Page 64 of Switch Hitter

He reaches over and laces his fingers with mine for a second.

“You’re with me,” he says, like that’s supposed to calm me down.

It does.

A little.

The second we step into his mom’s house, the noise hits me like a wave. Kids yelling and someone’s laughing. Pots clinking. And music that thumps the walls. There’s even a TV on in the background, even though nobody’s watching. A smell of food so rich it feels like it crawls into your ribs and settles there.

And the warmth.

God, the warmth.

Emiliano’s mother appears like she materialized out of love itself.

“¡Mijo!” she calls, and Emiliano’s whole face changes again. A smile with such softness it makes me smile.

Then her eyes lock on me, and before I can brace myself, before I can do any of my usual defenses, she steps in close and cups my face like I’m a son she’s been waiting for.

“Sean,” she says, smiling wide. “¡Hola!”

My cheeks heat instantly. “Hi, Señora Guerrero.”

She beams like I did something perfect, then she turns and calls back into the house, her voice loud.

“¡Ya llegó!”

Oh, Christ. Give me strength.

Multiple heads peek around corners. Kids pause mid-run. Someone in the kitchen yells something in Spanish that makes everyone laugh.

Then his sisters appear.

The taller one, Maribel first, was sharp-eyed and delighted. Then Sofía, right behind her, is already bouncing like she’s about to explode.

“¡El pelirrojo!” Sofía squeals, pointing at me like I’m a rare Pokémon.

Emiliano groans. “Dios mío.”

Maribel looks me up and down like she’s judging my soul. “¿Así que tú eres Sean?”

I blink, caught between languages and nerves. “Uh… sí.”

Her grin turns wicked. “Habla español.”

Emiliano laughs under his breath. “Don’t scare him. He knows a handful of words.”

His sister points at him. “Yo hago lo que quiero.”

“A few of my friends speak Spanish, so I’ve picked up a few things here and there. I’m nowhere near conversational, though. Gaelic and Latin are more my speed,” I offer, not knowing if she’s talking shit to him about my Spanish.

Then she turns back to me, eyes bright. “So… you play for the Coyotes.”

My stomach flips. “Yeah.”

Sofía bounces closer, whispering loudly to Emiliano in Spanish like I can’t hear. “¡Es más guapo en persona!”

Emiliano mutters, “Cállate,” and my face burns hotter.