“Then how?”
She shrugged. “Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s for the best. Now he knows why you aren’t interested.”
“Ay, Roxana . . .” I sighed.
She grabbed my backpack as if we were going to make a run for it right now. On my injured foot. “Do you want to go? My dad’s parked right there.”
I looked over my shoulder.
Diego was signing a shirt for Gabi, and when he saw me staring, we both blushed.
My heart softened. How could I leave without saying goodbye? Just because I didn’t want a thing with him didn’t mean I had to run away.
“I can’t go, Ro. He and I really need to talk,” I finally said, taking my backpack.
“Good luck, then.” Roxana kissed me goodbye and ran to Diego’s side to snap a selfie with him, the traitor. Then she signaled for me to call her later and ran to her dad’s truck.
Luciano clapped Diego’s shoulder. They hugged, and el Mago whispered something in Diego’s ear.
“I’ll be in touch,” Gabi said to Rufina, who smiled. And then to me, “And you, too, Furia. Take care.”
“Thanks for giving her a ride, Titán,” Coach Alicia added.
Then everyone left. Coach followed the bus full of North Americans in her beat-up Fiat, and I was alone with Diego.
I turned to face him in all my post-game grime. On TV, he always looked like a superhero after a brutal game. Diego stared at me. His eyes were mirrors. In them, I saw how my hair frizzed out in a cloud around my dismayed face.
And because Deolinda must have decided to collect her debt just then, the nausea came back. I sank to the ground and dry-heaved. Diego was next to me in two strides, holding me up. I started shaking. Stars popped in my eyes, and I inhaled as deeply as I could, but my breath came in ragged gasps. I tried to pull away from him in case I actually threw up, but he wouldn’t let go. My leg hurt so much I couldn’t stand.
When my head stopped pounding and my heartbeat went back to its normal pace, the shaking slowed. Diego kissed my forehead, and I leaned into him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I finally asked.
He let go of me, and I looked up at his face.
“Here? This is my pitch, Furia.” From his lips, my new name sounded majestic. “I played here in the baby league. I wanted to practice some shots in my lucky goal before heading back to Turín tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” When he’d said he was leaving Thursday, it had seemed so far away, but it was just a few hours from now.
He shrugged and looked over at a group of kids playing on the crumbling basketball court next to the pitch. Carefully, I took off my boots. Along with my hamstring, my feet were throbbing.
Although he wore old shorts and a sweatshirt, Diego’s silver shoes were slick and futuristic. He rummaged through his backpack and took out a pair of flip-flops. “Put these on,” he said, and I slipped my feet into the too-big sandals. The prickly rubber tickled me.
“Too bad I’m injured, or I’d challenge you to some shots.”
As if I’d ever be able to beat him.
Diego looked at my legs, and his mouth twitched. “I would challenge you to a best of ten, but I have fresh legs, and you, Furia . . . you have legs.”
My legs were too muscular and short to be sexy, but Diego stared at me.
“Remember when Pablo called me patas de tero?” I tried to deflect.
“And now they’re glorious and fast. Do you remember Princess Camila?”
The glow of that afternoon long ago filled me with light. “Yes, the virgin warrior,” I blurted out. The word virgin bounced between us for a second too long.
Diego laughed, then took my hand. “Maybe you’re dehydrated. You probably need to eat, too. When was the last time—?”
“I had mates sometime today, and a protein shake Roxana brought me . . .”
“Warriors, even virgin ones, need to recharge, Furia,” he said. In spite of the playful banter, there was something else I’d never heard in a boy’s voice before: admiration. “You’re tough, but if you don’t take care of your body, you’re going to keep getting injured. You can’t live off mate.”
Although a part of me swooned at the concern in Diego’s voice, the critical side of me recoiled from his words. It wasn’t my fault I’d been hurt; it was his for distracting me.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” he said, my hand still in his. When I resisted, he added, “I have los mates in the car. We just need to stop at the bakery.”
