Chapter 22
Miguel
I wanted to say more before I left the rink—to ask if he was okay, to make some easy joke that could loosen the quiet between us, to tell him we needed to talk about that kiss. But the words stuck in my throat; I let my ridiculous fears win.
The apartment was quiet when I got in. Too quiet.
I should’ve liked that—it meant rest, space, calm—but instead, I stood there, staring at my phone.
Drew’s name glowed on the screen—Coach Mack, saved like that years ago.
I hovered my thumb over the contact and heard myself mutter, “Don’t. ” What would I even say?
I can’t stop thinking about last night. Do you have any idea how hard my dick got when you held me? Kissed the heck out of me? I want that again… and maybe more.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and laughed under my breath. “Get it together, Rodriguez.”
I needed grounding. Something that reminded me who I was before all this. Someone who didn’t make my pulse trip over itself. I hit FaceTime on “Manu.”
The screen blinked twice before the connection settled. Sunlight flooded his half of the frame—bright Caribbean gold, the kind that made me squint even through glass. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, its rhythm mixing with the sound of a child’s laughter somewhere behind him.
“?Hola, Miguelito!” Manu’s grin was huge, Dominican Spanish rolling warm and effortless off his tongue. Only he ever called me that—Miguelito. Maybe that was why the word hit a place in me no one else could reach. "?Qué lo que?" What’s up?
"Bien, aquí nomás," I answered, a smile tugging despite everything. I'm alright, just getting by. “?Y tú?”
“Calor,” he groaned, tugging at his faded tank top. “Carmen’s in the kitchen making jugo de chinola—passion fruit juice. You’d sell your soul for it.”
I laughed, but my chest ached a little. I took a moment to really look at him.
His hair had gone a little grayer at the temples since the last time we FaceTimed—a surprise, considering how often we talked.
Maybe it was one of those things you only notice when you pause long enough to really see someone.
The lines around his eyes were deeper now, carved by years and sunlight, but the eyes themselves hadn’t changed.
He angled the phone toward the kitchen and shouted, “?Carmen, mira quién es!” Look who it is!
Carmen’s voice floated back, bright and teasing. “Hola, Miguel.”
“Hola, cunada,” I greeted her. Sister-in-law. They weren’t married, but with Carmen, I’d never needed paperwork to call her family “?Y Elena?” I asked. “?Está bien?”
“She’s at the table again,” Carmen said fondly. “Filling her sketchbook with another zoo. I think she’s on her third page already.”
Manu laughed, eyes creasing deeper at the corners, and I did too. For a second, the noise of their home—the fan, the laughter, the distant traffic—felt like a heartbeat I’d been missing.
And maybe that was why I thought of Coach then—of how I’d known him for five years, seen him every day, and only now was realizing I’d been blind to something that had been there all along. Sometimes you could look at someone a hundred times and only see them once.
“You look tired, hermano,” he said. “Everything okay? Long week?” Manu’s eyes carried a kind of tenderness that came from learning what pain costs.
“Just practice,” I said. “We play St. Louis tonight.”
He nodded, wiping sweat from his temple. “They hit hard, those guys. Protect the ribs, ?sí?”
He always said that before games, a mix of teasing and protection—like every brother’s way of saying take care of yourself without actually saying it.
He leaned closer to the camera. “You’ve got that face, Miguelito. Same one you had when you broke Abuela’s crucifix and tried to glue it back straight.”
I huffed a laugh. “Don’t remind me.”
“So?” His grin turned sly. “What’s her name?”
I hesitated. The air felt thicker. “It’s… complicated.”
“Ah.” His tone softened, teasing less now. “Complicado. That usually means important. Tell me.”
I exhaled, buying time. “It’s not like that,” I said slowly. “It just… wasn’t something I saw coming.”
He tilted his head, waiting, patient in that way older brothers learn when life has already knocked them around a few times.
“It started as something simple,” I said. “Someone I’ve known for years. I thought I knew where everything fit. Then, all of a sudden, it didn’t.”
Manu’s brows lifted. “And that surprised you.”
“More than I want to admit.” My throat worked. “He—” The word slipped out before I could stop it. I froze. “It’s… it’s not what I expected.”
Manu’s eyebrows lifted. For a heartbeat, his grin faltered. “He?” The single word wasn’t sharp—just full of disbelief, trying to catch up. Then a slow exhale, the kind you give when the world rearranges itself and you’re still finding your footing.
“Wait, Miguelito… you’re saying—?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying,” I cut in quickly, rubbing a hand over my face. “It just… I don’t know, Manu. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
He sat back, studying me through the screen. Shock still lingered, but it softened around the edges. “Huh,” he said quietly, more to himself than to me. “Didn’t see that coming.” A pause. “You feel different around him.”
I took a breath. “You remember when I first got goalie pads? How heavy I told you they felt? Like I couldn’t move right anymore—but once I learned how to trust them, I moved better.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re saying this… what’s happening now, feels like that?”
