“Mi hija.”
The way he says it hits something deep.
My daughter.
He opens his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And I don’t hesitate.
I step into him.
He’s solid.
Warm.
Smells expensive—clean cologne layered over something deeper, richer. Wood. Spice. Power.
His arms wrap around me, firm, grounding, pulling me in like I belong there.
Like I’ve always belonged there.
“You were extraordinary,” he says into my hair.
Not exaggerated.
Not performative.
Certain.
“I’ve watched athletes all over the world,” he continues, pulling back just enough to look at me, his hands still on my shoulders. “Elite. Disciplined. Talented.”
His eyes hold mine.
“But you?—”
A small shake of his head.
“You have something else.”
My chest tightens.
“What?”
He smiles slightly.
“Fire.”
I huff a quiet breath, looking down for a second, shaking my head like I don’t know what to do with that.
“I got that from Mama,” I say quietly.
His expression shifts.
Softens.
“Sí,”he says. “That… I believe.”
We start walking slowly down the corridor, the sounds of the gym fading behind us. My body is still humming, adrenaline not quite ready to let go.
