A whirlwind of anguish opened up under my feet. I hadn’t ever seen my father hit my mother, but what did I know?
“Thank you,” I said, and followed Sonia to the X-ray room.
26
On Saturday, I headed to the scrimmage with Luciano and Yael. They made a perfect team. Yael served as lookout. Luciano drove like a Formula 1 racer, dodging a horse-pulled garbage cart first and then a brand-new black Jeep Cherokee. All around me, there were reminders of Diego.
The cousins chattered like parrots and never forced me to chime in.
Pablo and I had once been like that. Now he didn’t respond to my texts. Neither did Roxana.
I texted Diego to see if he’d heard anything from my brother, but he didn’t reply, either. He must have been training. It was the day before his first home game of the season, after all.
By the time we arrived at the indoor field, I was feeling carsick.
Mr. Fong waved at me from his parked car. I waved back and headed to my first official scrimmage since my injury.
Coach Alicia had let me sit out practices, but now that I had the doctor’s green light, it was time to gear up for the Sudamericano.
I was used to having Roxana next to me as we warmed up, but now the team was divided into two camps: Roxana’s and Rufina’s. I was in neither. I stretched by myself between the two groups, the target of vicious looks from Rufina’s girls and of Roxana’s cold indifference. Yael and Cintia looked at me and smiled awkwardly.
Coach Alicia grabbed my doctor’s note. She studied it as if trying to see if it was a fake. Typical Alicia, but there was something wrong with her, too. Like repelling magnets, the more I tried to approach her, the more she pulled away from me.
She nodded and pointed me to the center mid, my least-favorite position. Without protesting, I ran in. We were facing a team of boys a little younger than us, but they looked like baby giants. Gangly, pimply-faced giants.
The whistle blew, and the game started. I couldn’t find my feet on the turf pitch. I tried to summon Furia, but the spark wouldn’t ignite.
Half the team yelled directions at me, and the rest gloated over my downfall.
Finally, Mía passed me a good ball, but my first touch was off, and I lost it to the other team. A blond, soft-cheeked boy grabbed it, dribbled through our defense, and scored. I felt like the industrial ceiling of the warehouse was falling on me.
“Sub!” The cry came, as I knew it would. I didn’t look to the bench, because I didn’t want to see Coach Alicia’s disappointed eyes.
Mabel went in for me, but she didn’t even slap my hand as I went out. Instead, she shoulder-checked me so hard I staggered.
“What’s wrong with you?” I yelled.
She flipped me off.
Speechless, I finally looked at the bench. Luciano pretended he was studying one of his charts. None of the girls looked at me, their attention focused on the game, but Coach Alicia’s laser eyes made me shrink.
“What?” I asked, and I regretted it instantly. As the team captain, disrespecting the coach was a capital offense.
Coach Alicia only scoffed and turned to watch our team. Roxana saved a killer shot. “Good job, Roxana!” she shouted, and in a softer voice, she told Luciano, “She’s the only one improving consistently.”
Luciano sent me an accusing look, like it was my fault the whole team was floundering. Couldn’t I have one bad day? It was just a practice.
Coach never put me back in, and we ended up tying, thanks to Roxana at the goal, and Yesica, who scored at the last second.
The girls looked to be in better spirits than the boys, who didn’t take the tie gracefully, mumbling loudly enough for everyone to hear that they went easy on us.
A tall, dark-skinned striker who reminded me of Pablo at that age told Luciano, “It was a lose-lose situation for us. We can’t celebrate a win against a girls’ team, and if we lost, imagine the shame. It’s against a girls’ team.”
Luciano grimaced. “Loco, it’s just a scrimmage. Get it together, man. Your balls aren’t going to shrivel up and fall off.”
He was spending so much time around us.
The boy smirked but didn’t say anything else and walked off.
I told Luciano to head out without me. “Sure,” he said without pressing me for details, and followed Yael.
My team left one girl at a time, but I knew to wait for Coach to apologize, at the very least.
Roxana left without glancing my way. Even though I was watching her like an alma en pena.
I needed her there next to me, telling me I had the right to one bad day.
Finally, Coach Alicia turned toward me, took a long breath, and said, “What’s all this talk about Diego Ferrari taking you to live with him when he comes home for Christmas? Is all your work, my work, going down the drain, Camila? Is this team a distraction until he comes back to whisk you away?”
When she put it like that, it sounded ridiculous.
“He’s not coming home for Christmas.”
Coach didn’t look impressed. “Camila, when the river sounds, it’s because it brings water. I know you and Diego have something. My sister is moving heaven and earth to publicize the tournament with the NWSL scouts for you. Are you going to throw it away? Diego’s a good boy, but I’m . . . disappointed.”
I didn’t care if the rest of the world was disappointed in me, but I couldn’t take this from Coach.
“It was one bad scrimmage in months, after an injury, and all of a sudden I’m throwing my team and all my opportunities away? I’m one hundred percent in.”
Coach Alicia wasn’t one for sentimentalities, but she patted my shoulder and said, “In your world, Furia, one mistake can be fatal. Keep your goal in sight. Keep your priorities straight, and it will all be worth it. I promise.”
