Page 16

The kitchen of Mia's family home buzzed with activity as I found myself wrist-deep in masa, trying to follow Aunt Carmen's rapid-fire instructions for tamale assembly. I'd been at it for nearly an hour, and while my technique had improved from "complete disaster" to merely "endearingly clumsy," I was enjoying every minute.

"No, like this," Aunt Carmen demonstrated again, her weathered hands expertly spreading the corn dough onto the husk with perfect thickness. "You use too much."

"Lo siento. I'll try again."

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she smiled broadly. "Ah, you speak Spanish!"

"Very little," I admitted with a self-deprecating smile.

This admission seemed to delight her even more than my tamale efforts. She called out to the other women in the kitchen, announcing my linguistic attempt with the pride of a teacher whose student had finally grasped a difficult concept.

Elena appeared at my side, wiping her hands on her apron. "You've been learning Spanish?" she asked, her expression a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

I felt my cheeks warm. "Just a few phrases. I wanted to make an effort."

Elena studied me for a moment, then patted my arm with motherly affection. "That means a lot."

Before I could respond, I became aware of a presence behind me. Turning, I found Mia's grandmother—Abuela Navarro—scrutinizing me with sharp, knowing eyes. Though small in stature, she radiated an authority that commanded respect.

"Your boyfriend," she said to Mia, who had just entered the kitchen, "is handsome but skinny. He needs to eat more.

Mia rolled her eyes affectionately. "Abuela, he eats plenty. You should see him after hockey practice."

Abuela made a dismissive noise and reached up—way up—to pat my cheek. Her hand lingered for a moment as she studied my face with surprising intensity.

"He has a good heart," she declared finally, nodding once as if confirming something to herself.

Then she turned to a nearby counter, loading a plate with food and pressing it into my hands with a firm instruction I didn't need translated: Eat.

As I obediently sampled the offering (some kind of sweet fried pastry that melted in my mouth), I caught Mia watching me from across the kitchen, a soft expression on her face that made my heart stutter.

"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," she smiled, but her eyes said otherwise. "You just fit in here. It's nice."

It was just a simple comment, but it lodged itself somewhere deep inside me. She saw it too: I fit here. In this kitchen, brimming with warmth and happy chaos, surrounded by people who treated me like family after only a day. The difference was palpable compared to my parents' home—a place of polite distances, measured conversations, and rare, hesitant touches.

Elena interrupted my thoughts by shooing me out of the kitchen. "Go, go! You've worked enough. Gabriel wants to talk to you."

I raised an eyebrow at Mia, who shrugged. "Dad likes to interrogate my boyfriends. Consider it a rite of passage."

"Should I be worried?" I asked, only half-joking.

"Nah," she grinned. "Just don't mention his favorite team losing the championship back in '17. He's still bitter."

"Noted."

I found Gabriel in the living room, where music played from an old stereo system and several couples danced to a lively Latin rhythm. He was watching the dancers with a content expression, a beer in his hand.

"Ethan!" he called when he spotted me. "Come, sit. Beer?"

"Sure, thank you."

He reached into a nearby cooler and handed me a bottle, then clinked his against mine. "To good company."

"To good company," I echoed, taking a sip.

We watched the dancing for a moment in companionable silence. Two of Mia's uncles were spinning their wives around the cleared space of the living room, moving with practiced ease to the music. Several children attempted to mimic the steps nearby, giggling when they stumbled.

"So, hockey," Gabriel said finally. "Mia tells me you're very good."

"I do alright," I shrugged, defaulting to modesty.

"False modesty doesn't suit you, son," he chuckled. "I looked you up. Team captain. Leading scorer. NHL prospects. That's more than 'alright.'"

I wasn't sure how to respond. With my father, any mention of my hockey achievements immediately turned into a critique of what I could be doing better. But Gabriel's tone held genuine interest, not evaluation.

"I love the game," I said simply. "I've played since I was five."

"That's a long time to love anything," Gabriel observed. "Your father played professionally, yes?"

I nodded. "Yes, until a knee injury ended his career."

"And now he wants you to follow in his footsteps? Complete the journey he couldn't finish?"

The insight was so accurate it startled me. "Something like that."

Gabriel took a thoughtful sip of his beer. "But what do you want, Ethan?"

The question caught me off guard.

"I..." I hesitated, genuinely unsure how to answer. "I want to play hockey at the highest level I can."

"That's what you want to do," Gabriel corrected gently. "I'm asking what you want. For your life, for yourself."

I looked at him, suddenly feeling like I was standing on thin ice. "Almost no one asks me that," I admitted quietly. "Except Mia."

His expression softened. "Then maybe it's time someone did."

Before I could formulate a response, Sophia appeared, clambering onto the couch between us.

"Papa, can I show Ethan my rocks now? He promised to look at them."

Gabriel laughed. "Did he? Well, a promise is a promise. Go on, then."

Saved by a ten-year-old rock enthusiast. I followed Sophia upstairs to what appeared to be her bedroom, its walls painted a cheerful yellow and covered with posters of planets and dinosaurs. She pulled a wooden box from under her bed with reverent care.