I closed my eyes, trying to center myself.
“One last time by the river, Camila,” he said in a soft voice. “And then I’ll be gone.”
He had me. He’d had me all along, even if he’d made me fall.
A warrior virgin. What was I thinking?
“One last time,” I said, warning myself that this was the end.
I followed him to his car.
17
The air conditioner blasted my face, and sweaty as I was, I started to shiver.
“Sorry,” Diego said, and reached over me to close the vent. He twisted the dial back and forth, but the air didn’t stop. I saw the off button on the dashboard, and I reached over. When I did, my whole body pressed against his arm. I hit the button, and the air died like a held sigh.
He fell back in his seat, flustered.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, putting my hand on his arm, and I felt him flex automatically.
“It’s just that . . . I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Yesterday I only went to your house because Pablo insisted, but you didn’t even want to see me. I’m not a jerk, you know? I can take a no. And now . . .”
If we were going to have that conversation, I needed food. “Weren’t you going to get me dinner? I’m about to pass out in your brand-new car, Titán.” I paused. There was no trace of a superstar in the boy sitting next to me. “Diego.” I said his name the same way I’d said it that night when we’d kissed for the first time. Like I did in my imagination when the kiss led to other things. Things I’d never done with a boy before. But my body craved him all the same.
Silently, Diego turned on the engine, and we left.
Time stood still when I played fútbol, but now, like Cinderella at the ball, I felt the clock rushing. Diego was leaving again, and I didn’t know how to cope with all my feelings.
He knew my secret now: I was a futbolera. Having someone see all of me—besides Roxana—was liberating. No more wearing different faces at home, school, the pitch, with Diego.
I felt naked.
Maluma played softly on the radio, promising a night of fun without contracts or promises. Guys say they want that, but they don’t. They want all of us, girls, women. All, without leaving us any space to enjoy ourselves. What kind of guy was Diego when he wasn’t playing the roles of best friend, superstar, or son?
For once, neither logical Camila nor rash Furia could take the helm. In my mind, there was silence, but it wasn’t the calm before the storm; it was the stunning quiet before the unknown.
The car zipped by Ovidio Lagos, all the way downtown to Distinción Bakery. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and hopped out.
I leaned back into the seat and locked the doors. I closed my eyes for a second that became a minute that became more.
A knock on my window startled me awake. It was Diego.
“Let’s go,” he said once I’d unlocked the door for him. The smell of fresh bread and powdered sugar made my mouth water. My eyelids fluttered in exhaustion, and when I smiled at him, Diego brushed my hair off my face. “Hey, Furia. If you want to go home, I won’t be offended. I’ve been thinking, and—”
“Call me Camila.”
“Camila,” he said. “You don’t have to come anywhere with me—you know that, right? If you—”
I put a finger on hi
s lips, and he sighed against it. The thrill of knowing what I could do to him with the simplest touch filled my head with bubbles. Maybe it was the magic of the newborn night and the full moon in the sky. Maybe it was the vulnerability of his unmasked face. Maybe I just was tired of fighting against myself. “I want to be here. With you, Diego. What did you have in mind?”
He took my hand and squeezed it softly.
“Take me on one last adventure, Diego, before you go back to Turín.”
He looked at me for a second too long. I thought he was going to say something, but if he was, he held it in. Before the moment became unbearable, he turned the engine on and headed toward the river.
The public bathing areas were closed this time of the year. La Florida wouldn’t open its beaches until November, but Diego parked in an empty lot that overlooked the water.
“Here,” he said.
The river’s soft waves caressed the outline of Rosario, and the bridge to Victoria glittered on the horizon. Round, low, dark clouds embraced the full moon like a cloak.
We got out of the car, and Diego took the paper bag from the back seat, then his backpack from the trunk. He handed me the bakery bag and put a package wrapped in shiny blue-and-yellow paper under his arm.
