There’d been plenty of pretty girls on Fuerte’s arm. Wasn’t that part of the issue I was currently battling at work? I tried to push down that thought and just focus on the excitement of having his attention, of believing it was more than he’d given other girls.
Me: Wear a dress, huh? Are you going to wear a dress?
Fernando: No, I thought I'd just wear a thong. It's supposed to be hot tomorrow.
Me: Ew. No. Man thong is one step too far.
Fernando responded by sending me back a few of the emojis I'd borrowed from Hamish to send the night before.
Me: Well played.
Fernando: Have a good night. Wish me luck—I'm calling your brother.
I cringed. But Trace was reasonable. And when confronted with a straightforward question, he wouldn't say no—I was sure of it because I knew that under everything else, he loved me. And he wanted me to be happy. I just hoped he didn't mention the cheese. I didn't think he would.
My brother and I spent a lot of time giving each other shit, but in the end, all we wanted was to see the other happy. And Trace was the one who told me to try Mr. Match in the first place. He wouldn't say no, even to Fuerte.
I texted goodbye to Fernando and put down my phone, and my mind turned to trying to figure out what exactly Hamish was planning. Forty soccer balls and a potentially dangerous neighborhood. What could possibly go wrong?
At four o'clock, a news van from Beckie's station was sitting in the parking lot near my Explorer. I jogged out to toss my stuff into my car and then went to greet them, approaching the driver-side window, which lowered as I stepped near.
"Hey," I said. "I'm Erica Johnson. Thanks so much for coming out today."
"Hey," said a girl who looked like she couldn't have been much over nineteen. She wore a Channel Six News shirt and gave me an eager smile. "Beckie said there'd be Sharks players, so I agreed."
I shrugged. "Hamish Armstrong will be out for sure," I told her.
Her face lit up and she grinned at me again. "We'll just follow you, okay? Want to give me a hint where we're going?"
"Barrio Logan," I told her, watching the wattage of her smile decrease by half. "Here's the address." I held my phone up for her to see and she entered the address into her own phone.
"Okay," she said, sounding hesitant.
A thin guy with long brown hair pulled up on his head into a man bun sat next to her, watching us. "It'll be fine, Amber. We're down there all the time."
"Right," she said, then leaned a bit out the window. "I'm an intern," she whispered. "This is my first time heading out with the cameras."
I began to realize I probably hadn't gotten the A team here, in terms of news coverage, but a camera was a camera. "It'll be great," I said, projecting a confidence I definitely didn't feel. "Let's head over."
"Ride with us?" Amber asked.
"Thanks, but I've got forty soccer balls in my car that are part of this somehow," I told her. "See you down there."
“We don’t have room anyway,” an annoyed female voice came from the back.
She sounded fun. I couldn’t wait to meet her.
I gave Amber an encouraging smile and she rolled her window back up. Soon we were headed south down the Five freeway toward National City and Barrio Logan. I stared out to my right as we exited just beyond the Navy shipyards.
I followed the directions Google Maps was giving me and pulled into a lot just next to a park that practically sat under a freeway overpass. Hamish was standing in the middle of the patchy green field and a few kids were standing near him, chatting. A couple of them had shin guards on and balls at their feet.
I hopped out of the car. I had a good feeling about this. Kids made great feel-good news, though they did pose some logistical issues. Without explicit permission, we couldn’t use any imagery showing their faces, and I didn’t have time for permission.
Hamish waved at me and trotted to my car with a wide smile on his face, his white teeth gleaming. The man looked like some kind of ancient highland warrior—he was huge and shaggy, his dark hair wild and scruffy over his jaw. Every part of him was oversized, and it was honestly amazing he could move as well as he could on the pitch, but he was one of the quickest defenders on the Sharks, and he definitely had the intimidation factor.
"Did you bring my balls back to me, lass?" he grinned.
"I took excellent care of your balls," I informed him.
"Didja fondle them a little?" He asked in a whisper, leaning in conspiratorially.
I laughed, and together we went around to the back of my car and started removing soccer balls and tossing them into the open green field. More kids had shown up, and they were running around now, dribbling the new balls and shouting to one another.
"You going to tell me what this is?" I asked him.
"Thursdays twice a month we come down and help this team practice," Hamish said. "We're like unofficial coaches. Usually it's just a couple of us. We're just trying to help them out, and the kids think it's fun to play against real footballers."
I felt surprise lift my eyebrows. "I bet they do," I said. This was perfect—the public would eat this up. Much better than a soup kitchen.
As we finished up, a couple of other Sharks players pulled in.
I explained what was going on to Amber and the other cameraman, Mike. There was another woman with them, an anchor I recognized from some of the coverage I'd seen on Channel Six. She didn't look nearly as enthusiastic as Amber did. I suspected she wasn't an intern getting her big break, and I wondered how she'd gotten roped into this. She reapplied a dark burgundy lipstick in a small compact as I approached her, snapping it shut to give me an evaluative look.
"So you're Beckie's friend," she said. "I'm LuEllen Fanetta."
"Yes, I'm Erica. And thank you so much for agreeing to come out today. It means a lot to me."