Father Hugo and the kids didn’t expect me at El Buen Pastor on Saturdays, but Coach Alicia’s words felt like too heavy a burden to carry on my own. Roxana had always helped me process the messes at home and at school. Without her, I had no one to talk to.
Diego and I could text all day long, but when he asked me why Roxana was angry, I didn’t want to unload my drama on him. He didn’t need to worry about my problems, and deep down, I didn’t want him to. What could he do from the other side of the world?
I didn’t want to go back home. Mamá would be there, quietly working in the corner, a Penelope who refused to accept her Ulysses was a monster. She constantly moped over how much she missed Pablo and blamed me for him leaving. El Buen Pastor, once a prison for incorrigible daughters, was now the only place where I felt welcome.
A group of kids played fútbol in the dappled sunshine of the inner courtyard. Sister Cristina was the goalie for one of the teams, and when she blocked a shot, all the kids ran to her in celebration. She saw me and waved happily before turning back to the game. Lautaro was already kicking off again.
My eyes prickled. I had forgotten how beautiful fútbol was. Without referees, lines on the ground, trophies, tournaments, or life-changing contracts, the ball was a portal to happiness.
A little hand tugged at my sleeve.
“Seño, do you want to play goalie for my team?” Bautista asked. His brown eyes were huge, his little face flushed from the exercise. His invitation was tempting, but I could hear voices coming from my classroom.
“I’m having fun watching, but thank you,” I replied.
“You come in if you get tired of standing here like a palm tree, okay?” He ran back to his team, his too-big Juventus jersey flapping around him.
In my classroom, Karen sat at the head of the table, my usual spot. She didn’t stutter as she read from Un Globo de Luz Anda Suelto. It was as if a new Karen had emerged.
Five other girls encircled her, hanging on her every word. They were all about the same age, that awkward stage righ
t at the beginning of puberty. Baby faces, budding breasts, bashful eyes. Dark-haired golden goddesses with the latent power to change the world if given one chance.
Their enraptured faces turned to Karen as if she were the sun, the light in her voice germinating the seeds Alma’s words planted. I tried not to make a sound. I didn’t want to break the spell.
Eventually, one of them looked up, and, puckering her lips, pointed in my direction. Karen felt her friends’ restlessness and followed their gazes. When she saw me, she smiled, her nose crinkling adorably.
“Seño,” she said, “the girls kept asking about the books, and I told them it was b-b-best if I read to them.”
Bautista, followed by a younger boy with Down syndrome, burst into the room and bellowed, “Time for the semifinal!”
The girls turned toward Karen, and she rolled her eyes but nodded. One by one, they left in respectful order, then broke into a run once out the door.
“What was that all about?” I asked, sitting next to Karen, who’d placed a bookmark on her page, put the book away, and taken another from the pink backpack Diego had given her. It was Locas Mujeres, by Gabriela Mistral. I hadn’t read it, but the title alone made me laugh.
“Karen,” I said, “where did you get that one?”
“The library,” she said, chin lifted high. “There’s a version with the English translation, but I don’t like it as much, so I’m doing my own translation.”
“And why weren’t you reading this to the girls?”
She scoffed. “Apostle Paul says that first, you must feed the babies with milk, and then, when they’re ready, you give them meat.”
I shivered. I wasn’t worthy to stand in her presence. “You’re amazing.”
She blushed. “So are you, Maestra Camila.” Then she hesitated. At first, I thought it was her stutter, but then I realized she was trying not to offend me. “Are you going to leave us, too? Are you going to go live with Diego in It-Italy?”
Now I was the one having a hard time finding the right words. “Diego and I . . . we’ve loved each other since we were little kids, you know?”
“Like Nicanor and Gora?” she asked.
“Like Nicanor and Gora,” I said. “But I have my own dreams, too. I play on my own fútbol team. I want to play professionally one day.”
Her eyes widened at the revelation. “But you’re so smart! You speak English. You go to school; you have choices.”
“I like to play, and I happen to be very good at it. I have choices, and fútbol is my choice. I won’t ever give up when I have a chance to make it.”
“Not even for Diego?”
“Not even for him.”
“Does he know yet?”
“I’m following my own path, chiquita.”
“But he’s your true love.” Karen sounded like any little girl hoping for a happily ever after. When she saw me, she saw her teacher, a role model to follow. I didn’t want her to think that to be free and happy, a woman had to turn her back on love, but I didn’t know how to do both.
Outside the window, the frogs and crickets sang to the setting sun. “He said he’d wait for me.”
Karen nodded slowly.
She was only ten. She wanted to believe that love was possible for crazy, incorrigible girls like us.
27
At the end of a scrimmage on a muggy November morning, Coach Alicia gathered the team. The months of preparation had blurred by, and the tournament was almost here. I gave Luciano an envelope containing my second payment, and he distributed copies of the final schedule for the games. For the next thirty minutes, Coach went over our rivals: Praia Grande, Tacna Femenil, and Itapé de Paraguay. Praia were the defending champions, but Tacna and Itapé were new to the tournament, like us. Two teams from our group would move on to the next phase. After semis, one would claim the trophy in the final. Somewhere in Brazil, Perú, and Paraguay, similar groups of dreaming, hopeful girls must have been wondering what kind of team Eva María was. They would see soon enough.