“Yeah.” I let out a shaky breath. “It’s heavy. Strange. Feels like it could hold me back—but also like it could change everything if I stopped fighting it.”
Manu nodded slowly, the surprise in his face easing into something gentler. “So what are you fighting, Miguelito? The feeling, or the fear?”
I looked down at my hands. “Both, maybe.”
“Because he’s a man?”
“Because he makes me want things I’m not supposed to want,” I said, the truth rough in my throat.
My brother leaned closer. “Complicated doesn’t mean wrong, hermano. It just means real.” He paused for a heartbeat. “Does he treat you right? I don’t mean fancy words. I mean respect. Makes you feel safe?”
“He does,” I said, surprising myself with how certain I sounded. “He’s careful. Not like walking-on-eggshells careful. He just… pays attention. Doesn’t talk down to people. Doesn’t use what he knows to hurt anyone.”
Manu rubbed a hand over his jaw. “You know what’s funny? When we were kids, you used to follow me everywhere. Even when I got in trouble.”
“Yeah,” I said, half-laughing. “You were the trouble.”
He grinned. “Maybe. But you never ran. Even when everyone else did.” His voice softened. “You’ve always been loyal like that. Too loyal, sometimes.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Manu leaned back, his chair creaking. “That maybe that’s what matters. You don’t have to throw your life away trying to pay for mine.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It means,” he said, leaning closer to the camera, “you’ve been carrying my screwups for years,” he said, voice low. “Sending money, checking on us, living like you owe me something. I messed up, Miguelito. Not you. You don’t have to stay lonely to make up for me.”
The words hit harder than I expected. “I’m not lonely.”
He gave me a look that said, sí, you are.
“I just don’t want to break something good,” I said. “If I say the wrong thing, if I do the wrong thing… if I feel the wrong thing, it could blow up everything I’ve worked for.”
Manu’s gaze softened. “Then be smart, not silent.”
“Smart doesn’t make it easier.”
He smiled faintly. “No. But silence makes it worse. Stop wrestling it, hermano. Just let it be.”
Before I could answer, a blur of movement crossed the screen. Elena climbed into his lap, a sketchbook clutched to her chest.
“?Tío Miguel!” she squealed. “Mira!” Look. She flipped the page to show me a crayon drawing—bright buildings with wings and a stick figure in pads stopping a giant puck.
“Eso soy yo?” I asked. That’s me?
“Sí! Papá says you stop balls with your belly like a superhero.”
“Puck, baby,” I corrected gently, laughing. “It’s called a puck.”
She giggled. “You’re funny.”
“Funny-looking,” Manu said. “Needs more rice if he’s going to stop St. Louis.”
Carmen appeared behind them, setting a glass of pale orange-colored juice in front of him. “For the heat,” she said. “And for luck. Hi again, Miguel. You look good.”
“Gracias,” I said, smiling. “Passion fruit juice?”
“Of course. He lives on it,” she teased, and kissed the top of Manu’s head before disappearing again toward the kitchen.
Elena leaned closer. “Tío, are you winning tonight?”
“I hope so,” I said. “If the feed freezes when you’re watching, it’s not because I let in five goals, okay?”
She gasped dramatically. “Five! Nooo.”
Manu laughed so hard the camera shook. “I’ll make sure she cheers for every save,” he said.
“?Te quiero, Tío!” my niece shouted, blowing me a kiss.
“Yo más,” I told her—I love you more—even as I caught the kiss with my palm.
Then she hopped off Manu’s lap and darted out of frame, a flash of color and laughter disappearing down the hall.
“I’m proud of you, Miguelito,” he added when the laughter faded. “Not for the games. For still showing up when it’s hard.”
“Gracias, Manu.” The lump in my throat didn’t move easily. “For everything… for not… for not making things weird.”
“Pfft.” He waved me off. “You forget who raised us? We’ve seen weird.”
I laughed, and it felt like air after being underwater.
He nodded. “Listen, if this man’s good for you, if he makes you breathe easier, don’t waste time worrying about labels. Live. Life’s already short.”
“I’ll try,” I said.
“Try less,” he said. “Just… let it happen.”
I grinned. “Go easy on the passion fruit juice, viejo”—old man—“you’re getting sentimental.”
He snorted. “Call it wisdom, sabelotodo.” Smart-ass. “Text me after the game.”
“Deal.”
He gave a two-finger salute toward the camera. “Go stop some pucks, Maestro.”
“Buenas noches, hermano,” I said—good night, brother.
“Buenas noches.”
The screen flickered to black, leaving my reflection staring back at me. Behind it, the faint echo of my brother’s voice lingered—full of the kind of love that never needed proof.
I set the phone down, the silence softer now. I wasn’t sure what came next, only that, for the first time in a long while, I wanted to find out.