A rain of protests pelted him, but he wouldn’t change his mind. Refs never did.
The Royals goalie kicked. La Flaca blocked the ball with her chest, cutting its arc through the air.
“What a lucky ball to land there!” a boy yelled from the sidelines. Some people laughed, and I saw red, but I couldn’t waste attention on vermin.
Instead, I ran to catch the ball a Royal had wrestled from Evelin. I hooked it with the side of my foot and stole it back for my team.
Cintia waited, unguarded, for a chance to score, and I sent the ball straight to her foot. The Royals’ goalie was tall but insecure. Her feet were glued to the dirt of her box. Cintia kicked with the precision of a tattoo artist. Even the wind held its breath, not daring to interfere with the play.
The ball hit the crossbar, but I was in a perfect spot, right in front of the goal, waiting for the rebound. Without time to think, I jumped into the air and scissor kicked. I fell hard on my hip, but the pain didn’t even register as the net waved like a sail.
“Goooooooalllllll!” I screamed. I pushed myself up and ran with my fingers pointed to heaven. La Difunta had earned her water.
Just as my team jumped on me to celebrate, a cry of victory came from the houses across the pitch, followed by firecrackers. Someone had scored at El Gigante, and I wondered who, but only for a second. I couldn’t be distracted from my game.
During the second half, the Royals’ number four and I battled for a high ball right in the box. Pain shook my teeth and sent me to the ground, and when I heard the shrill whistle, I registered that the girl had elbowed me in the mouth.
While the Royals and my team swarmed around the ref, I recovered, taking deep breaths, making sure my teeth were still firmly attached.
“Are you okay?” Yael asked.
I swallowed the taste of blood and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, hoping none of it had dripped on my uniform. I didn’t have a spare jersey. But when I glanced down to check, it was clean. La Difunta’s blessing was still protecting me.
My knees were a little wobbly as I stood up, but the nerves stayed on the dirt. “I’m fine.”
The Royals didn’t reach Roxana’s kingdom until near the end of the game, when the ref gave them a free kick dangerously close to the box. With only minutes left, there was no way we could let them close the gap. Two to zero is the most dangerous score of all. I joined the defense to make a protective wall in front of Roxana as the blond Royal captain got ready to shoot. She glanced over at her coach, then at me. At one meter and fifty-five centimeters, I was the shortest person on my team. She’d try to send it over my head. I was her only opening. So I jumped, and the ball hit me right in the face.
Stars exploded in my eyes as I fell hard on the ground, where I stayed, catching my breath.
“Hassan, do you need a sub?” Coach Alicia called from the sidelines.
I pretended not to hear her. Mía had already left with a painful ankle. We didn’t have another sub. No way in hell would I have left the field before the final whistle.
Taking my sweet time, I climbed back to my feet.
“One more minute,” the ref called.
Mabel, our number five, kicked the ball back and forth with Cintia, then back to Roxana, the expert in letting time slip by.
The Royals fans shrieked, enraged.
At last, the ref blew the final whistle. Before the sound was swallowed by the roar of the crowd, our team was running to Coach Alicia.
The Fongs and our other fans broke onto the field, kicking up dust that mixed with firecracker smoke.
It smelled of miracles.
“Camila! You were a furia!” Mrs. Fong’s voice was hoarse as she baptized me with a new name.
“Furia! Furia!” my team chanted like a spell.
The part of me that had been set free during the game stretched her wings and howled at the sun.
3
Yael and Yesica tried to lift me up on their shoulders, but we fell down and laughed like little girls. Between someone’s dirt-streaked legs, I caught a glimpse of the chubby, pretty Royal crying in the arms of a tall boy in a Newell’s Old Boys shirt while a woman—her mom?—patted her shoulder.
What would it be like to have my mom come watch my games, comfort me if I lost, celebrate my victories?
Now, that was wishing for the moon, and before I let sadness ruin the sweetness of this moment, I joined my teammates in jumping and singing around our coach.
“Vení, vení, cantá conmigo, que una amiga vas a encontrar. Que de la mano de Coach Alicia, todas la vuelta vamos a dar!”
We did our Olympic run around the field, trailing behind Coach Alicia, waving our tattered flag.
No one wanted to stop celebrating.
Once we left the field, it would be back to regular life. Back to being ordinary. Here, we were the Rosarina Ladies’ League champions, and the feeling was more intoxicating than a cup of forbidden beer on a hot summer night.
Finally, Coach Alicia reminded us about the prize ceremony. We walked shoulder to shoulder toward a table set up in the middle of the field. Two lines of trophies shone gold in the late-afternoon sun. The biggest, with first place engraved on the front, stood on the ground, where a couple of Roxana’s cousins guarded it as if it were an imperial treasure. One of them, Alejandro, winked at me, but I pretended not to see.
The ref stood next to a balding guy with greasy hair, who held a megaphone up to his face. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice reverberating, “the champions, Eva María Fútbol Club, led by Camila Hassan, sister of none other than the Stallion, Pablo Hassan.”
In an instant, the phantom presence of my brother and his accomplishments eclipsed my win, my team’s efforts, and Coach Alicia’s never-ending work. I stood, stubbornly rooted in place, but Coach Alicia motioned for me to step forward and accept the trophy.
