Page 15

I arrived on campus early, before the rest of the team, the rink keys a familiar weight in my pocket. The arena’s vast, pre‐practice quiet settled around me as I laced up, the scent of cold steel and shaved ice a comforting constant. Captai n- led practices weren’t mandatory, but they were tradition—and, frankly, after the holidays, we all needed the ice time.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mia.

Good luck with practice today. Don't be too hard on them. Some of us spent the break eating our weight in holiday cookies.

I couldn’t help but grin as my thumb hovered over the glowing screen. Since Christmas Eve, our messages had become the steady pulse between us, weaving into every quiet moment. Now her family’s Three Kings Day celebration was just days away, and that clear line between our casual arrangement and something real had all but dissolved. I didn’t know what to call us anymore—only that I was perfectly happy with wherever we stood.

I'll go easy on them. But only because I also ate my weight in cookies.

I was still smiling when the locker room door banged open behind me.

"Well, well, well. Look who's here early and grinning at his phone like an idiot." Tyler's voice echoed through the empty locker room as he dropped his gear bag with a thud. "Let me guess. Mia?"

"Shut up," I muttered, pocketing my phone. But I couldn't wipe the smile from my face.

More players filed in, and soon the locker room hummed with activity. I'd expected some ribbing about Mia but I wasn't prepared for the level of detailed observation they'd apparently been conducting.

"Guys, did you see him at the last practice when she was taking photos?" Tyler mimicked my expression, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. "Man actually forgot how to skate for a solid minute."

"Remember when he fixed his hair before the post-game interview?" Sanchez chimed in. "Like four times in a row!"

"I did not," I protested, but even I didn't believe me.

"Oh, you absolutely did," Dylan said, dropping onto the bench beside me. "I counted. It was six times, actually."

I threw a rolled-up tape ball at his head, which he dodged effortlessly. "I hate all of you."

"No, you don't," Dylan grinned. "You love us almost as much as you love Mi—"

I tackled him before he could finish, both of us laughing as we crashed to the floor. The guys whooped and hollered, and for a moment, it felt like old times—before NHL scouts and graduation and the weight of expectations had settled so heavily on my shoulders.

Once we were up and getting ready, I noticed Reyes, a freshman defenseman, hovering nearby, clearly wanting to say something.

"What's up?" I asked, pulling my practice jersey over my head.

"Uh..." He glanced around nervously. "Can I ask you something? Like... privately?"

I raised an eyebrow but nodded, leading him to the quieter corner near the equipment room.

"There's this girl in my econ class," he started, his voice so low I had to lean in to hear him. "We've been study partners all semester, and I think... I mean, I really like her. But I don't know if she sees me as anything more than the guy who helps her understand supply curves."

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. When none came, I realized with a start that he was genuinely asking for my advice. Me. The guy whose dating experience consisted of one toxic relationship with Vanessa and a fake-but-maybe-not-so-fake arrangement with Mia.

"Have you tried, I don't know, talking to her about something other than economics?" I asked carefully.

Reyes’ face fell. "I try, but I get nervous and then start rambling about price elasticity."

Despite myself, I laughed. "Okay, look. Find out what she's interested in—like really into—and ask her about that. People love talking about their passions. And then actually listen, don't just wait for your turn to speak."

He looked at me like I'd just revealed the secret to perpetual motion. "That's... that actually makes sense."

"I'm not completely useless," I grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Just mostly."

What I didn't expect was for this exchange to open the floodgates. By the time we were heading out to the ice, three more players had cornered me with relationship questions, as if I'd suddenly become the team's dating guru.

"My girlfriend keeps leaving passive-aggressive sticky notes around our apartment instead of just telling me what's wrong," Sanchez complained as we walked toward the rink.

"Maybe try asking her directly? Wild concept, I know," I suggested, and was met with a look of genuine revelation.

The most surreal moment came when Jensen—all six-foot-four, 220 pounds of him—approached me in the hallway, nervously checking that no one else was within earshot.

"Captain," he began solemnly, "I need your expertise."

I braced myself for another dating crisis. "What's up?"

"My girlfriend gave me a houseplant," he whispered, as if confessing to a felony. "It's like a symbol of our relationship or something. If it dies, we're doomed. How do I keep it alive?"

I stared at him, completely bewildered. "Jensen, I play hockey. I'm not a botanist."

"But you're in a healthy relationship," he insisted. "You must know about keeping things alive."

Before I could explain that my relationship with Mia wasn't exactly what everyone thought, Dylan appeared, slinging an arm around Jensen's massive shoulders.

