12. Sean
TWELVE
SEAN
Emiliano’s car smells like him. Not necessarily like his cologne, not air freshener, just…
Emiliano. Warm and clean, like he lives inside his own skin without apologizing for it.
The city outside the windows is a blur of headlights and storefronts, and my body’s still humming from the game, from the adrenaline, and the way he sat in those stands like a quiet promise.
He drives one-handed, relaxed, like Queens streets are a language he speaks fluently. His other hand rests on the console, fingers tapping lightly to the beat of the music softly playing.
I sit in the passenger seat with my phone in my lap and my throat full of nerves.
We’re on our way to his mom’s, to his sisters. To the loud, warm Mexican family that already feels like a miracle I don’t deserve. And my brain, because it hates me, finally chooses now to remember something important.
My family chat. The one I silenced and haven’t opened it since I sent the message.
Since I dropped the grenade into the middle of their Easter plans and walked away like I wasn’t shaking. I swallow hard and unlock my phone.
Emiliano glances over. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie automatically, then sigh because lying to him is not how I want this relationship to be. “Actually, no.”
He hums softly like that’s allowed.
“What’s up?” he asks, voice gentle.
I stare at the screen for a beat, thumb hovering over the messages like they’re going to bite me. Then I open the thread.
The chat explodes in my face.
Mom
You’re bringing someone home for Easter?
Dad
Do we get to know her name before we meet her?
David
Sean, get back here and spill the beans.
Sean
His name is Emiliano.
David
SEAN! GET BACK HERE.
Sam
James
Don’t let David scare him off.
Leeann
Wait. Her?
Mom
Honey, is he a friend from the team?
David
WHO IS EMILIANO?
Sam
David, I swear to God.
James
Dad, you assumed “her” so fast I heard it from here.
Dad
Be respectful. Sean can you give us a call when you get a chance?
David
I AM BEING RESPECTFUL. I’M RESPECTFULLY CURIOUS.
Mom
Sean?
Are you safe?
We love you and can’t wait to hear more about Emiliano.
My chest squeezes so hard it hurts.
We love you.
No conditions in that sentence. No buts. No pause. Just love. My eyes sting instantly because my body is a traitor and my emotions are loud.
“Cobre,” Emiliano murmurs, and I realize I’ve been staring at the phone so hard I stopped breathing.
I swallow and force air into my lungs. “They… they’re freaking out,” I say, voice thick.
Emiliano’s hand slides over to my thigh, warm and steady. He squeezes once.
“Why,” he says. “Did they see something online?”
I shake my head, blinking fast. “I told them your name.”
His fingers stay on my thigh as his eyes flick from the road to me. “Yeah?”
My throat tightens. “I texted, ‘His name is Emiliano.’ When I said I was bringing someone home for Easter.”
Something shifts in his face, almost like it hit him deeper than he expected.
He exhales slowly. “Okay.”
I huff a nervous laugh. “That’s all you gotta say?”
He squeezes my thigh again. “No.” He glances at me, eyes warm. “I’m proud of you for being brave and telling them my name. I can’t wait to meet your family, baby, and whatever happens, I’ll be right there with you.”
My throat burns, and I hate that praise makes me feel weak.
I hate that it also makes me feel… safe.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
Emiliano’s mouth tilts. “I’m going to keep being proud of you until you stop acting like you don’t deserve it.”
I flip him off weakly, and he laughs.
“There he is,” he says. “You’re still you.”
The car turns onto a quieter street, one that I’m assuming is his neighborhood. It feels different from Manhattan, different from the Bronx. Softer. More lived-in. People on stoops with music drifting out of windows. A man is walking a tiny dog like it’s a king.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Pull over, I’m going to throw up.”
Emiliano smirks. “You already said that.”
“I mean it more now.”
He reaches over and laces his fingers with mine for a second.
“You’re with me,” he says, like that’s supposed to calm me down.
It does.
A little.
The second we step into his mom’s house, the noise hits me like a wave.
Kids yelling and someone’s laughing. Pots clinking.
And music that thumps the walls. There’s even a TV on in the background, even though nobody’s watching.
A smell of food so rich it feels like it crawls into your ribs and settles there.
And the warmth.
God, the warmth.
Emiliano’s mother appears like she materialized out of love itself.
“?Mijo!” she calls, and Emiliano’s whole face changes again. A smile with such softness it makes me smile.
Then her eyes lock on me, and before I can brace myself, before I can do any of my usual defenses, she steps in close and cups my face like I’m a son she’s been waiting for.
“Sean,” she says, smiling wide. “?Hola!”
My cheeks heat instantly. “Hi, Senora Guerrero.”
She beams like I did something perfect, then she turns and calls back into the house, her voice loud.
“?Ya llegó!”