"This is my collection," she announced, opening the lid to reveal neat rows of rocks and minerals, each in its own small compartment with a handwritten label. "I've been collecting since I was seven."

"These are amazing," I said, genuinely impressed by the variety and organization. "Where did you find them all?"

Sophia's face lit up at my interest, and she launched into a detailed explanation of each specimen's origin and properties. Some were gifts from relatives who traveled, others found on family camping trips or school field trips. One had been a birthday present from Mia, who had splurged on a piece of real amethyst from a museum gift shop.

"Mia always gets me the best presents," Sophia confided. "Even when she doesn't have much money."

"That sounds like your sister," I smiled. "She's pretty thoughtful."

Sophia nodded solemnly. "She works really hard, too. Dad says she gets that from Mom's side of the family—the stubbornness."

"I believe it."

"Do you love her?" The question came out of nowhere, delivered with the blunt curiosity only a child could muster.

I blinked, caught completely off-guard. "I, uh..."

"It's okay if you don't know yet," Sophia continued, mercifully sparing me from answering. "Love is complicated. That's what Mia says, anyway."

"Your sister is very wise," I managed.

"She is," Sophia agreed. "That's why she deserves someone really good."

The simple statement hit me with unexpected force. Mia did deserve someone really good—someone who saw her determination and talent, who supported her dreams, who wasn't just using her as a shield against an ex-girlfriend while dangling NHL connections as compensation.

The arrangement that had once seemed so straightforward now felt hollow in the face of Sophia's innocent assessment.

"Hello? Earth to Ethan?" Sophia waved a hand in front of my face. "Did you hear what I said about my obsidian?"

"Sorry," I refocused. "Tell me again?"

When we finally returned downstairs, the celebration was in full swing. Tables had been pushed against the walls to create a larger dancing space, and someone had connected a phone to the stereo, updating the music to a mix of Latin pop and American hits. Elena had emerged from the kitchen and was dancing with Gabriel, their movements so in sync it was clear they'd been partners for decades.

I scanned the room for Mia and spotted her in the corner with Miguel, who appeared to be showing her something on his phone. She looked up as if sensing my gaze, smiled, and waved me over.

"Sophia kidnap you for rock time?" she asked as I approached.

"It was educational," I grinned. "Did you know that pumice is the only rock that can float in water?"

"I did, actually. I've heard the rock facts many, many times."

Miguel looked up from his phone. "Ethan, settle this: prime Pittsburgh captain versus prime Washington captain?"

"Impossible comparison," I laughed. "One controls the game, the other finishes plays like nobody else. Different styles."

"Dodging the question," Miguel teased with a grin. "Okay, different angle: who did you look up to most? Whose game did you study?"

"The star forward from Detroit," I answered instantly. "Maybe not the obvious pick for goals alone, but his hands, his hockey sense—that's the ideal for me."

Miguel's eyes lit up. "Oh, him. The wizard. Less common answer. Respect."

The music changed to something with a stronger Latin rhythm, and Elena appeared, grabbing both Miguel and Mia by the hands. "Enough hockey talk! Time to dance!"

Miguel groaned but allowed himself to be pulled toward the makeshift dance floor. Mia stayed put, throwing me an apologetic glance.

"Do I really have to dance?" she asked her mother.

"Yes," Elena replied. "Everyone dances on Día de Reyes. You too, Ethan!"

I held up my hands in surrender. "I'm afraid I'd only embarrass myself. I have hockey coordination, not dancing coordination."

"Excuses, excuses," Elena dismissed. "Mia will teach you. She's been taking dance classes since she was five."

Mia shot her mother a betrayed look. "Mamá!"

"What? It's true! All those years of lessons should be good for something besides pretty recital photos."

With that, Elena swept away to rejoin the dancers, leaving Mia and me in awkward silence.

"You don't have to dance," Mia said quickly. "My mom's just... enthusiastic."

"Did you really take dance lessons?" I asked, genuinely curious about this new piece of Mia's history.

She sighed. "Ballet, tap, and Latin dance from ages five to seventeen. My mom's dream was to have a graceful, elegant daughter. She got me instead."

"I find that hard to believe," I said. "I bet you were great."

"I was passable," she shrugged. "I loved the photography electives we did in high school way more."

The music shifted again, this time to a slower, more romantic tempo. Several couples moved closer together, swaying to the gentle rhythm.

"Would you..." I hesitated, then pushed through my nervousness. "Would you want to dance? With me, I mean. Just one song."

Mia looked surprised, then thoughtful. "Are you sure? I thought hockey players didn't like to dance."

"We make exceptions for special occasions," I smiled, extending my hand.

After a moment's hesitation, she took it, allowing me to lead her to a less crowded corner of the impromptu dance floor. I placed my hands carefully at her waist, and she rested hers on my shoulders, maintaining a respectful distance between us.

"Fair warning," I murmured, "I’m still bad at dancing."

"Just follow my lead," she smiled as she began to move to the music's rhythm.

