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Of course he is.
Of-fucking-course he is.
CHAPTER FIVE
MIGUEL
Coming back home is like I’ve walked back through time. My room is still the same as it was the day I left, and even though I didn’t set up my alarm, hoping to avoid the confrontation with my father for as long as possible, it’s like my body didn’t have any problem catching up. No, I was awake at the crack of dawn.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the clatter of pans and dishes coming from downstairs, along with the soft voices of ranch hands passing through the kitchen as they prepare to start the day’s work.
My fingers curl and uncurl by my sides as my body urges me to move.
Because contrary to my father’s low opinion of football players, we weren’t used to slacking around and doing nothing. No, most days, I was up as early as I was when I lived here, going out for a run before I got my ass to the training facilities, where I’d have my conditioning and prep for our upcoming game: watching film, team meetings, checkups with the doctors and PTs, and whatever social media thing our PR wanted us to do at the moment, just to name a few. My days were packed, which worked just fine for me. It left me with less time to think about things I shouldn’t.
Rubbing my hand over my face, I let out a sigh and push upright. The bed creaks as that familiar twinge of pain shoots through my shoulder. I roll it back, trying to loosen the stiff muscles. The surgery and PT had definitely helped, but I had an inkling my shoulder would never be quite the same as it was.
Grabbing a clean pair of shorts and a tee, I pull them on before making my way across the hallway to the bathroom. Once there is nothing else left for me to do, I reluctantly go downstairs.
Animated chatter and laughter come from the kitchen as I slowly make my way there. I stop in the doorway, taking in the scene that was an essential part of my childhood. Most families consisted of parents and children, but ours… Ours was all that and so much more. My parents have embraced every ranch hand that passed through these fields with open arms, and they’ve turned into our makeshift family.
“I’m telling you, Margie, that husband of yours is getting crankier and crankier in his old age,” Dylan says. The gray-haired man is around my father’s age and has been on the ranch as far back as I can remember. So far, he felt like an honorary uncle to me when I was a kid.
My mom snorts, her whole attention on the scrambled eggs she’s preparing. “My husband has always been cranky. Old age has nothing to do with it. Some days I don’t even know how I put up with his shit.”
Her answer, the one I’ve heard so many times in the past, makes the people sitting at the table laugh.
“You know, if you ever decided to ditch him, I’m looking for a wife.”
Just as he’s finishing, the back door opens, and my father’s tall frame fills the doorway.
“Are you hitting on my wife again, Dylan?” Dad asks. That deep scowl I’m familiar with is etched between his brows.
Dylan’s grin widens. “She’s one hell of a woman and a cook.”
“And she’s mine. You go and find your own woman,” Dad grumbles.
He turns around, and I suck in a breath as his eyes connect with mine. All the air is kicked out of my lungs as we just stare at one another, neither of us saying anything. Time ticks by slowly, the eerie quiet settling over the room. Or maybe it’s just all in my head.
That frown between his brows grows deeper, like it always does, the disapproval clearly written on his face. “Miguel,” Dad mutters, his lips pressing in a tight line as he just stares at me from across the room. “I see that you’re back.”
This was such a bad idea. I should have never come here.
Mom’s head snaps up at the sound of my name, her eyes widening in surprise when they land on mine. The shock lasts all of five seconds before she puts the pan to the side and launches at me, all of her five-foot-nothing frame slamming into me with a force worthy of a lineman three times her size.
“Miguel!” Mom’s hands wrap around me as she pulls me in a hug. “I didn’t realize you were up. Why didn’t you say anything?” She takes a step back, her hands sliding to my shoulders, as she takes me in, a beaming smile on her face growing wider as her eyes mist with unshed tears. “Just look at you! God, how I missed you.”
“Hey, Mom,” I rasp, my voice tight with guilt at making her cry.
Guilt at ignoring her for the past few years, although she didn’t deserve it in the slightest.
Just… guilt.
She wipes her tears before squeezing me tightly once again. Margaret Fernandez might be a whole foot shorter than me, but she was a force to be reckoned with. My body relaxes in herarms as her familiar scent surrounds me. Fresh air, hay, and wildflowers mixed with a dash of sugar that I always associated with my mother.
“It’s so good to have you back home,” she whispers softly, holding on for a second longer before pulling back. “C’mon, c’mon, sit down.” She pushes me toward the open seat at the table. “Breakfast is ready.”
I catch sight of my father, his eyes still glued on me. My stomach clenches with unease. He has yet to say anything, although what is there to say? We said our piece four years ago, and after that, I was surprised he let me stay here in the first place.