Oh, Christ. Give me strength.
Multiple heads peek around corners. Kids pause mid-run. Someone in the kitchen yells something in Spanish that makes everyone laugh.
Then his sisters appear.
The taller one, Maribel first, was sharp-eyed and delighted. Then Sofía, right behind her, is already bouncing like she’s about to explode.
“?El pelirrojo!” Sofía squeals, pointing at me like I’m a rare Pokémon.
Emiliano groans. “Dios mío.”
Maribel looks me up and down like she’s judging my soul. “?Así que tú eres Sean?”
I blink, caught between languages and nerves. “Uh… sí.”
Her grin turns wicked. “Habla espanol.”
Emiliano laughs under his breath. “Don’t scare him. He knows a handful of words.”
His sister points at him. “Yo hago lo que quiero.”
“A few of my friends speak Spanish, so I’ve picked up a few things here and there. I’m nowhere near conversational, though. Gaelic and Latin are more my speed,” I offer, not knowing if she’s talking shit to him about my Spanish.
Then she turns back to me, eyes bright. “So… you play for the Coyotes.”
My stomach flips. “Yeah.”
Sofía bounces closer, whispering loudly to Emiliano in Spanish like I can’t hear. “?Es más guapo en persona!”
Emiliano mutters, “Cállate,” and my face burns hotter.
Everyone is talking. Moving. Touching. Someone hands me a drink, and then out of nowhere someone else presses a plate into my hands like refusing food is a crime here.
Senora Guerrero is already frowning at my shoulders like she thinks they’re too tense.
“You hungry?” she asks, as if the answer matters.
“Yeah, he is,” Emiliano answers for me.
I glare at him.
“What? You played a hell of a game… I’m sure you’re starving.”
Senora Guerrero nods like he just gave a sermon. “Sí. Come.” She pats my cheek, and I swear my heart lurches.
This is… insane.
And yet, it doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels like being pulled into something warm. It feels like I belong somewhere.
We eat at a table that’s too small for the number of people crammed around it. Plates everywhere, with food shoved in every available place. Laughter all around me in every direction. There’s a candle burning near a small altar in the corner, and it doesn’t feel like judgment.
It feels like a blessing.
Someone says grace, short and casual, like it’s just… part of life, not a weapon.
Senora Guerrero keeps putting food on my plate like she’s trying to personally ensure I don’t starve. Emiliano’s sisters make comments in Spanish about my hair, my freckles, and the way I talk, and I understand maybe every sixth word, but I understand the tone.
Affectionate.
Sometimes it’s teasing, but never cruel.
Emiliano sits beside me, his thigh pressed to mine, hand resting briefly on my knee under the table like he’s reminding me, “I'm here.”
At one point, his uncle Juan strolls in, loud voice, big grin, beer in his hand, like he’s already decided tonight is going to be fun. He looks at Emiliano. Then at me. Then back at Emiliano.
His grin grows.
“?Y éste?” he asks, eyebrows lifted. “?Quién es?”
Emiliano answers easily, like he’s practiced. “Es Sean.”
Juan’s gaze flicks to me. Sharp, curious. Not mean. Just… direct.
“Mucho gusto,” he says.
“Back at ya,” I manage, and Emiliano’s hand squeezes my knee like praise.
Dinner rolls into the kind of evening where the whole living room seems to breathe around you.
Kids take over, and adults chat while some clean up after the meal.
A group of women gossip in the corner, and every so often I hear my name get whispered.
Emiliano ends up on the floor with a few of his nephews climbing him like he’s a jungle gym, and the sight punches something soft into my chest.
That man is born to be a dad. I can see it now.
He looks so right here.
So loved.
So certain.
I’m sitting at the table with his mother while she watches him, smiling like her heart is full. And for a moment, the noise fades enough for my brain to do what it always does.
Overthink.
How do we make this work?
My throat tightens at the thought.
Because he lives here.
I live in San Jose.
Our schedules are brutal, and we’re on different teams, on different coasts, and in different worlds. This isn’t like dating a normal person where you can just drive over and fall into each other on a random Tuesday.
This is planes and calendars and stolen nights and goodbyes.
So many goodbyes.
The thought overwhelms me so fast my chest feels too tight. Senora Guerrero turns, watching me.
“Sean,” she says softly. “?Estás bien?”
“Yeah.” I blink. “Just tired. Two games back-to-back in a different time zone will do that to you.”
She tilts her head. She doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push like she’s interrogating.
I swallow and fess up. “I’m just… thinking.”
“Thinking is dangerous,” she says in accented English, and there’s humor there. Warmth. “Too much thinking makes the heart tired.”
Don’t I fucking know it.
His mom reaches across the table and takes my hand, gently. “You are welcome here,” she says again, slower this time. “?Sí?”