11. Emiliano
ELEVEN
EMILIANO
My mom’s house is loud in a way that makes your shoulders drop the second you walk in.
Tonight it’s not “party loud.” Just… life.
Pots clinking in the kitchen, the TV too loud because my tío insists he can’t hear unless it’s at stadium volume.
My nephews are running down the hallway like they’re training for the Olympics.
Home.
I’m on the couch with a plate balanced on my knee, pretending I’m here for dinner and family time like a normal son.
I am.
But I’m also here because the Coyotes are playing the Yankees, and my favorite part of that lineup is a redheaded outfielder with a mouth that I haven’t kissed in a week, and I’m on the verge of combusting.
On the TV, the stadium lights wash everything in harsh brightness.
The Bronx looks like it always does on camera: iconic and ruthless.
Sean O’Malley is out there in left field, pacing like he’s got a motor under his skin. With his cap low. Jaw tight. He’s doing that thing where he looks like he’s irritated at the entire universe, and the universe should be grateful for the attention.
My fingers tighten around my fork, and my mother sits in the armchair near the window, a rosary draped over one wrist like it’s an accessory. She’s watching the game too, though she swears she’s just “keeping me company.”
My sisters are on the other couch, legs tucked under them, sharing a blanket and a bowl of fruit like they’re watching a telenovela.
Which, in a way, they are, because Maribel glances at the screen, then at me, then back to the screen.
And smiles.
“?Otra vez ese?” she asks.
I don’t look at her. “?Qué?”
Sofía makes a sound like she’s offended I’d even try it. “No te hagas, Emiliano.”
My mom doesn’t say anything. She just sips her water and watches me like she’s been watching me my whole life. Sean throws his head back laughing at something someone said near the warning track. It’s quick, like it escaped him before he could stop it.
My chest goes tight, and I love how much I like seeing him happy.
Maribel leans forward, pointing at the screen. “Ese pelirrojo. El que estabas mirando la otra noche.”
Sofía gasps dramatically. “?Ay! ?Es él!”
Why wouldn’t they remember?
My sisters could spot a secret relationship from a mile away, even if you buried it under cement and swore to God it never existed.
“It’s a game,” I say, trying to make it seem like it’s nothing. “Strategy. Trying to take notes on two opposing teams’ weaknesses.”
“Sí,” Maribel agrees sweetly. “Pero tú no ves los juegos así.”
Sofía tilts her head. “?Cómo se llama?”
I pause because his name in my mouth feels intimate now. It’s not just a player. It’s not just a rival. It’s… him.
My boyfriend.
“Sean,” I answer finally.
My mom’s gaze flicks up, but she doesn’t tease me. She never teases.
Maribel immediately starts talking faster. “?Y ya viene? ?Cuándo lo vas a traer? ?Es cierto que es tu… novio?”
The word makes my stomach flip, and I flip her off when my mother isn’t looking.
Sofía squeals like she’s watching a proposal. “?Dios mío!”
“Bájale,” I mutter.
My mom finally speaks, calm as a priest and twice as powerful. “?Es el muchacho?”
Well, there goes me telling her with Sean here.
My throat tightens. “Sí, mamá.”
She nods once, like she already knew the shape of it. “Bueno.”
Sofía blinks. “?Eso es todo?”
My mom gives her a look. “?Qué quieres? ?Qué grite?”
“I just thought there’d be more drama.” Sofía pouts.
My mom snorts. “La vida ya tiene suficiente drama.”
“?Y él está bien?” My mother looks at me with warm eyes.
I shrug nonchalantly. “Está… nervioso.”
My mom hums. “Natural.”
Maribel leans closer, eyes sharp. “?Nervioso por qué?”
That, I don’t answer. I’m not going to explain Sean’s fear to people who will treat it like a problem to solve without understanding the weight of it. Because even though my family is safe, Sean’s brain doesn’t know that yet.
I watch the screen instead.
The Yankees batter pops a ball into shallow left, and Sean moves, smooth and sure, catching it like it’s nothing. My sisters clap like he can hear them through the TV.
Sofía laughs. “Mira, Mamá. Tu yerno.”
I choke on my drink. “?Sofía!” I snap.
She grins unrepentantly, and my mom just smiles like she’s entertained. I try to keep my face neutral, but my chest is too full. I can’t wait to have him here. To be able to hold his hand where the people around us love us.
After the game, my phone buzzes in my pocket like it’s been waiting all night to be acknowledged. A message from Sean.
Sean
We won.
And I’m exhausted.
I smile before I can stop myself, and my sisters see it and immediately pounce.
Sofía screams, “?LO SABíA!”
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say, standing up too fast.
My mom’s voice follows me, absolutely amused. “Lávate las manos.”
Glaring over my shoulder, I look offended. “I always wash my hands, thank you.”
Maribel calls after me, “Tell your novio we say hi!”
I flip her off without turning around. In the bathroom, I lock the door like I’m fifteen again and pull my phone out.
Emiliano
Proud of you, Cobre. You kicked ass out there.
You eat yet?
Sean
Don’t start parenting me.
I ate.
A normal amount.
Like an adult.
Emiliano
Wow. Should I throw you a parade?
Sean
Shut up.