Rufina and I had a competition going to see who could score the most, and I was still soaring off a hat trick that had put me ahead. The outcome of the games didn’t matter—we played to get minutes—but it felt good to be in the lead.
“Nice goal,” Rufina said when the scrimmage ended, the corner of her mouth twitching. From her, this was basically a full-on friendly smile.
“Start from zero on game one?”
“You’re on!” We shook hands to seal the deal.
The team’s mood was bubbling, and Coach Alicia looked like she had gained an extra five years of life. A winning mindset was the road to victory, she always said.
In front of me, I saw Roxana’s eyes sparkle, but when I tried to get her attention, she turned around and left. I watched her walk away with Cintia and Yesica. They’d been riding to practices and scrimmages together for weeks. The jealousy didn’t torture me anymore, but I still missed her.
The team scattered, everyone studying their packets, as if reading and rereading the schedule would give them a glimpse into the future.
As I was leaving, Coach Alicia called me aside and said, “Now, Furia, if you play the tournament the way you’ve been playing in the scrimmages, we’ll be set.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, and laughed to hide how much her words of encouragement affected me.
“Are you and Roxana still not talking?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
The question took me aback, but I was glad she’d asked.
“We’re not,” I said.
“Not even at school?”
I crossed my arms tightly. “Not anywhere. She didn’t let me explain about Diego when I tried. She’ll never forgive me for keeping it secret, but she doesn’t understand.”
Coach gathered up the gear and slung it over her shoulder like Papá Noel.
“You’re right about that. She doesn’t understand, but at the same time, remember that your life is yours, Furia. At the end of the day, are you playing for yourself or to prove others wrong? Love is the same.”
“So now you’re telling me that this thing with Diego isn’t the worst idea?”
We headed toward her car, and I helped her load equipment into the trunk.
Finally, she said, “I don’t know about that. What I mean to say is, fútbol is life, but so is love, and so is family. My intent in coaching the team was never to create fútbol-playing machines. I know how much all of you sacrifice to play. I just wish you weren’t so hard on yourself.”
“But maybe it’s better this way, Coach. The rest of my life is a mess, but at least on the pitch I get to do what I love.”
Coach placed a hand on my shoulder. “And you’ve been amazing.”
I glowed with satisfaction, but it dimmed when she added, “It’s just that there’s something missing.”
I’d tried to do everything right. I’d been sleeping well, eating better, cutting out distractions. Without Roxana, I hardly ever talked to anyone other than the kids at El Buen Pastor and Diego. Even when he traveled for Champions League games, we always spoke before he went to sleep.
Last night, he’d said, “If your voice is the last sound I hear and your beautiful face is the one I see before falling asleep, then I dream of you. That way we’re always together.”
Butterflies danced in my stomach at the memory of his words.
“What am I missing? I’ve tried so hard,” I asked Coach.
Her eyes softened as she brushed my cheek with her fingers. “Joy. Fun. Abandon. You’re playing with too many voices in your head. Remember, you get in your head . . .”
“. . . you’re dead,” I finished.
Coach continued, “There are too many people whose opinions control how you perform. Let them go. Be yourself. You’re la Furia, but remember, the game is beautiful.”
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Then she tapped her finger on my chin and waited for me to look up at her before continuing, “How are things at home? I haven’t seen your mom in a while.”
My mom had spiraled since Pablo had moved out. Marisol had dropped out of school two months before graduation. Every time she posted on her Instagram about decorating their apartment downtown or what she was planning for the nursery, my mom sank deeper. I wanted to help, but I didn’t want to fall in with her.
I couldn’t tell Coach that, but part of me hoped she could read my mind. Finally, I said, “She’s fine. I thought she’d come to the tournament, but Central’s home that weekend, so she might have to watch Pablo.”
My mom wasn’t doing fine. She had never planned on making it to my games. Central was playing in town then, but that small truth didn’t make my words less of a lie—the first I’d ever told Coach. My cheeks burned with shame.
“You go find that joy in playing again, okay?”
“Are you telling me to smile?” I asked, faking outrage.
Coach laughed, throwing her head back. “No, Hassan. I’m demanding that you make everyone who watches you smile.”
After the talk with Coach, I stayed at El Buen Pastor until Sister Cristina kicked me out. It was First Communion season, and she had to prepare the church for the first of many celebrations. I wanted to help, but she pointed at my short shorts and my muddy legs and sent me home. She wouldn’t budge even when I changed into my warm-ups.
On the bus, my phone chimed. I peeked at the screen and saw that Juventus had won, thanks to two goals by Diego. I itched to watch the replays, but the bus was full, and I didn’t have earbuds with me. Besides, I wasn’t going to flash a phone this fancy in public. The phone was my connection to my team, to Diego, to the rest of the world. I couldn’t afford to lose it.
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