“What’s that?” I asked, trying not to put too much weight on my foot. It throbbed.
He’d taken off his hat, and a curl fell in his eyes. When he brushed it away, I saw an impish sparkle. “You’ll see.”
He held my hand and slowly led me down to the riverbank. My feet slipped in the sandals, so I stopped to take them off. The coarse sand was cold and pleasant. Diego led me to the middle of the little beach. It was deserted, as if we’d walked through a tear into a magical place where it was just the two of us, no strings to reality—past or future—attached.
Diego took a blanket out of his backpack and spread it on the ground; then he set a green Stanley thermos on top and took out a plastic container of yerba and another of sugar.
“You’re prepared.” I sat on the blanket. My left leg immediately seized up in a cramp so intense that I groaned.
Diego knelt in front of me and held my foot. “Point and flex. Point and flex.” I wanted to shake him off. I was sweaty and stinky, and his hands on my naked skin made it harder to concentrate on relaxing my muscles. But then the pain eased, and soon the cramp was gone. He rotated my ankle a few more times and finally placed my foot gently on the ground. “Now,” he said, “when that happens to me, Massimo massages my thigh to loosen the muscle. He makes me drink at least a liter of mineral water, too.”
“Massimo?”
“The team’s physiotherapist.” He rummaged in his bag and grabbed a glass water bottle. “Drink.”
“Fancy,” I said, studying my reflection in the bottle before I drank. The water was slightly salty, but I was too thirsty to let it bother me.
Diego shrugged. “I get sick now when I drink from the tap. So mineral water it is for me.”
“It’s all the sugar you’re eating, nene.”
He smiled sheepishly, and I could see the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He prepared the mate and took a sip. The first sip is always the strongest; it leaves a bitter green aftertaste. He didn’t even flinch. All the leftover tension that knotted my muscles drained away as I watched him do this ordinary thing.
“You bought all this for just the two of us?” I asked, looking at the assortment of facturas in the bag. Tortitas negras, vigilantes, cream and marmalade. He’d brought two of each at least. I took out a croissant. It melted on my tongue.
“They had an after six p.m. half-off sale. Happy hour.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t resist.”
We ate and drank mate and water from the same bottle and the same straw. He pulled out his phone, and at first I thought he was checking his texts, but before I could complain, music started playing softly. A man’s voice sang in Italian. Diego sang along softly, slightly off-key. He put the phone back on the blanket.
“How did you know I’d be at the little pitch?” I asked.
Diego changed la yerba and shook his head. Here by the river, his hair had taken on a life of its own; it curled luxuriously in ringlets. He took an elastic from his wrist and tied it into a bun on top of his head. I’d seen him in designer suits on a red carpet and in fancy rock star clothes driving his BMW, but dressed like this, like a regular boy who had never posed for photographers, he was irresistible.
“I didn’t know.”
“Then how did you find me?”
“I already told you, Mama.”
“But it’s hard to believe. The evidence”—I gestured to the picnic he’d come with—“shows that you were stalking me.”
“And why would I do that?” He raised an eyebrow.
Just like that, the words evaporated from my lips. The scent of the night, humid and kind of fishy, erased my thoughts. I wasn’t going to make this easy for him.
“One piece of advice Paulo gave me as soon as I arrived in Turín was never to forget my roots.”
“Paulo as in Paulo Dybala?” Paulo “la Joya” Dybala was Diego’s friend. I’d known this, of course, but Diego had never flaunted his connections before. Not that he was doing it now. It was just . . . Dybala.
Diego’s whole face lit up, dispelling the awkwardness that tried to creep between us. “I know, right? I wouldn’t say we’re friends friends, but I’ve been over to play FIFA or have dinner with his family.”
“Going over for FIFA and dinner makes you friends.”
Diego bit his lip. “I guess . . . and we play together. Like, on the same team. Camila, I have his old number!”