“Vamos, Furia!” someone yelled, invoking my braver self.
And just like that, the newly born part of me took over.
All of a sudden, I was raising the trophy as if it were the head of a vanquished enemy. The metal held the warmth of the yellow sunshine. Carried by the euphoria, we sang our battle song and together lifted Coach Alicia in the air like the hero she was. My teeth were gritty with dirt and blood, but still I smiled for the group picture.
The friends, families, and neighbors who’d joined our celebration sang along.
“Put that away!” someone yelled. “Don’t bring politics into the game! Not when there are reporters here.”
I scanned the crowd and saw a woman waving the green handkerchief of the feminist movement. Then I noticed a guy nearby with a TV camera aimed in my direction. Had he been recording the whole time?
Roxana and I locked eyes. She had a green handkerchief in her backpack, and in that moment, I was grateful she hadn’t pulled it out or, worse, asked me to wave it around like a victory flag. If anyone from school even thought we supported the movement’s pro-choice politics, we’d be expelled without consideration. Sister Esther had been clear on that.
But if my parents saw me on TV, being expelled would be the least of my problems.
“Capitana, give us a few words.” The reporter with the cameraman, a beautiful brunette with a beauty mark next to her red-painted lips, didn’t wait to start peppering me with questions. “How do you feel right now, number seven? First place in the Rosarina Ladies’ League. How did you learn to play like that? What are your plans for the future? What does your family think?”
Trapped into answering, I deflected the spotlight. “This was a collective effort. If anything, Coach Alicia’s the one who should be answering all these questions. She’s been working for years to take a team to the Sudamericano. I just do what she says.”
The reporter’s forehead creased with determination. “Of course, but from what I saw today, yo
u’re pretty amazing. You have a flair that’s uncommon, especially for a girl. What does your brother, the Stallion, Pablo Hassan”—she flashed a smile at the camera as if she was hoping to charm him with the sound of his name—“say about how good you are?”
My teammates laughed. They all had a thing for Pablo, the fools.
Unnerved by my silence, the reporter pressed on. “Well, what does he say?” Her eyes swept over the crowd.
“My brother loves it,” I said, making soft eyes at the camera because what the hell? I was already in the dance, so I danced. “He taught me everything I know.”
The reporter’s voice lowered in pitch, and she asked, “Furia, do you have a message for your family? For the federation? Do you think this win is a turning point for women’s rights?”
She had seen the green handkerchief in the crowd, too. Frantically, I looked around, begging someone to rescue me from this woman and her dangerous questions.
“My family is very supportive, and . . . to the federation, I just want to say thank you for making this space for us girls.”
We’d made the space. We’d filled in the cracks of the system and made room for ourselves where there was none. No one had given us anything. We had taken it. But no one wanted to hear the truth. Most importantly, this wasn’t the time or the place for that conversation.
The crowd clapped enthusiastically. Finally, the reporter turned her attention to Roxana, and I wiggled my way out of trouble. The sun was low on the horizon, and now that the adrenaline from the game had left me, the evening breeze gave me chills. The sound of chanting from El Gigante squeaked from a phone speaker, and I tried to find its owner, who might have news from Central. It was the ref. A bulging sports bag rested at his feet.
“Did Central just score?” I asked, trying to sound friendly.
Instead of saying anything, even a simple yes, he gave a one-shouldered shrug and turned his back on me.
“Hurry up!” the camera guy yelled. “We can still make the second half! I can’t believe we’re stuck here at this game no one cares about.” He struggled to put his equipment away. Even in daylight, only fools displayed that kind of expensive camera traveling around this kind of barrio. “We gotta go now!” he yelled to the reporter.
The reporter seemed unfazed by his rudeness, but there was a stiffness in the way she held her shoulders. Instead of running like he obviously wanted her to, she turned her attention back to me. My body froze. But the woman just approached me with her arm outstretched for a handshake. “Thanks for your time . . . Furia, right?”
The camera guy fumed behind her.
I nodded, and she said, “Good luck with the Sudamericano. I’ll be cheering for you, and if you ever need anything, let me know.”
“Thank you,” I said, but what could I ever need from her?
“Luisana! We need to go!” The camera guy was advancing on us, stomping, on the verge of a temper tantrum.
Luisana inhaled deeply, as if praying for patience.
He grabbed her arm. “My contact at Channel Five said el Titán’s in the stands.”
She shrugged his hand off, and without another word, they ran toward their car. They were gone in a whirl of screeching tires and smoke.
El Titán, Diego, was in town.
4
“Let’s go, Hassan,” Roxana said, her medal showing through her shirt. “My parents want to make it home before the game’s over and the street gets blocked.”
Although I hated when she called me by my last name, I ran to her side, bursting to tell her that Diego was at the stadium. Diego Ferrari was Pablo’s best friend, Rosario’s golden boy, an international sensation. The press called him el Titán because the names God and Messiah were already taken by Maradona and Messi. They said that on the pitch, Diego had more presence than royalty.
He was one of those rare talents that comes along only once in a generation. Last year, Juventus had swooped in and signed him for their first team before he had the chance to debut for Central.
