anyway.
It’s fine, Miguel. You’ve sung this song a million times. The words don't mean anything.
But somehow they did.
Every line about wanting, about not knowing how to let go, hit somewhere deeper than it ever had before.
For a second, I could almost see it—something that looked suspiciously like a future.
Then I shook it off, fingers tightening on the strings. No. That isn’t me. I’m not that guy.
When the last chord faded, my mom clapped. “?Ay, mi hijo! You sing better every time.”
Drew’s smile met mine across the table, small, quiet, enough to knock the air out of me.
Then I played something faster, a few old love songs my parents grew up dancing to. The chords spilled out of me, easy as breathing. The room swelled with clapping, laughter, my dad tapping the table, my mom harmonizing off-key.
But I wasn’t really watching them.
I was watching him.
Drew leaned back in the chair, one hand loose around his glass, the other resting on his knee.
The light from the window caught his profile, softened it.
He looked… happy. Maybe happier than I’d ever seen him.
And when he smiled at something my mom said between verses, it felt like someone had reached inside me and turned a dial up too high.
When the last chord faded, my mom beamed. “You make me proud every time, Miguel.”
I set the guitar aside, pretending my throat didn’t feel tight.
“Now,” my mom said, standing with purpose, “dessert.”
She disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, she reappeared, carrying the flan like it was treasure—golden, glossy, trembling slightly under the caramel glaze. The scent hit first: sweet and smoky, sugar burned to the edge of perfect.
I leaned closer to Drew and murmured, “This is what I told you about.”
He smiled. “Your mom’s famous flan?”
“The very same. No pressure.”
I grinned, but there was a flicker of nerves under it. It mattered what he thought about it and I wasn’t sure why.
My mom sliced a piece, slid it onto a plate, and handed it to him. “Try, Coach,” she said warmly.
He took the spoon—yes, a spoon with flan, hardly ever a fork—and cut through the soft custard. His eyes fluttered closed on the first bite.
That tiny sound he made? Yeah, that was a man enjoying the hell out of it.
When he opened his eyes, I couldn’t stop the question. “Well? How is it?”
He looked at me, that slow, genuine smile forming. “It’s incredible.”
My mom beamed. “Good. Then he can come back for more.”
Drew leaned a little closer, voice low enough for only me to hear. “Worth twenty-seven saves.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “You remembered.”
“I make good on my promises,” he murmured.
My mom, still glowing with pride, said, “I’ll pack you some to take home, Coach. For later.”
Drew smiled, soft but sure. “If it tastes half as good tomorrow, I’ll call that a win.”
She laughed. “Ay, I like this one.”
Abuela leaned forward, tone firm but fond. “Coach or not, no one leaves here hungry.”
My dad added, “He’s polite, this one. Careful, Lucía, he’ll charm you next.”
She smirked. “Too late.”
The table broke into another wave of laughter, spoons clinking against plates, conversation tumbling over itself. I watched Drew take another bite, that tiny crease appearing near his mouth when he smiled.
Mamá set a plate in front of me, the caramel glistening like amber under the light. “You too, mijo,” she said. “Eat before it melts.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I didn’t argue. One bite in and the flan was everything I remembered—smooth, creamy, that perfect edge of burnt sugar that hit sweet and smoky all at once. Heaven.
Before I could offer Drew another look, the front door opened, and a pair of familiar voices floated in.
“?Llegamos!” We’re here!
“?Qué e' la que hay?” What’s up?
My aunt and uncle swept in, bringing a gust of cool air and easy laughter with them.
Tía Rosa looked radiant, a floral scarf covering the short, growing hair that framed her face.
She’d fought hard—months of chemo, surgeries, endless prayers—and she’d won.
Seeing her laugh now still felt like a small miracle.
“Look who’s here,” Mamá said proudly, waving them in. “Miguel and his coach.”
Tía Rosa’s smile spread, warm and knowing. “So this is Coach Mack. We’ve heard about you.”
Drew stood, always the gentleman, and shook her hand with that calm, steady grace that somehow made everyone relax. “All good things, I hope.”
“All the best things,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Anyone who looks out for our Miguel is family.”
Her husband, Tío Ernesto, clapped Drew on the shoulder. “You already ate? My sister doesn’t let anyone leave her kitchen hungry.”
Drew laughed. “She made sure of that.”
“He passed the test,” Papá said, chiming in with a grin. “Clean plate and everything.”
The room filled with laughter again, Rosa teasing my mom, Papá pouring another round of juice, Drew’s laugh low and warm, threading through it all. I sat there, full—not just from the food, but from this. The noise, the comfort, the easy way Drew fit in, like he’d always belonged here.
All too soon, it was time to go.
Mamá and Abuela packed up the leftovers, neat and careful, and pressed the containers into our hands. Abuela slipped something else into mine—a woven bracelet, green and gold thread—and another into Drew’s.
“Para suerte,” she said. “For good luck.”
Drew smiled, his accent careful but soft. “Gracias.”
Her eyes crinkled. “Muy bien, Coach. Come back soon, sí?”
He nodded. “I’d like that.”
Mamá cupped his cheek briefly, motherly and tender, before pulling him into a hug. “Take care of my boy,” she said.
“I will,” Drew promised.
Papá shook his hand next—firm, approving—then pulled me into a hug that nearly cracked a rib. “We’re proud of you, hijo.”
“Gracias, Papá.”
The drive back was quiet at first—the good kind of quiet. The kind that hummed low between us, full of everything we didn’t need to say. Leftover containers shifted in the back seat, the smell of caramel and fried plantain hanging in the air.
“They liked you,” I said finally.
He glanced my way, mouth tipping up. “Your family’s easy to charm.”
I chuckled. “And they didn’t scare you off?”
He laughed under his breath. “Please. The plantains were the real test.” A beat. “They’re good people, Miguel. All heart.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Guess that runs in the family.”
Something in my chest did a slow, traitorous flip. I looked out the window before he could see how much his words affected me.
“Thanks for coming,” I said. “I know this probably isn’t your usual Sunday.”
“Maybe it should be,” he said. “I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.”
My throat went tight. “Then I’m glad you came.”
When we pulled up outside my apartment, I had my hand on the door handle but didn’t want to pull it.
“Thanks for all of it,” he said.
“Night, Coach,” I said automatically, then caught myself.
“Drew,” he corrected, smiling a little.
“Right.” My voice came out softer than I meant. “Night, Drew.”
I stepped out carefully, taking my guitar and my containers, making sure to leave his behind. He waited until I opened the door of my apartment before pulling away. I stood there, watching his taillights disappear, and wondered when home had started to feel like wherever he was.