She rolled her eyes. "It wasn't my first choice, I'll tell you that." She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at a watch on her slim wrist. "I just hope it won't take long."
I wanted to kick her in the shins, but settled with a forced smile instead. "I'm sure it'll just be an hour or so."
She sighed, but walked with me toward the cameras to set up the shots. We agreed to get some footage of the Sharks playing with the kids, aiming mostly at the feet whenever close-ups were involved, and then I hoped we could interview a few of the Sharks players.
While I'd been talking with the crew, more kids had arrived, and Erick Evans, a midfielder for the Sharks, was standing in the middle of the scruffy-looking field, calling for them to come to him. Kids ran toward him excitedly, and gathered around him in a small cluster. The rest of the Sharks were moving around the field, setting up small orange cones. I glanced around but didn't see many parents on the sidelines. There was one man who stood with a clipboard near one of the soccer goals—he must be the coach, but he seemed content to let the Sharks run the show for today. I wondered what Hamish's connection to this ragged little team was.
"Hammer here brought you all a present today," Evans told them. I checked over my shoulder to make sure both cameras were getting this. One of the other crewmembers had positioned a microphone on a boom and was holding it near Evans, who kept glancing at it with irritation. "His sponsor wanted you all to have brand new professional soccer balls." Evans paused, unable to continue speaking because of the raucous noise from the crowd of kids who were jumping and spinning and running around screaming with excitement.
The other Sharks moved nearer, gathering the kids together again and calming them down.
"But we're not giving these to you," Hamish said, and an audible sound of disappointment came from the kids. "You have to earn them," he went on, and the kids began jumping again. "Drills," Hamish told them. Then the Sharks split the kids into groups and led them to various spots on the field, where they started working them through some of the same drills I'd seen the team do in their own practices.
While one of the cameras focused
on the action, I motioned to LuEllen and Amber to come with me to talk to the coach, who was standing on the sidelines smiling.
"Hi," I said. "Are you the coach for these kids?"
He turned to me, his eyes moving to the cameras and to LuEllen before returning to my face with some suspicion. "Yes," he said.
"I'm with the South Bay Sharks, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to arrange things with you before coming out today. Hamish just let me know about this." I told him. “We’ve obviously got a bit of footage already, but definitely won’t use anything without your permission.”
He looked confused and tugged his hat a little lower on his face. “You’re with the Sharks?”
“And Channel Six News,” I said, pointing at the cameras.” As I spoke, a familiar blue Tesla pulled into the parking lot and Fernando got out, his eyes finding me immediately. "We were hoping to catch a bit of the work the guys do down here with the kids. Would you be willing to talk to us a little about that? We’ll only use footage from a distance with the kids—nothing that would be identifiable."
His expression smoothed, the furrow between his dark brows clearing. He took off his baseball cap and smoothed down his hair with one hand. "For television?" he asked, shifting his weight between his feet.
He was nervous, I realized. "You can just talk to me if you want," I told him. "Just pretend the camera isn't there. But yes, we'd love to get something we can use on television, to let the county know what the team does to help out."
The coach nodded. "I'm Anthony Valenzuela," he said, reaching out a hand for me to shake.
"Erica Johnson," I told him. "Can you tell me how long the team has been coming down here to help?"
Coach Valenzuela cleared his throat, still wobbling on his feet and gripping his cap and clipboard tightly. "Well," he cleared his throat again. "Since Fernando Fuerte joined the Sharks, really." He nodded a few too many times.
"Really? Fernando? Why is that?" I glanced over his shoulder to see Fernando watching us, an unhappy twist on his lips.
The coach smiled. "This was his team when he was a kid," he said. "He's been coming to practice down here since he was eight. We used to play together, actually. He was a little better than me. Got to go to college to play."
Realization washed over me. This was all because of Fernando. The tabloids were trying to paint him like some kind of self-indulgent villain, and the guy was spending his spare time with a bunch of kids, helping the team that had started his own career. "That's amazing," I said. "So what do these guys do for the team?"
Fernando began moving our way across the big field as the coach explained.
"Fernando is here almost every week when he’s in town. Sometimes he brings some of the other guys, like tonight. And Hamish usually comes. They help with the coaching, come to some of the games. The kids worship them, you know," he paused and turned to watch the kids out on the field for a minute. "These kids, you know, they don't all have a lot at home. But this...they have something some of those other teams don't get, right? Those north county teams with all the money and the fancy uniforms. Those kids have it a little easier maybe. Their parents can afford more. But down here? We have Fernando Fuerte and the Sharks."
A chill ran through me and goose bumps rose on my skin at his words. I couldn't have scripted a more perfect sound bite.
"That's amazing," I said. "Thanks so much for letting us come out today."
He grinned and bobbed his head some more.
I turned to watch the action, and LuEllen stepped up close to me, hissing in my ear. "You're basically doing my job."
My cheeks heated and I turned to look at her. "I'm so sorry, I didn't even think, I just started asking questions."
She made a little noise in her throat like a 'humph' and turned away, arms crossed again. LuEllen was a peach.
