Page 45 of Hearts on Ice
“Then let’s talk boxing,” my dad said, his grin widening. “Ali or Tyson?”
Drew tipped his head, pretending to think. “Depends on who’s throwing the first punch.”
They cracked up together, the sound filling the room, deep and easy. Watching my dad and my coach click so effortlessly, despite coming from different generations,cultures and upbringings, hit somewhere low in my chest. It messed me up, how natural it looked.
And me? I sat there like an idiot, watching Drew’s mouth curve around the laugh, loosening his whole face.God, I’m in trouble.
I reached for my guitar before my brain could start looping again. The feel of it grounded me—the worn wood, the calluses on my fingers finding their marks.
“Play something for us, mijo,” my mom said, already smiling.
So I did.
The first chords of “Bésame Mucho” filled the room, slow and honey-smooth. My dad started tapping the table; my abuela hummed along. I didn’t plan to sing, but the lyrics came out anyway.
It’s fine, Miguel. You’ve sung this song a million times. The words don't mean anything.
But somehow they did.
Every line about wanting, about not knowing how to let go, hit somewhere deeper than it ever had before.
For a second, I could almost see it—something that looked suspiciously like a future.
Then I shook it off, fingers tightening on the strings.No. That isn’t me. I’m not that guy.
When the last chord faded, my mom clapped. “¡Ay, mi hijo! You sing better every time.”
Drew’s smile met mine across the table, small, quiet, enough to knock the air out of me.
Then I played something faster, a few old love songs my parents grew up dancing to. The chords spilled out of me, easy as breathing. The room swelled with clapping, laughter, my dad tapping the table, my mom harmonizing off-key.
But I wasn’t really watching them.
I was watching him.
Drew leaned back in the chair, one hand loose around his glass, the other resting on his knee. The light from the window caught his profile, softened it. He looked… happy. Maybe happier than I’d ever seen him. And when he smiled at something my mom said between verses, it felt like someone had reached inside me and turned a dial up too high.
When the last chord faded, my mom beamed. “You make me proud every time, Miguel.”
I set the guitar aside, pretending my throat didn’t feel tight.
“Now,” my mom said, standing with purpose, “dessert.”
She disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, she reappeared, carrying the flan like it was treasure—golden, glossy, trembling slightly under the caramel glaze. The scent hit first: sweet and smoky, sugar burned to the edge of perfect.
I leaned closer to Drew and murmured, “This is what I told you about.”
He smiled. “Your mom’s famous flan?”
“The very same. No pressure.”
I grinned, but there was a flicker of nerves under it. It mattered what he thought about it and I wasn’t sure why.
My mom sliced a piece, slid it onto a plate, and handed it to him. “Try, Coach,” she said warmly.
He took the spoon—yes, a spoon with flan, hardly ever a fork—and cut through the soft custard. His eyes fluttered closed on the first bite.
That tiny sound he made? Yeah, that was a man enjoying the hell out of it.
