Page 44 of Hearts on Ice
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.
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.