“Rookie mistake,” Dylan said sagely. “Plants are like hockey players—they need tough love. Water them with a sports drink—the electrolytes are the key.”

“Really?” Jensen asked eagerly.

“No!” I cut in. “For God’s sake, don’t water your plant with a sports drink. Just… search it online like a normal person.”

Jensen nodded seriously, as if I'd imparted great wisdom, and lumbered off toward the ice.

Dylan watched him go, then turned to me with a smirk. "Well, look at you. Ethan 'Hockey Is My Only Girlfriend' Wright, suddenly a relationship guru."

"It's ridiculous," I muttered. "Since when does anyone on this team care about relationship advice?"

"Since their captain started walking around looking like he won the lottery every time his phone buzzes with a text from a certain photographer," Dylan replied, his voice suddenly serious. "It's given them hope, man."

I didn't know how to respond to that. Thankfully, Coach Alvarez saved me by blowing his whistle from the ice, signaling the start of practice.

Practice went well—better than expected for the first day back after break. I'd worried that I'd be distracted, thinking about Mia and the increasingly real feelings I had for her, but strangely, her presence in my life seemed to have the opposite effect. I felt calmer, more focused, like I had something beyond hockey anchoring me.

Coach must have noticed it too, because he pulled me aside as we were wrapping up.

"You seem different lately," he said, studying me with his characteristic intensity. "More balanced."

I shrugged, unsure how to respond. "Just trying to be a better captain."

"It's working," he nodded. "You're not gripping your stick like it's the only thing keeping you from drowning anymore. The guys respond better to that version of you—the one who doesn't look like he's carrying the weight of the world."

He clapped me on the shoulder, a rare gesture of approval from our stoic coach. "Whatever—or whoever—is helping you find that balance, it's good for your game. For what it's worth, I like Mia. She sees beyond the hockey player, which is what you need."

I blinked, surprised by his insight. "Thanks, Coach."

Walking back to my apartment later, I found myself scrolling through photos on my phone—not game footage or plays I wanted to review, but pictures of Mia. There was one from Christmas dinner where she was laughing at something Emma had said, her head thrown back, eyes crinkled at the corners. Another from a coffee study date where she was concentrating on her laptop, a smudge of charcoal on her cheek from her drawing class earlier that day.

When had I started taking these? When had she become the thing I wanted to capture and remember?

I stopped in the middle of the quad, hit by a realization that should have terrified me: I hadn't thought about NHL scouts or my father's expectations once during practice today. Instead, I'd been thinking about whether Mia would like the gift I'd gotten for her family's Three Kings Day celebration, whether she'd be impressed if I used the Spanish phrases I'd been practicing in secret.

For the first time in my hockey career—hell, in my life—something else had taken precedence in my mind.

And strangely, I was okay with that.

I woke before my alarm on January 6th, nerves jangling in my stomach like I was facing a championship game. In a way, this felt more important. Three Kings Day—El Día de los Reyes—was a big deal in Mia's family, she'd explained. The day when the three wise men finally reached baby Jesus, bearing gifts. In her family's tradition, it was as significant as Christmas, with special foods, decorations, and gift-giving.

I'd been invited to participate. Me. The guy who'd once yelled at her for stepping onto the ice during practice.

"You don't have to come," she'd said when she invited me, trying to sound casual. "It's not part of our arrangement or anything. But my family's asking, and—"

"I want to," I'd interrupted. "If that's okay. I want to see what it's like."

The smile that had bloomed across her face made me want to agree to anything she ever asked of me.

I stood in front of my closet, secon d- guessing every choice. What did one wear to a Three Kings Day celebration? My exhaustive online search had yielded plenty about the customs but nothing on attire. After trying on—and rejecting—three different outfits, I finally slipped into dark jeans and a fores t- green butto n- down—the very shirt Mia once said made my blue eyes stand out.

I checked the gift bag one more time—presents for Mia's parents, siblings, and Mia herself. I'd agonized over each one, wanting to make a good impression, to show that I'd been paying attention when she talked about her family.

Dylan emerged from his bedroom as I was heading out, looking rumpled and half-asleep. He stopped when he saw me, taking in my outfit and the gift bag.

"You're really going all out for this, huh?" he asked, a knowing smile playing at his lips.

"It's important to her," I shrugged.

Dylan's smile softened. "You know, for a fake relationship, you two are putting in an awful lot of effort."

I didn't have a response for that, so I just grabbed my keys and headed for the door.

