by Karina Halle
I slowly ease myself out of the chair and stride over to the door. “Yes, sir?” I ask as I open it, eyeing him inquisitively. He looks the same as ever—a slack smile with hardened eyes—so I can’t read what this is about.
“Mateo.” He says my name like he’s not sure if it’s mine. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” I tell him. “Stomach bug.”
There is an almost imperceptible raise of his brow. “Good. Glad to hear you’re better. Listen . . . can I come in?”
I try not to swallow the brick in my throat. “Of course,” I tell him, stepping aside.
He folds his arms and looks around the office. “Where is Warren?”
“With Diego,” I tell him. “Downstairs.”
“Good,” he says again. “Mateo,” he says, and then pauses as if he’s holding his breath. I wait for the worst. He already knows. I’m fired.
“I think we might move you into Warren’s position first before you take over Diego’s. We’ll be looking to do this in October. Is that okay with you?”
I blink a few times. “I’m sorry?”
His grey brows furrow together as if I should know this already. “We think you’re ready. I do, anyway. It’s better to get rid of Warren now.”
“Uh, but sir, I thought Warren would stay assistant coach to me?”
He smiles cautiously. “Ah, Mateo. Such naïve thoughts. Warren knows now that he’s not going anywhere. You took the ceiling from him. He’s better off with another team. He’ll have no problem finding one, preferably in England.”
It seems like all the English speakers are getting fired these days. I don’t know what to say, only that I personally don’t think I’m ready to be Atlético’s assistant coach. We haven’t even had our first official game of the season yet—that starts next week.
“Why are you waiting until October when the league is in full swing?”
He shrugs. “Gives you some time to see the team in real action.”
“And who are you hiring for his position?”
Another shrug and he turns for the door. “We shall see.” From the tone of his voice, it sounds like it’s just shooting fish in a barrel for him.
He leaves, shutting the door behind him, and all at once I feel like the walls are caving in on me. I should be elated about moving into Warren’s role so soon, but it’s hard to feel anything but overwhelmed, especially when I can’t seem to get a handle on anything and my personal life is on the verge of exploding into something I may not recover from.
And I go from the verge to the middle of a full-blown fire. At three p.m., after Diego and Warren and Pedro have all left early, as they usually do on Fridays, I get a text from Vera.
Have you seen it?
I haven’t, and I don’t need to ask what she’s talking about.
I take in a deep breath and try to steady my shaking hands as I click on the bookmarked page for the Diez Minutos site.
Vera texts me again, but I can’t look at the phone. My eyes are glued to the screen. It’s about as bad as I feared. Maybe more, maybe less, and somehow knowing that this was going to happen doesn’t make it seem like less of a surprise.
It’s front page of the site this time, and maybe that’s why it causes the actual hairs on the back of my neck to stand up, for my chest to fill with concrete and quicksand.
Future Atlético Coach and Ex-Football Star Attacks Photographer.
There are three pictures. One is of me walking with Chloe, trying to shield her from his lens. The other is of me yelling at him, spittle flying out of my lips. The last is one of Carlos—the after shot—with his purple bruised eye and nose. He doesn’t look horrible, but he’s definitely adding to it with his pained expression.
The article does not paint the truth. It paints a lie. It says that I saw him and went irate, wanting revenge for past wrongdoings. I apparently hit him completely unprovoked, smashed his camera, and then sped off from the scene of the crime. That last part is true, of course, but the amount of pure bullshit in his words is unbelievable.
To make matters worse, he actually interviewed the woman with the lip liner, that immature puta. It turns out her name is Maria Francisco, the wife of a local politician for some lesser-known party. She says that she knew I was “bad news” when I came to pick up Chloe Ann, and was already antagonizing her and other ladies at the day camp for no apparent reason. She notes that she wasn’t surprised this happened at all, and had only wished she could have done something to protect the photographer from my wrath. She had witnessed the punch that I “randomly” threw and then ran over to help. By the time she arrived on the scene, I was gone.