I relaxed, letting her subtle guidance direct my steps. We weren't going to win any dance competitions, but we weren't embarrassing ourselves either.

"See? Not so bad," Mia said, a smile playing at her lips.

"I have a good partner," I replied.

As the song progressed, the initial awkwardness faded. Mia moved closer, her head eventually resting against my chest. I tightened my arms around her waist, breathing in the scent of her shampoo that had become achingly familiar over the past few months.

We weren't just going through the motions of a fake relationship anymore. This was real.

I caught Gabriel watching us from across the room, a knowing smile on his face. When our eyes met, he raised his beer bottle slightly in a toast. I'd been assessed and, apparently, approved.

The song ended too soon, transitioning to something faster that broke the spell between us. Mia stepped back, a hint of color in her cheeks.

"That wasn't terrible," she teased, but her eyes were soft.

"High praise," I laughed. "I'll take it."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of food, more dancing, and the exchange of gifts. The Three Kings tradition involved exchanging presents just as at Christmas, and I was touched to receive several—a hand-knitted scarf from Elena, a book about the history of hockey from Gabriel, and small, thoughtful items from Mia's siblings.

"Your turn," Mia said, handing me a carefully wrapped package.

I opened it to find a framed photograph—one she must have taken during a practice when I wasn't aware. In it, I was mid-stride on the ice, expression intense but not tense, completely in my element. It wasn't a typical sports action shot; there was an artistry to it, a quality that captured something essential about who I was on the ice.

"Mia, this is..." I struggled to find words adequate to express how much the gift meant to me. "This is incredible."

"You like it? Really?" There was a hint of vulnerability in her voice that made my heart twist.

"I love it," I said firmly. "No one's ever seen me like this before. Thank you."

I handed her my gift next, suddenly nervous that it wouldn't measure up. She unwrapped it carefully, revealing a small, elegant leather case containing a set of high-quality lens filters. I'd spent weeks researching and found a brand known for unique effects, something beyond the basics.

Her eyes widened as she opened the case, examining the specialized glass. "Ethan! These are the ones I was looking at online! How did you know?"

"You mentioned wanting to experiment more with different lighting effects," I shrugged, trying to downplay how much I paid attention to her gear wishlists. "Do you really like them?"

"I love them," she said, echoing my words back to me with such sincerity that I couldn't doubt her. "I can't wait to try these out."

Our eyes held for a long moment, something unspoken passing between us. The pretense of our arrangement felt miles away, replaced by something neither of us was ready to name.

The celebration lingered deep into the night, but campus eventually called Mia and me back. Our departure became a loving, drawn-out affair – nearly half an hour tangled in embraces, juggling containers of carefully packed food, and promising every aunt, uncle, and cousin that yes, absolutely, I would be back soon.

"You come back for Candlemas," Elena insisted, pressing another container of food into my already full arms. "You found the baby Jesus, so it's meant to be."

"I'll be here," I promised, and meant it.

By the time we made it to the car, the backseat was filled with containers of food and small gifts. Mia looked equal parts embarrassed and amused.

"Sorry about the care package," she said as we drove away. "My mom thinks all college students are one meal away from starvation."

"Are you kidding? I'm set for a week. Dylan's going to flip when he sees all this."

We drove in comfortable silence for a while, the events of the day settling around us like a warm blanket. The car heater hummed softly, and Mia leaned her head against the window, looking content but tired.

"Your family is amazing," I said finally. "Thank you for sharing them with me."

She turned to look at me, her expression soft in the dashboard's dim light. "They really liked you. Especially my dad, which is rare. He usually gives my boyfriends the third degree."

"We had a good talk," I acknowledged, not elaborating on the surprising conversation about dreams and expectations. "He's a wise man."

"The wisest," she agreed. "Just don't tell him I said that. His head's big enough already."

I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in months—maybe years. There was something about being with Mia and her family that made the constant pressure I lived under recede to the background, like waves pulling back from the shore.

When we reached her apartment building, I insisted on walking her to her door despite her protests that it wasn't necessary.

"It's freezing," she argued. "Just drop me off."

"Not a chance. I promised your dad I'd see you safely inside, and I'm pretty sure he'll somehow know if I don't."

"He would," she conceded with a laugh. "He has spy networks everywhere."

At her door, we lingered, neither quite ready to end the day. Mia fiddled with her keys, looking up at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"Thank you for coming," she said finally. "It meant a lot to me. My family can be overwhelming, but they're everything to me, and seeing you fit in so well was... nice."

"Thank you for inviting me," I replied. "It was one of the best days I've had in a long time."

She smiled, and for a moment, I thought about kissing her—not for show, not as part of our arrangement, but simply because I wanted to. The thought both terrified and exhilarated me.

Before I could act on the impulse, Mia stood on her tiptoes and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my cheek.

"Goodnight, Ethan," she whispered. "Drive safe."

I watched her disappear into her apartment, touching the spot where her lips had been. The warmth of her family's celebration, the insight of Gabriel's words, the sweetness of Mia's kiss—it all swirled together in my mind.