I lean back against the sink, letting myself breathe. Sean will be here tomorrow after the game. He’ll be meeting my mom and my crazy-ass sisters. Everyone.
What if he changes his mind?
What if he panics at the last second and turns his phone off and disappears into the hotel like he used to?
I hate that the fear exists.
I’m scared of losing him.
Emiliano
You want me at the game tomorrow?
The typing bubble appears immediately, and then it’s like everything freezes. My jaw tightens, my head cycling through every possible reason why he wouldn’t want me there.
Sean
Only if you want to.
I laugh under my breath.
That’s so him.
Afraid to ask for what he wants in case it costs someone something.
Emiliano
I asked because I want to, baby.
Sean
What about the cameras? And the shit on the internet?
Emiliano
I’ll keep it low profile.
Hoodie. Hat. I’ll just be a normal guy at a baseball game.
Sean
Okay.
I’d like that.
My chest goes warm.
Emiliano
See how easy it is when you just say what you want?
Sean
Emiliano.
There’s a warning in my name, but it’s not a stop sign.
It’s a blush, and I let my smile sharpen.
Emiliano
What? I’m praising you for using your words.
Sean
You know what you’re doing.
Emiliano
Yeah.
I’m doing it on purpose.
The typing bubble appears again, hesitant this time.
Sean
I’m nervous about your family.
I soften immediately. He has no reason to be nervous. If anything, they are going to shower him with so much love that it might be the reason he tries to run.
Emiliano
I know.
But they’re not cruel, Cobre.
They’ll just… be loud about loving you. And maybe a bit touchy-feely.
Sean
That sounds like Irish people.
I snort.
Emiliano
So you’ll survive.
Sean
You’re really doing this.
You’re really… choosing me. Out of all the people in the world. I mean, you could have anyone, guy or girl. And you choose the scared bisexual redhead guy.
Emiliano
I chose you the first time you ran your mouth at me from left field.
I continue to choose you because nobody, and I mean nobody, has ever said my name and given me butterflies just hearing it.
Sean
Shut up.
Emiliano
No.
His next message comes after a few seconds.
Sean
I want you tonight.
Heat curls low in my stomach, and I stare at the words for a second too long.
Emiliano
Me too.
But I’m not in your hotel room.
Yet.
Sean
Yet?
Emiliano
After you meet my family tomorrow, we can spend the night in your hotel room.
You can tell me how much you “hate” me in person.
Sean
I hate you.
My stomach flutters, and I start to mentally talk myself out of driving there tonight and kissing the shit out of his bratty mouth.
Emiliano
Say it again.
Sean
I hate you.
Emiliano
Fuck, I want that mouth on me, baby. Bet you can take a dick like a fucking champ.
There’s a pause long enough that I can picture him staring at the screen, cheeks red, throat working.
Sean
Fuck.
I laugh silently.
Emiliano
Exactly.
Get some sleep, boyfriend. I’ll see you after the game.
The next day, I show up at Yankee Stadium dressed like I’m trying to disappear. I’ve got a plain hoodie on with a Coyotes hat and some sunglasses. I move through the crowd with my head down, but I swear I can still feel eyes on me.
I’m not invisible, and it was stupid to think I could even pull this off.
I find my seat where I can see left field and the Coyotes dugout without being too close to anything official.
When Sean jogs out for warmups, my heart does a quick flutter.
When he thinks no one is looking, he scans the lower level, searching for me, and then his bright green eyes find mine. Even from this far away, I feel it.
The way he steadies, the way his shoulders drop a fraction, and he looks like he can breathe again.
That’s right, baby. I’m right here.
Breathe.
Game 2 ends later with the Coyotes fighting like hell to secure the second win of the series. Sean plays like he’s got something to prove. Like he’s angry at the world and using the field as a confession booth.
When it’s over, I wait until the crowd thins, until he’s out of uniform and back in street clothes, duffel slung over his shoulder. He spots me near an exit and his whole body tightens like he’s bracing for impact.
I step in close and reach for his bag. He lets me take it before I have to ask.
That’s still my favorite kind of yes.
“Hey,” I say softly.
Sean swallows. “Hi.”
His eyes flick around, paranoid that someone will see.
“Relax,” I murmur. “No one’s looking. Actually, wait a second…”
Sure enough, his little gang of friends is peeking around the corner. Vaughn catches my eye and smirks, then a few of the guys tug him back, and they disappear.
“Never mind… must have been nothing.”
He huffs a laugh. “This is New York. Everyone’s always looking.”
“Then let them,” I say, and I brush my knuckles against his wrist subtly. “You ready?”
“For what?” he asks, his voice tight.
“For my family,” I smirk. “More specifically, my two sisters. They can’t wait to meet you.”
“I have three younger sisters, so I’m pretty good on that front.”
I lean in, voice low, just for him.
“I hope you like spicy food, pretty boy,” I murmur. “Because my mom cooks like love is a full-contact sport.”
Sean closes his eyes like he’s praying. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
“Maybe,” I say, guiding him toward the car. “But you’ll die fed.”
He shoots me a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
I grin. “Un poquito.”
Then I soften, my thumb brushing his wrist.
“But I’m proud of you,” I add quietly. “You’re still here.”
Sean’s throat works.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’m still here.”