"Ethan," Dylan called after me, his voice uncharacteristically serious. I turned back. "For what it's worth, I've never seen you like this with anyone before. Not even close."

I nodded, acknowledging what neither of us was quite ready to name, and left to pick up Mia.

She was waiting outside her apartment building, wrapped in a bright red wool coat that made her skin glow in the winter sunlight. Her dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and she'd put on red lipstick that matched her coat. She looked beautiful—more dressed up than I'd ever seen her, even for our "dates" around campus.

"Hey," she smiled, a touch of nervousness in her expression as she approached the car. "You look nice."

"So do you," I replied, suddenly feeling tongue-tied. "Really nice."

A faint blush colored her cheeks as she got into the passenger seat. "Thanks for doing this. I know it's not part of our arrangement, but—"

"Will you stop saying that?" I interrupted gently. "I want to be here."

She looked at me then—really looked—as if seeking the truth behind my words. Whatever she discovered must have eased her doubts, because she broke into a genuine smile that made my heart skip a beat.

"In that case," she said, reaching over to squeeze my hand, "let's go celebrate."

The drive to her parents' house took about forty minutes, during which Mia gave me a crash course on Three Kings Day traditions in her family.

"My dad will definitely try to out-macho you with his handshake," she warned. "And my mom will try to feed you until you explode. Just keep eating—it's how she shows love."

"Noted," I laughed. "What about your siblings?"

"Miguel will quiz you on hockey stats to see if you're worthy. Sophia will probably show you her rock collection within five minutes of meeting you. Oh, and my abuela will pinch your cheeks and tell you you're too skinny, even though you're clearly not."

"Sounds perfect," I said, and meant it.

Mia's family home was modest compared to my parents' house—a cheerful yellow two-story in a close-knit neighborhood where the homes nearly touched each other. Christmas lights still adorned the roofline, and a wreath with three crowns hung on the front door. The driveway and street were packed with cars, forcing us to park nearly a block away.

"Big family?" I asked as we walked back to the house, my arms laden with gift bags.

"The biggest," Mia confirmed. "My dad has four siblings, my mom has three, and they all have kids. Plus family friends who might as well be blood relatives. We don't do anything small."

As if to prove her point, the front door flew open before we even reached the porch, and a chorus of voices called out greetings. Mia's mother—a shorter, slightly rounder version of Mia with the same expressive eyes—enveloped her daughter in a fierce hug before turning her attention to me.

"You must be Ethan," she beamed, pulling me into an equally enthusiastic embrace. "I'm Elena. We've heard so much about you!"

"All good things, I hope," I smiled, returning her hug and inhaling the scent of cinnamon and something floral.

"Mostly," she winked, releasing me. "Come in, come in! Gabriel, Mia's boy is here!"

Mia squeezed my arm apologetically as we entered the house, which was alive with color, noise, and delicious smells. Christmas decorations still filled the space, but with additions—three crowns displayed prominently on the mantel, a nativity scene with the three kings positioned front and center.

Mia's father emerged from what appeared to be the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and Mia's warm brown eyes.

"So this is the famous hockey player," he said, extending his hand. As Mia had predicted, his handshake was firm to the point of discomfort. "Gabriel Navarro. Welcome to our home."

"Thank you for having me, sir," I replied, matching his grip strength. "Your home is beautiful."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded approvingly. "Good handshake. That means something, you know."

"Papá, please don't start with the handshake theory," Mia groaned, but she was smiling.

Before Gabriel could respond, two younger versions of Mia barreled into the room. The boy, who looked about fourteen, skidded to a stop in front of me, eyes wide with recognition.

"Holy sh—I mean, shoot," he caught himself with a quick glance at his mother. "You're Ethan Wright! I've seen all your games on the tv livestream!"

"Language, Miguel," Elena chided, though she didn't seem truly upset. "And give the poor boy some space to breathe."

"This is my brother, Miguel, hockey enthusiast extraordinaire," Mia introduced, ruffling her brother's hair affectionately. "And this is Sophia."

Sophia, who appeared to be around ten, regarded me with solemn eyes. "Do you want to see my rock collection? I have twenty-seven different types."

"I would love that," I replied seriously. "But maybe after I've said hello to everyone? I don't want to rush through such an important collection."

She nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "It took me three years to collect them all. I'll wait."

What followed was a whirlwind of introductions—aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends whose exact relationships I couldn't quite follow. Names blurred together, but everyone welcomed me warmly, many with hugs and kisses on both cheeks that would have made my own reserved family members deeply uncomfortable.

I loved it immediately.