The article goes on to say that the photographer is thinking of pressing charges, and it’s only then that I realize he didn’t write the article himself. I suppose he figures it is more credible this way.
As I sit back in my chair, the room seems to glow brighter, the fluorescent lights buzzing louder. Everything inside me seems to be caught in a stranglehold. It’s like I don’t breathe, I don’t bleed, I don’t have a heartbeat. I feel like my anger is so raw and terrible that it’s actually trying to kill me on the spot. I don’t think I’ve ever been this livid, felt so fucking hopeless, in my whole entire life.
I sit like this forever. It feels like forever, seems like forever, and when I finally manage to move, I’m shocked to see that only thirty minutes have passed. I eventually eye my phone and the missed calls and ten panicked texts, all from Vera.
There is nothing to say, really. So I text her that I am on my way home and will see her soon.
When I get into the apartment, I am still in my daze. Vera has been crying, and she’s fluttering around like a flightless bird. She’s afraid for me, she’s afraid for her. She’s muttering things about me going off to jail, that she’ll be all alone, that she’ll never see me again. It doesn’t seem to matter that yesterday things seemed more straightened out with the lawyer. Suddenly it’s like it hits her, how fragile her life here is, and she seems to lose it right before my eyes.
I do my best to comfort her but it’s hard when I don’t believe half the shit that’s coming out of my mouth. But I have to be strong, even if I don’t feel it. I have to be the one to stand tall and get us through this, to hold her above the water, this rising, raging tide.
I’m not sure how it happens—maybe it’s the glasses of scotch we down, sitting together in the living room and staring at the bright, hot sunshine outside until it disappears into blue and black, but somehow we get through the day.
Just when I’m about to tell her we should go to bed and see what tomorrow brings, just when I think to myself that we may have gotten off easy, my phone rings.
We both freeze. We know who it is somehow without even looking. I look at Isabel on the call display, and from my stance alone, Vera knows. She places her hand on my shoulder, kisses me softly on the shoulder, and heads to bed.
Isabel is furious. This is nothing new, but her anger has so many levels, it’s like the Zelda game I used to play as a kid. Once you unlock them, they just keep coming.
I barely listen. It’s everything I thought it would be, and she has no interest in the truth, the fact that this man is a threat to us and our daughter. She just cares about her image, about being made a fool of, how she, by default, looked to those other parents. I think maybe some part of her is happy that I ended up in such a violent act because it’s a way for her to show the world that the divorce was a good thing—it gives her some control. But the fact is, her pride speaks louder than anything else, and she’s embarrassed she married me in the first place.
When I hang up, I’m not sure where I stand or what’s going to happen. I head to bed and curl up beside Vera. Neither of us sleep for the longest time, but when slumber finally does pull me under, it does so with such ferocity that my last hazy thought is the fear I may never wake up.
But when I do the next morning, I’m not sure if it was fear at all but desperate longing.
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Chapter Eight
The weekend passes by in a blur. Once again, there is a reason why Chloe Ann can’t come see me, and this time I am not afraid to question it. But I am met with resistance from Isabel and excuses. Apparently she had told me a long time ago that she wanted to bring Chloe Ann to a waterpark before the summer was over, and that in this heat it was barbaric to deny her the opportunity to cool down.
I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it with every part of me. I feel like this is the beginning of the very slow process of annihilation. But my protests go unnoticed, and I spend the weekend with Vera, trying to get through it with a whirl of heat, haze, and alcohol.
We are afraid to leave the apartment, so we don’t. It’s prison time again but this time I really do know it’s for the better. I just know that Mr. Cruz will be outside, waiting for me, waiting for another attempt, and I know that other reporters will have joined in as well. It’s a big story, big enough now that it makes the Sunday edition of El País.