I was busy giving her side-eye when Fernando jogged over to where we stood, a few kids interrupting his progress as they threw themselves at him for hugs and high-fives. Fernando’s face was flushed, and the rosy color added to the luminosity of his dark skin and he looked even more handsome than usual. I didn't know what swooning really was, but if I had known, I probably would have done it about then. "Hey," I said, the smile I felt at how well this was all going coloring my tone. "Would you mind answering a couple questions real quick?"
"What is this, Erica?" his voice was calm but an octave too low. The perceptive green eyes were trained on mine and I felt like they might smolder into actual lasers any second, that was how intensely he was staring at me.
"A feel-good story, I hope," I said, trying to lighten his mood. I realized he looked less than happy and realized he was bound to be annoyed to see news cameras at the thing he’d basically tried to keep a secret. I wanted to make him see that this was the thing that could actually save his image and maybe my job.
"No. This needs to end. Now." His words were sharp and pointed.
Surprise wiped the smile from my face immediately. He wasn’t just annoyed, he sounded furious, his words coming between clenched teeth. I needed to make him see why were were here. "Wait, what? Fernando, this can save you. This will be amazing for the team. If I can cut it together fast enough, I’ve got a spot on tonight’s news, and—"
"Get these cameras out of here, now. Go film your soup kitchen or whatever else you've got planned to make the team look shiny and good. This field is off limits."
I shook my head. "The coach didn't mind, I got an amazing interview with him, Fernando. He told me about all you've been doing for the kids, for—"
"You're not welcome here, Erica. Not with them." He gestured to the news team, and LuEllen made a little noise in her throat that made me think she was enjoying this. Amber lowered the camera she'd trained on Fernando.
"But..." disappointment filled me and something like shame made me feel small, like a child. "But I thought..."
"Get out of here." Fernando spat the words.
“Can I use what I have? The coach?” I was grabbing at straws. Why didn’t he see I was trying to save him?
“You’ll do whatever you think is right,” he said, venom in his voice. “I can’t stop you.” He glared at us and spun on his heel, trotting back to the kids. "And tomorrow? I don’t think that’s a good idea after all." He threw the last bit over his shoulder without another look at me.
He was cancelling our date over this? I felt tears rising in my throat, pricking behind my eyes, but I swallowed them down. I was a professional. I was working. I would finish this job, and then I'd go home and fall apart.
"We're done here," I told the news team.
LuEllen gaped at me, "Very professional," she said.
"Please turn in what we have,” I said as we walked away. “I'll talk to Beckie about the rest."
"It's amateur hour," LuEllen said under her breath. I restrained myself once again, but imagined tackling her and grinding her face into the barren grass at our feet. I rounded up the other camera and sent them on their way, then stood at the edge of the field for a moment waiting for Hamish or Fernando to say something. Goodbye, maybe? Thanks for trying to save our butts? When no one even acknowledged me, I climbed into my car and drove slowly out of the lot, waving to Coach Valenzuela, who seemed to be the only person to notice me leaving.
“Hey Beckie,” I said, calling my friend on my drive home.
“Hey,” her voice was immediately sympathetic. She could undoubtedly hear the tears forming in my throat. “What’s wrong? What happened.”
I told her about the practice, about Fernando’s reaction. “He hates me. I just…I guess he thinks I betrayed his trust, but I was only trying to help.”
“Of course you were,” she said. “And when he thinks more about it, I’m sure he’ll see that. Do you think he’s just protecting those kids?”
I swallowed. “I guess so. I told the coach we wouldn’t show any faces, that we wouldn’t invade their privacy like that.”
“But he doesn’t know that,” she pointe
d out.
“He didn’t give me a chance to explain anything.” It came out as a pitiful whine.
“When the team gets back, I’ll work with production to see what we have. Maybe there’s something we can still use.”
“I don’t know if we should now, but the soup kitchen is over.” It had all come to nothing. Tears began rolling down my cheeks.
“Leave it to me,” Beckie said.
I thanked her and went home, tears running down my cheeks and a strange hollow forming in my chest.
Chapter 34
Twisted Balls
Fernando
My anger at Erica colored the way I handled things with the kids, and they didn't get the best from me at all. That was the one thing I had vowed—to always be there one hundred percent when I could be. They deserved my attention and my focus, and tonight, thanks to Erica's ridiculous PR stunt, I'd been distracted.
We ended practice and I said goodbye to the kids, handing them each a couple snack bars and some Gatorade from my trunk as they headed back home. When most of them were gone, Hamish came over, grinning like always. We hadn't gotten much chance to talk during practice, but he didn't seem to pick up on the fact that the entire thing had been one huge disaster.
"That went well," he said, grabbing a Gatorade from my trunk and downing it in a swallow. The man was giant, and the bottle looked almost ridiculous in his hand.
"No, that was a mess," I told him. "Did you invite Erica here?"
"Aye. She carried my balls for me."
I ignored the innuendo. It would be ridiculous to feel jealousy over such an insane joke. Still, I felt it stir inside me and crushed it with anger. "These kids don't need that kind of attention," I told him. "They have enough to deal with. This one night a week should be fun. It should be about them, not about us."
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 17