"Are you overwhelmed yet?" Mia asked quietly as we finally found a moment to ourselves in the crowded living room.

"A little," I admitted. "But in the best way. Your family is amazing."

"They're a lot," she smiled, but I could see how much she loved them. "Just wait until the food comes out. That's when the real chaos begins."

As if on cue, Elena appeared at my elbow, linking her arm through mine. "Ethan, come help in the kitchen. I need a tall person to reach the special platters."

I glanced at Mia, who nodded encouragingly. As Elena led me toward the kitchen, I heard one of Mia's aunts say something to her in rapid Spanish that made Mia's cheeks flush bright red.

The kitchen was a hub of activity—women of various ages chopped, stirred, and arranged food on colorful platters. I was immediately put to work reaching items from high shelves, stirring pots when instructed, and eventually helping to assemble tamales under the watchful eye of an elderly woman introduced as Aunt Carmen.

"No, no, like this," she corrected, showing me how to spread the masa on the corn husk. "Not too thick, not too thin."

My attempts were clumsy at best, but she nodded approvingly at my persistence. "He tries. That's good."

"My abuela says you have nice hands," a young cousin translated for a tiny, white-haired woman who was studying me intently. "Strong but gentle. Good for making babies."

I nearly choked on air, causing several women to laugh.

"Mamá!" Elena scolded the elderly woman, though she was fighting a smile. "Don't embarrass him."

"Es la verdad," Abuela shrugged unapologetically, adding something else in Spanish that made the kitchen erupt in laughter.

When Mia appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, she took one look at my flushed face and narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"What did you all say to him?" she demanded.

"Nothing, nothing," Elena insisted innocently. "Just getting to know your novio."

Mia's eyes widened slightly at the word—boyfriend—but she didn't correct her mother. Instead, she came to my rescue, pulling me away from the tamale assembly line.

"I'm saving you," she whispered. "Once they start talking about babies, it's all downhill from there."

"I don't mind," I replied honestly. "It's nice that they care."

Mia looked up at me, a complicated expression crossing her face. "You're full of surprises, Ethan Wright."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of food, laughter, and traditions I'd only read about online. We ate a feast that put my mother's Christmas dinner to shame—tamales, pozole, roasted meats, and endless side dishes. I tried everything, earning approving nods from Elena each time I asked for seconds.

The Kings' Cake—Rosca de Reyes—was brought out with great ceremony, a round sweet bread decorated with candied fruits. Miguel explained that whoever found the small plastic baby Jesus figurine hidden inside their slice would host a party on February 2nd, Candlemas Day.

"It's a big responsibility," he informed me gravely. "Last year, Tío Javier got it and tried to pretend he didn't. But Abuela knew. She always knows."

When it was my turn to receive a slice, I took a careful bite, aware of all eyes on me.

"He's being too careful," Gabriel laughed. "Take a real bite, muchacho! Life is not about caution."

I grinned and took a bigger bite—and promptly felt something hard against my tooth. I carefully removed it from my mouth: a tiny plastic baby Jesus.

The room erupted in cheers and laughter.

"?El gringo tiene el nino!" someone called out, setting off another wave of laughter.

"What does this mean?" I asked Mia, holding up the tiny figure.

"It means you're hosting the Candlemas party," she explained, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Hope your apartment is big enough for this crowd."

"Or," Gabriel interjected, "it means you'll be back to celebrate with us again. The baby Jesus has spoken."

The warmth in his voice made something tighten in my chest. I looked around at the faces surrounding me—all smiling, all genuinely happy to include me in their tradition—and felt a sense of belonging I rarely experienced even in my own family home.

"I'd be honored," I said, and meant it.

Later, as the celebration continued, I found myself in the backyard with Miguel and some of the younger cousins, who had convinced me to join their impromptu soccer game. Despite my hockey skills, I was thoroughly outplayed by children half my size, much to their delight.

Exhausted, I eventually collapsed into a lawn chair beside Mia, who handed me a steaming mug of something that smelled like chocolate and spices.

"My aunt Lucia's special hot chocolate," she explained. "Family recipe."

Our fingers brushed as I took the mug, sending a now-familiar warmth through me that had nothing to do with the hot drink. In the glow of the string lights hanging overhead, Mia looked magical—her cheeks flushed from the cool evening air, her eyes bright with happiness.

"Thank you for bringing me today," I said quietly. "This has been... really special."

"Thank you for coming," she replied, her voice equally soft. "They all love you, you know. My mom's already planning what to feed you next time."

Next time. It seemed like a promise of something beyond our arrangement.