There’s my angry face, there’s the accusations. You’d think I would be used to this, but I’m not. I had only made Spain’s main newspaper years ago when I was back on Atlético. To be featured again, as myself and not a player, is a big deal. It pains me to think that everyone across the country—from my parents to my relatives to my sister, to chumps like Bon and old friends of Isabel’s and the people I went to Las Palabras with—they are reading this and shaking their heads, wondering what is happening to me, where I went wrong. I ditch my wife, take on a younger girlfriend, rejoin Atlético, punch a photographer. It’s forever one step forwards, two step backwards. Give and take. The equilibrium of the cosmos.
The worst comes around on Monday morning when I realize I have to leave my apartment to go to work, and once I am at work I will have to face the wrath of the reputation-conscious Pedro.
I get down to the parking garage without incident, but once I pull my car out and onto the street, I can see the crowd of reporters gathering. Some of them start running toward me, flashing their cameras, and it takes a lot to maintain composure, to make sure I’m not hitting anyone as I press down on the gas and drive. You would think there are more important things going on in this crazy, upside down world of ours, but apparently not today. Today it’s all about picking on those who don’t get their chance to share their side of the story.
Easy targets.
When I get to the stadium, I feel the eyes of everyone burning into me. I can’t even smile at them, pretend to be this jovial guy who is just misunderstood. I can’t even pretend to be me. I look down, my feet on my wingtips, my expression closed-off and neutral. I don’t want them to see any part of me.
My office isn’t empty. Warren is standing at his desk, pinning something on the wall. He can’t be that young anymore, but with his blonde shaved head, wild eyes, and wiry limbs, he could pass for someone in his twenties. When I step in, he pivots toward me, looking both concerned and extremely impressed.
“Way to go,” he says, and he says it in such a way that it takes me a moment to realize he is completely genuine.
“What?” I ask in English as I take my seat and swivel my chair around to face him.
“I hate that bloody fuck,” he says. “Do you not remember the time that I got in a brawl with Sebastian? Real Madrid? I was in Arsenal? That fucking wanker photographed the whole thing.”
“Carlos Cruz?” I ask, now remembering the time that Warren got in a fight with one of the leftfielders for Real Madrid. This was a long time ago, but most of the football fights stuck out in my head, mainly because you always knew what started it or who provoked it.
He nods. “Yeah. He was the one who took the pictures outside of the nightclub. Anyway, I’m just saying, he’s a douche and I’m happy you punched his fucking face in. Especially you, Mateo.”
“Why especially me?”
“Because I’ve been waiting for you to go a bit mad, if you don’t mind me saying.”
I frown at him. “You have?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Old boy, I’ve been in your shoes. Not quite, but close. I left my ex-wife, too. Not for someone a lot younger, but someone a lot better. My life was a mess for a long time, and so was Sheila’s. She’s, you know, the new wife. The only wife. We’re still together, you know, despite what all those fucks thought.”
“I see.”
“I’m just saying, I know what it’s like. It’s tough to wrong someone, and it’s tough to be the one wronging them. But I don’t regret it for a second. Neither does Sheila. I can’t imagine life without her, so it makes all the bloody bullshit we went through worth it. In fact,” he pauses to scratch the golden stubble on his chin, “I think we needed to go through all the shit in order to prove to ourselves—and to the world—that we could handle it, that we were meant for each other. Time went on, as it does, and sooner or later people forgot. Once we got married, my ex eventually found someone else and remarried. My family understood it was serious. Took them bloody long enough, but there you have it. It was worth it.”
I am feeling decidedly guilty about Warren now. Not that it was my decision to possibly let him go—that was all Pedro—but the chance of him leaving soon is high, and I’m only now really starting to like him.
