Page 62 of Love at Teamsgiving
But what’s more is that she’s wearing a Knights hoodie.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask.
“Carlotta.”
“Why?”
In Italian, she replies, “To show support for the team.”
I sputter. “You’re going to the game?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t understand how the answer to my question isof course.”
“To support Miguel. He’s family.”
“What happened to the feud?”
Mom takes my hand and pats it. “Once more, my oldest friend and I find ourselves in a new land. We have to stick together. We had a heart-to-heart. We should’ve left our feud back in Italy. Now it’s in New York and that’s where it’ll stay.”
“But you hate each other.”
Mom frowns as if contemplating that. “No, we are like sisters.”
I snort. “You have a fierce rivalry.”
“Think of it like sibling rivalry.”
A staggering thought makes me go still. “If you’re sisters, then Miguel and I can never ... ”
“I said we arelikesisters. There is no blood relation.” She wears a sneaky smile like she plans to meddle again. “And we realized we were setting a poor example.”
Does this mean she and Carlotta see me struggling with my feelings for Miguel? His for me?
She says, “Finish getting ready. We don’t want to be late.”
Like a sulky teenager, I return to my room.
Mom calls, “And don’t wear your Kings jersey. We want to fit in ... and hurry. The Cruzes will be here any minute to pick us up.”
With the ceiling cave-in at the salon, uncertainty about the building permit, and relying on that particular family for anything, I want to protest. However, my mother is more animated than she’s been in months, and if mending fences with Carlotta is helping her move out of grief and into a new normal, I won’t put up a fight. For now.
Thankfully, Miguel will already be at the arena, so I don’t have to squish into the car next to him. Not that it would be the most terrible thing. At the salon earlier, my traitorous body wanted his touch, desired his lips on mine more than anything—even an intact ceiling.
I begrudgingly tug on the jersey with the number ninety-four and the nameCruzemblazoned across the back, then pull a plain black sweatshirt over it to keep warm.
Miguel got the six members of his family, plus Mom and me, access to the VIP box. I see Margo, Gracie, Delaney, Whit, and a few others, but no sign of Leah. In the short time we’ve known each other, I’ve come to think of her as my fellow single sister. Though I noticed her staring at Hudson earlier at lunch.
The ladies and kids cheer for the guys as they take to the ice, some of them waving with sticks lifted, others straight-faced and focused as they shut out the noise and get into the zone.
Then there’s Miguel Cruz, who is somewhere in between. He wears a smirk and pumps the air for the fans as he gets into position, but his dark eyes are on the hunt. He doesn’t spend much time searching the crowd until his gaze lands on me. There’s a flicker of recognition, a moment of contentment as if he’s pleased to see me in the arena. But his attention doesn’t leave me. Not when the announcers give their spiel. Not when one of the guys from the Kings hocks a loogie onto the ice in Miguel’s direction.
It may as well only be the two of us here with the intensity of his gaze on me. Pinned in place, my heart flutters and my hand lifts as if on a puppet string. My lips gather into a perfect pucker as I blow Miguel a kiss.
I want to say it’s a reflex, an old habit from when we were together. But I’ve been to multiple games where he’s playing—though he didn’t know I was in attendance—and I did not blow him a kiss.
My instinct is to look around, hoping no one noticed, but the entire arena roars as my face appears on the jumbo televisions suspended over the ice, replaying that moment. The commentators say something about the new center as thewomen surrounding me flock over, twittering about what I just did.