He’d been my first crush, had given me my first kiss, and like millions of people around the world, I was obsessed with him.
I stopped my words just in time.
Roxana didn’t like him. But then, she didn’t like any male fútbol players. She claimed they were all narcissistic jerks, and considering my father and brother, I couldn’t really disagree.
Diego was different, though. But I hadn’t seen him in a year. A person could change a lot in that time. I had. Who knew how fame had changed him?
The temptation to try and catch a peek at him was too strong. Chances were, he’d go to the bar right across the street from Roxana’s and wait to celebrate with the guys if Central won or commiserate if they lost.
My team should’ve been heading out to celebrate, but unlike the professional players, most of us were broke. The girls trickled off the field, each one going her separate way.
“Chau, Furia,” Cintia said.
Mía and Lucrecia echoed, “Chau, Furia.”
Coach Alicia was packing the equipment into her car: balls, nets, and corner posts. At the sound of my new nickname, she looked up and winked at me. “No days off, team!” she reminded us.
I waved at Coach and the girls. And without owning up to my ulterior motives, I followed Roxana to her dad’s car.
The roads around the stadium were all closed. Even when Mr. Fong explained that he lived on the next block, the young traffic officer wouldn’t budge.
The song blaring from thousands of throats in the stadium swallowed Mr. Fong’s protests.
Un amor como el guerrero, no debe morir jamás...
“Drop us here, and we’ll walk,” Roxana said to her dad. “I’m dying to go to the bathroom.”
Her parents argued back and forth until Mrs. Fong said, “It’s fine, Gustavo. Let’s drop them off. I need to check something at the store in Avellaneda anyway.”
“In that case, this is your stop, girls.”
“Just be careful, chicas,” Mrs. Fong called after us as we got out of the car.
“I love your parents,” I told Roxana. “My dad would’ve fought me even if he’d wanted me to walk home to begin with.”
Roxana shrugged, but her cheeks turned a little pink. “I guess they’re all right.”
The men’s game was over, and people trickled out of El Gigante, their faces glowing with glory. They swung yellow-and-blue-striped jerseys and flags in the air, chanting our Sunday hymns, happy because Central had won and nothing else mattered.
Fútbol could do that—make people forget about the price of the dollar, the upcoming elections, even their love lives. For a few hours, life was beautiful.
We stood at the corner of Cordiviola and Juan B. Justo behind a group of guys singing and jumping in place, waiting for an ambulance to drive away. The scent of charred chorizos from the choripán vendor made my stomach growl. A line of officers made a roadblock across the street. Before we could continue toward the house, a rumble of excitement erupted from the singing guys.
A girl in their group ran to the barrier of disgruntled guards.
“She just saw el Titán,” a boy announced. “Diego Ferrari.”
Like the rest of the people in the street, I turned my face toward the bar like a sunflower chasing the dawn. Right then, Diego walked out, and the street exploded into applause and cheers.
In a distressed but obviously new leather jacket and a white T-shirt with the image of Lionel Messi as the Sacred Heart, Diego looked like the superstar he was. His brown hair was gelled back, but it still curled around his ears. He wore studs. Diamond studs that glinted when he moved. The reporters swarmed around him while he signed everything people put in front of him: paper, jerseys, an arm, a baby’s blanket.
Roxana rounded on me. “Did you know he was here?”
I didn’t even have th
e chance to deny it.
“Amore mío, fai l’amore con me!” a woman in her twenties yelled from behind me, startling us. Roxana started laughing. Even though I was about to die of embarrassment on the woman’s behalf, I couldn’t help laughing, too.
A couple of years ago, Roxana became obsessed with the book and the movie A Tres Metros Sobre el Cielo. It was a classic, but Roxana was all in. She tagged “3MSC” everywhere. She even learned Italian to read it in the original, and she made me practice with her. I’d make it fun for myself by repeating silly phrases in Italian, things we’d never dare to say in real life.
This was my phrase.
The woman repeated it, and this time, Diego must have heard her. Even from afar, I saw him blush. He waved, biting his lower lip. It made me want to forget everything and run to him.
Just as I was about to tell Roxana we should go home, he looked straight at me. His face broke into a megawatt smile.
Its force knocked me breathless.
“Camila!” he yelled, and waved for me to join him.
But Roxana shielded me with her body. “The cameras!” she warned me, but I had already scurried behind a group of girls fighting over who Diego was calling out for. All of them seemed to be a Camila.
Of course, I was the one he was calling for, and I wanted to go to him. But Roxana was right. This moment could be the end of me. Now that Diego was home from Italy, the news of a team of unknown girls winning the Rosarinian League Cup wouldn’t get any airtime. This would give me some time to break the news about the Sudamericano to my parents before the news did it for me. But not if the cameras following Diego turned their attention my way. Then I would have a different kind of trouble at home.
We ran away from the crowd. Once we were out of reach of the cameras, Roxana hooked her arm through mine. Sore from the game, we hobbled our way to her house in charged silence.
“What was he thinking?” Roxana finally said, shaking her head. “Putting you in the spotlight like that . . .”
Furia Page 2