“Twenty-one!” we said in unison.
Diego went on. “First time I saw him, I couldn’t speak. I was like this.” He put his straight arms against this body and made a stunned face. I smiled, imagining the whole thing. “But he pretended not to notice and passed me a mate and an alfajor cordobés.”
“Your favorite.”
“He’s totally down-to-earth, and yes.” He laughed. “He’s my favorite.”
I realized Diego had been bursting to share this. Had no one given him the chance? Maybe the boys were afraid that he’d changed now that he couldn’t even drink our water. Maybe they were jealous that he had everything they wanted. Everything we wanted.
“Dybala told you not to forget your roots, and so you went to that pitch?”
“When I was eight and lived with Father Hugo, I used to play on that field. That’s where the Central scout found me.”
Pablo had started in the academy at twelve, and by the time Diego moved in with Ana, he and Pablo had been teammates and best friends for a while.
“He found you in Newell’s territory?”
Diego bit his lip and ducked his head. “I might have been one of the Old Boys in another life.”
“Impossible.”
“I didn’t know any better. But I’ve been one hundred percent Scoundrel ever since.” He hesitated for a second, and then he added, “My mom and I lived in that barrio before . . . before she left. I kept going back, hoping I’d see her or someone who knew where she was.”
“You haven’t heard anything even now?”
Diego looked toward the bridge that tied Rosario to Victoria. He shook his head. “No. I keep thinking now that I’m—” he hesitated.
“Famous?” I offered, and he smiled timidly.
“Yes, I keep thinking she’ll contact me. Even just for money. But she hasn’t, and I hope that she’s safe wherever she is. It’s my last night in Rosario. I had to go to my lucky field.”
I stretched out my hand to press his. “Lucky field?”
“Lucky field.” His gaze was so intense I had to look down. “You were magic out there. You have that joy . . .” He rolled the edge of the blanket between his fingers. “You’re like a female Messi, a
Dybala. You could defend pretty well when you played with Pablo and me. But I had no idea you were this good. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Diego’s compliments mixed with the chill of the breeze and made me shiver. I wrapped my arms around myself. “I’m not like Messi or Dybala, or even you. I’m like Alex Morgan. Like Marta. My team doesn’t compare to yours, but one day I’m going to play in the Unites States with those women.”
He stared at me.
“Do you even know who Marta is?”
“Five-time Ballon d’Or,” Diego said, and now it was my turn to be impressed. “Of course I know Marta, nena. I met her in Monaco a couple of months ago.”
A cargo ship crossed the river, and a few seconds later, tiny cold waves lapped the shore and licked my naked feet. I hadn’t been swimming in the river in years.
He’d met Marta. In Monaco.
“Is that why you want to play in the States?” he asked. “Because Marta’s there now?”
“Marta’s one reason,” I said, surprised he even knew where she played. Pablo had no idea. “In an interview, she said she was switching from Sweden to the North American league because the best players in the world played there. Besides, English’s easier to learn than Swedish, you know?” He smiled on cue and motioned for me to continue. “I’ve always wanted to play.” I looked up to see if he was about to laugh at me, but his face was still and serious, so I kept going. “Their league is professional. But imagine . . .” I didn’t know how to explain myself, but he waited for me to find the words. “I know it’s far-fetched, but if I do well in the Sudamericano, maybe I can get called up for a professional team. Even the U.S. women’s league . . .” My heart pounded in my ears as I poured out my dreams at Diego’s feet. “It’s not Juventus, I know.”
Diego grabbed my hand and pressed it. “One day it could be, Camila.”
“It sounds stupid, but I want to play.”
“And you will, Cami.” He unknotted the red ribbon, his good luck bracelet, from his wrist and tied it around mine. “You have to keep fighting, even if you’re hurt now,” he said. “Come back stronger. You’re doing it on your own. Here I was, thinking I was coming back to rescue you, and you’re becoming your own savior.”
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