Kicking Fire - A Story of Mulan

XVIII.

-Raya-

The scent of sizzling barbecue drifted through the air, smoky and sweet, curling in lazy spirals above the backyard. It clung to the breeze like a promise of comfort and home. I stepped out onto the patio barefoot, pulled by the sound of laughter and clattering plates, my toes curling into the warm wooden planks as sunlight kissed my skin.

Carla stood by the grill, her hair tied up in a loose bun, flipping skewers of meat and vegetables with an ease that spoke of years spent perfecting her craft. She had that calm energy only moms seemed to have—efficient, nurturing, radiant. Beside her, surprisingly, was Alec. He hovered uncertainly, holding a plate in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with either. His expression was unreadable, but not tense—not like he usually was. He looked... relaxed. Still quiet, still reserved, but something about the way the sun hit his face made him look softer. Younger, even.

“There you are!” Carla called, spotting me. She smiled like I was part of this family—no hesitation, no boundaries. “Come join us, Raya. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Always,” I said, laughing as I brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. The grass, freshly cut, felt warm and slightly damp under my feet as I stepped into the yard. The sunlight filtered through the tall trees that bordered the backyard, casting gentle, leafy shadows that swayed with the breeze. It felt like something out of a movie. But also… weirdly familiar.

“Tag! You're it!” Ethan darted past me with a foam sword, his giggles piercing the quiet. He zoomed around the table like a pinball.

Lila wasn’t far behind. “No, Raya’s it! Get her!”

“Wait, what—?” I barely had time to react before a plastic sword was thrust into my hand, and both kids stared at me with expectant, mischievous grins.

“Okay, okay!” I surrendered, laughing as I got into a half-hearted fighting stance. “But I warn you, I’m trained in taekwondo.”

“What’s that?” Ethan asked, blinking.

“It’s a martial art. Kicking, striking, all that cool stuff,” I said with mock seriousness. “I used to compete back home.”

“Show us!” Lila demanded, practically bouncing on her toes.

I glanced around, then gave a playful spin and delivered a high kick in the air. The kids squealed in delight, applauding like I just performed a circus trick.

From the other side of the lawn, Alec smirked faintly. “Careful. She might teach them how to break bricks next.”

Carla laughed, nudging him with her elbow as she handed him another plate stacked with burger patties. “Don’t challenge her, Alec. She’s got fire.”

I caught his gaze for a brief second—neutral, curious, and... something else I couldn’t quite name. Then he looked away and set the plate down like nothing happened. But I noticed the way his shoulders weren’t as tight, the way his brows weren’t knit together in that permanent line of irritation. He wasn’t in game-mode Alec today. He was something… quieter.

We all sat around the folding picnic table, our plates quickly filling with hotdogs, grilled corn, burgers, and skewers that oddly reminded me of street food stalls back home—just Americanized. It was chaotic but cozy, like being wrapped in a big blanket of noise and flavor and sunshine.

Carla passed me a bowl. “Okay, Raya, teach me something Filipino. What should I cook next weekend?”

“Hmmm…” I tapped my chin. “You ever heard of turon?”

Carla blinked. “Is that a spell or a snack?”

I laughed. “Banana spring rolls. Slice some ripe bananas, roll them in brown sugar, wrap them in lumpia wrappers, then fry them till they’re crispy and golden.”

“We have bananas!” Lila shouted from her seat, her mouth already smeared with ketchup.

“Then we just found dessert,” Carla declared proudly.

A moment passed. I turned to look at Alec, who was leaning against the edge of the grill now, arms crossed, watching the smoke curl toward the sky. There was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He wasn’t joking or teasing anyone. He wasn’t rolling his eyes at Ethan or pretending not to listen. He was just… there.

Present.

Content, even.

And it surprised me. This was the same Alec who threw walls around his words, who practically grunted his disapproval of me joining the football team. But here, surrounded by sun and grilled food and messy ketchup stains, he was softer. Less guarded.

And maybe I wasn’t supposed to see that part of him yet.

Or maybe… he didn’t mind me seeing it.

I smiled faintly and took a bite of my burger, letting the smoky flavor fill my mouth. The laughter of the kids, the sizzling from the grill, Carla humming as she stirred a bowl of pasta salad—it all blended together like music I didn’t know I missed until I heard it.

