Page 43 of Hearts on Ice
She was small, maybe five foot nothing, hair threaded with silver, eyes bright and alive. You could see Miguel in her smile, in the warmth that filled the doorway.
Then her gaze found me. “Coach Mack! Bienvenido.”Welcome.
I started to offer my hand. “Thank you for having me, Mrs—”
“No, no, no.” She waved the formality away and wrapped me in a hug that smelled like flour and citrus. “Call meLucía. You are family now.”
It had been years since anyone hugged me like that—without hesitation, without pity. Just warmth. Years since anyone’s arms had felt like home.
By the time she let go, my throat felt tight.
Miguel’s dad appeared behind her—taller, broad through the shoulders, with laugh lines that said he’d earned every one. He stuck out his hand to me.
“Coach Mack,” he said, voice rich with that easy rhythm. “You take good care of my boy. Gracias.”
I shook his hand—firm grip, palm callused.
“He does most of the work himself.”
“Ah,” he said, eyes crinkling. “That part he gets from his mamá.”
“Papá,” Miguel said, rolling his eyes, but there was no real bite in it. “This is my dad, Ramón. And this—” He gestured toward the woman shuffling out from the kitchen, her gray hair tied in a neat braid, slippers soft against the tile. “—is my abuela, Teresa.”
She didn’t wait for introductions either. She pressed a kiss to my cheek before I could blink, muttering something rapid-fire in Spanish that made Lucía laugh.
Miguel translated, smiling. “She says you look tired. You need a hearty meal and rest. She’ll make sure you eat well today.”
I tried not to laugh, but it came out anyway. “Guess I don’t have a choice.”
“Not in this house,” Ramón said, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he steered us toward the living room, a small, sun-bright space that felt like the heart of the house. The couch was a little worn at the arms, a crocheted blanket draped over the back. Family photos covered every wall, spilling into each other: Miguel in youth-league gear, a boy I assumed was his brother in goalie pads that swallowed him whole, birthdays, graduations, the kind of snapshots that told you this family celebrated everything.
Two kids bounded in from the hallway: a boy around nine and a girl a little older. The boy wore a Lakers jersey; the girl clutched a tablet like it was treasure.
“Estos son mis primos, my cousins,” Miguel said, crouching to ruffle the boy’s hair. “Leo and Sofia.”
Leo grinned up at me. “You’re the coach?”
“Guilty,” I said, shaking his hand solemnly. He chuckled.
We talked for a while, nothing deep, just the kind of easy chatter that fills a house when everyone’s comfortable. Ramón asked about the season. Teresa handed me a plate of pastelitos “just to taste.” I could already feel my waistband protesting.
After a while, Lucía stood, brushing her hands on her apron. “I just have a few more things to finish in the kitchen.”
Miguel started to rise. “Need any help, Mamá?”
She waved him off. “You rest. I have Coach now.”
I blinked. “Uh—”
“Come, help me,” she said, smiling.
I followed her into the kitchen, trying not to knock into anything. The space was narrow, every counter busy with bowls and spice jars. The air smelled of garlic, lime, and frying oil.
“Here,” she said, handing me a plantain and a knife. “You slice. Thin, like this.” She demonstrated, deft and quick.
“Are you sure you trust me with that?”
“You are a coach, yes?” Her eyes sparkled. “You give instructions all week. Now you take some.”