He gives me a crooked smile that hides his crooked teeth. “If I can give you advice . . . well, it’s not really advice because I fucking don’t know much. But whatever you and, Vera, is it? Whatever you have, hang on to it. I know you already know that, I can tell just by looking at you, but what I mean is, you’re going to be each other’s infinity for a long time. The only rowboat in the storm or whatever bloody anthology—sorry, analogy—there is. But it’s just going to be you and her because everyone else is going to pretend that they don’t understand.” He leans in and winks at me. “Here’s the kicker. They do understand. But they don’t want to. To understand, they fear, is to become. And they would rather someone else take the heat than them. They stay safe. You stay wild. But in the end, you’re happy and you’re free, because you did what you knew you had to. Just hang on to her and know that even if it’s just the two of you for a while, if it’s meant to be, the two of you is really all you need.”
He pauses before going to sit down at his desk. “As long as the sex is good, anyway. If it’s not, then I don’t think anything can help you.”
I almost assure him that the sex is more than good, but I have the impression that he knows anyway.
I’m impressed by Warren, and his insight leaves me feeling slightly optimistic. Maybe it’s okay if the world is boiled down to just Vera and I. As long as we don’t let go of one another, as long as we can work together, as long as the rest of the world, one day, promises to catch up.
My optimism leaves me, though, the minute I get a call from Pedro.
He wants to meet me in his office. Immediately.
I get up and am about to leave when Warren wishes me good luck. Funny thing is, he means it, just as he means everything he said before. I’m not sure what Pedro has in mind for me now, but the fact is I took away Warren’s potential career, and I might be taking away his current job, and yet the man doesn’t seem to hold any grudges. That fact gives me the smallest bit of courage as I make my way through the halls to see my boss.
He’s waiting at his Lucite desk, his office all white sterility. There are no cigars this time, only his long stern face to take in like a dry stogie.
There are no what ifs or guesses. We both know why I’m here.
“Mateo,” he says, but that’s all he says as he gestures to the seat across from him. For a moment I wish he would just fire me on the spot so I don’t have to go through the whole long process of it all. But I still sit down and put on my mask, ready for whatever things he’s going to say. At the moment I almost laugh because I’m making him out to be worse than my actual father. Now there is someone whose opinion I care about. Not this guy. Not really.
“I guess you’ve heard,” I tell him.
&nbs
p; He manages a wry smile though his eyes remain cold as stone. “Who hasn’t?”
“I assume you don’t want to know the real story,” I tell him, crossing a foot over my knee. I pay attention to my shoes. They seem like the safest place. Nice, glossy brown leather. Top dollar. They were a present of sorts when I sold the restaurant. I try and think about how my life as a restaurateur would have handled this scandal. I think it would have done well for business.
“I’m sure I already know the real story,” Pedro says simply. “I’ve been watching the papers carefully. I can’t say I’m surprised that this happened. It seems like you can’t take a shit without someone there. In some ways I feel sorry for you, Mateo.”
“But . . .” I fill in, because there is always one.
“But,” he says, “I do expect better from you. Look, I know you can’t help it if you go to the gym and someone follows you, or you go out for dinner and they are there, or Vera goes and does whatever she does and she’s photographed. I know you can’t live a sheltered life, even if it is for just a short while, until their fascination with you is over. But I do expect a level of decorum from you. And though I can’t necessarily blame you for hitting this guy, I would have thought you’d have more respect for the team. For Atlético. And for me. Because you knew what would happen if you hit him, didn’t you?”
I barely nod. I feel like a kid again in the principal’s office. Back then I got in trouble for my hotheadedness too.
“I wasn’t thinking,” I tell him, and that is the truth. I remember a distinct lack of thought. It was all action and instinct.
“No, you weren’t.” He sighs, long and hard. “But I have a daughter. I have two. I know what it’s like to try and protect them. I do think this photographer is a vile creature, and I don’t think that you’re in the wrong. But you need to make sure that you settle this out of court. I don’t want a trial, I don’t want this drawn out. The focus for this season needs to be on the team, not on you. You cannot be more famous than the players, that’s just how it goes.”