This wasn’t my home.

But in that moment, under the shade of swaying trees and backyard laughter, it didn’t feel too far off either.

After we cleaned up the kitchen and Carla took the kids for a quick grocery run, the house finally settled into that post-lunch lull—the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a warm blanket, tempting you to nap or drift off into your own little world.

I headed upstairs to my room, the soft hum of the ceiling fan blending with distant sounds from the street. For a moment, I just stared out the window, feeling the slow pull of afternoon drowsiness.

But there was work to do.

I dropped my bag by the door and pulled out my physics textbook and notebook. Today’s assignment was about projectile motion—a classic but tricky topic.

I muttered the problem aloud: “A ball is launched at an angle of 30 degrees with an initial velocity of 20 meters per second. Find the time of flight and maximum height.”

I sketched the parabolic trajectory, labeling the velocity components.

“So, first I break the velocity into horizontal and vertical components,” I whispered, writing the formulas:

vx = v × cos(θ)

vy = v × sin(θ) - g × t

I calculated the time to reach maximum height by setting the vertical velocity to zero:

t = (v × sin(θ)) / g

Slowly, I worked through the steps, double-checking each calculation. Physics wasn’t easy, but I liked the way it made me think, the challenge of turning theory into numbers.

Just as I was finishing, the computer on the desk chimed with the start of my next focus—football.

I closed the textbook and switched tabs to pull up game analysis videos. My mind shifted gears from formulas to formations.

“Offense and defense... line of scrimmage... footwork patterns...” I whispered, pausing often to sketch plays in my notebook.

Suddenly, Alec’s voice made me jump.

“Studying football or launching a playbook?” he teased, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed.

I smiled. “A little of both.”

He stepped inside quietly, eyes scanning my notes. “You’re writing it wrong. That’s not how they line up during a real game.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Okay, show me.”

He pulled a pen from my holder and knelt beside my desk, his voice calm but confident.

“This is your offensive line. Quarterback here, running back there. The defense reacts to the gaps—see?”

As he traced the formations, I watched his face—so focused, so sure. The slight furrow of his brow when explaining, the way his fingers moved with instinctive precision.

“Got it?” he asked.

I nodded slowly, a smile tugging at my lips. “You’re really good at this.”

He shrugged. “Years of losing and figuring it out the hard way.”

I chuckled softly. “Thanks. Seriously.”

He stood and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ll mess it up the first few times. But that’s how you learn.”

As he walked out, I whispered to myself, “Yeah. That’s how you learn.”

Later that afternoon, when the house finally slipped back into quiet, I grabbed a worn football from the corner and stepped outside into the backyard.

No coach. No teammates. Just me and the fading sunlight.

The ball felt foreign in my hands at first—heavier, slicker than I remembered. I cradled it awkwardly, fingers fumbling as I tried to find the right grip.

Starting small, I jogged a slow lap around the yard, feeling the uneven grass under my sneakers. My breath was steady but shallow, the rhythm unfamiliar after hours of sitting inside.

I set up a makeshift course—water bottles lined up where cones would be. The drills I’d watched online played through my mind like a looped tape. I tried the quick feet, the sharp pivots, the tight turns.

I stumbled. Twice. Lost my balance, nearly wiped out.

But I didn’t stop.

Muscle memory took over, a silent partner. Years of taekwondo training whispered in my legs: discipline, balance, form. I adjusted my stance, shifted my weight, tightened my core.

With each misstep, I learned. I corrected. I pushed harder.

My mind wandered back to childhood—badminton rallies in the street with my cousins. The quick reflexes, the bursts of speed, the sound of the shuttlecock striking the racquet. It was different now, but the heartbeat of practice, the pulse of repetition, echoed the same.

Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. My lungs burned, my breath came in soft pants.

I stopped and closed my eyes.

Visualize.

I imagined the game—the wide open field, the roar of the crowd muffled in the distance. I pictured myself sprinting, ball tucked tight, dodging past defenders like Jessa or Sidney. I saw the clean pass I’d been rehearsing, the satisfying click of connection.

And then I saw Alec’s face—eyes wide, surprised, maybe even impressed.

I opened my eyes.

He was there—standing at the upstairs window, watching me.

I didn’t look back.

I didn’t need to.

Because I was already proving something important.

To myself.

That was enough.

For now.