I opened the door.
Diego stood with his hands in his pockets.
“Hola, Furia,” he said.
My body went cold, as if I’d seen an apparition, but I blinked and fell into his arms.
He closed the door behind us, and when he hugged me, he picked me up and held me tightly.
“Shhh, I’m here. Don’t cry,” he whispered.
My tears stung my skin.
He kissed my bruised face softly, but his eyes flashed. “I’m going to kill him.”
I never wanted to hear words of hatred from his lips, so I kissed him over and over until the anger left. Somehow, we ended up on the sofa.
“You taste like sugar,” I said before passion overtook us. My mom could arrive any second.
“I ate an alfajor at the airport. I was starving.”
Diego’s eyes seemed to drink me up, and I basked in the feeling of being loved.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t want anything to do with me after you heard what’s been going on,” I said, lowering my gaze. I was ready for everything except Diego’s pity.
He pushed my chin up with a finger. “How could you say that?”
I didn’t have an answer, and I snuggled against his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around me.
“After Pablo called me, I took the first flight here. By the time I got your text, Roxana was already home. The distance has never hurt so much.”
Diego should’ve been in Turín. The team didn’t have a break until the next FIFA date in a few weeks.
“Don’t you have practice? How did you get permission to travel? What’s Giusti going to say?”
“I’m skipping practice. I don’t care what Giusti says.” Even though the heat in the apartment was unbearable, I shivered when he added, “He’ll understand once we’re safely back at home.”
I sat up. “What do you mean?”
Diego bit his lip. It was easy to speak through a phone screen, but now the words wouldn’t come.
An alarm bell rang inside me that I couldn’t ignore.
“Diego . . .”
“I came to take you with me, Camila.”
The blood rushed in my ears.
“He’ll never touch you again.”
“But I can’t leave,” I said. “What about my team’s plans?”
Diego looked confused. “Your team’s plans? What about your dad? What if he comes back? Coach Alicia and your mom will understand. But also, who cares what they think? You need to leave. This is the perfect time . . .” His words faded.
“I have my tournament this weekend, Diego.”
“But you might not win, mi amor.”
“I can’t win if I don’t even play.”
“What are you going to do if things don’t go well?”
“There’s going to be a new national women’s team convocation. There’s a World Cup in two years, and I . . . I want to try.”
The blood drained from Diego’s face.
“I bought your plane ticket already,” he said.
Nico felt the tension and whined.
“I can’t just leave with you,” I said. “And you shouldn’t have left the team without permission.”
“You don’t mean that.” He held my hands, and his eyes shone with the glamour of his fantasies. “It’s now or never. Imagine the two of us in Europe! I’ll show you everything. Everywhere. We’ll go to Barcelona and visit La Sagrada Familia. We’ll go to Paris for Valentine’s Day. You’ll love the apartment, but if you’d prefer a house, we’ll find one in the old city, like the one Luís Felipe and Flávia just moved into.”
I closed my eyes for a second. I could almost smell the fancy streets; I could almost feel the magic of playing house with him.
“What about my dreams?” I didn’t want to yell, but why wasn’t he listening to me? “What about my career, Diego?”
Diego put his head in his hands and breathed deeply. “I thought your dream was to be with me.”
“It’s one of them, Diego.”
“My greatest dream is being with you. What’s in the way? You could play in Turín. I’ll see if you can get a tryout for the women’s team, but you don’t need to worry about anything ever again. I’m getting you out of here before your father hurts you, Camila. Why aren’t you happy about this?” Diego never lost his temper, but his voice was rising, matching mine.
Why was he making me choose?
“I’m not going to run away.”
Diego stared at me. But this time, I didn’t lower my gaze.
“I’m sorry you bought a ticket. I’m sorry you left the team to come rescue me. But Diego,” I said softly, caressing his hand, “you should’ve at least talked to me before you did that. I have opportunities here. Even if I have a bad tournament and we lose el Sudamericano, there are other tryouts, and I’ll get them on my own. I’ll keep trying.”
“And I don’t mean anything to you?” He stood up.
I stood up, too. “Of course you do. Te quiero.” I said it. I finally said it. “Nothing will change that, but I won’t abandon everything I’ve worked for. If I do, then he wins. Can’t you see? We can keep doing long distance . . .”
“I can’t keep doing long distance.”
Diego was the type of person who either committed wholeheartedly or walked away. How had I not seen it before? He’d gotten offers from smaller European teams, but he had only agreed to move when Juventus gave him a contract. He’d play for the best or no one. He’d only pursued me when he was sure my feelings for him hadn’t changed. He’d only come back because he believed I’d follow him.
Now he looked unmoored.
“It’s all or nothing for you, Diego—that’s why you’re el Titán. For you, it’s only black or white. But in my life, things aren’t so simple. I have to compromise. I can’t separate the parts that make me who I am: a daughter, a sister, a captain, your girlfriend. La Furia. You can’t ask me to choose between you and my dreams. Don’t. Please don’t.”
Diego’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I left everything for you.”
I hugged him. I could feel his heart racing. “I didn’t want you to. We can still fix this, mi amor. We can make it work.” I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him.
He didn’t kiss me.
I stepped back, and he said, “This can never work.”
“Diegui.” My voice wavered as my world came crashing down on me. “Don’t ask me to leave everything for you, please.”
He shook his head. “You never had to ask. I never hesitated. I’m sorry that what we had didn’t mean the same to you.”
And before I could fight back, make him understand, the love of my life walked out the door.
31
By the time my mom came back from the store, I was in bed, willing myself to sleep so I wouldn’t have to think about Diego and the life he’d offered me, the life I’d turned down. But all night long, I heard his broken voice, saw the tears in his eyes. Every time I woke up, I wondered if it had all been a nightmare. But I still smelled his cologne on my skin, tasted the sugar of his lips, and sadness roiled deep in my belly.
I had lost so much, and I had hurt him so much. Coach Alicia had told me to get rest before the tournament, but when the sun came up and the benteveos started singing, I was exhausted.
My life was in shambles. All I could do was get my uniform ready for the day. Tidying up my room, I breathed deeply, reminding myself that I was still la Furia. That I wasn’t the first girl with a broken heart, and I wouldn’t be the last. I’d sacrificed so much for this tournament. The least I could do was give my all to make it count.
Outside, the air smelled of jasmine. Spring had painted Rosario purple and red with blooming jacarandas and ceibos.
El Sudamericano would take place over the next three days. Two games on Saturday, one
on Sunday. The semifinal was on Sunday afternoon, and the final was on Monday. Five games that could change our lives forever. A win counted for three tournament points. A tie was one, a loss zero. For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to sweep the whole thing.
The bus left me just a block away from the pitch, and when I arrived, Rufina and Milagros were already stretching on the sidelines.
There was no way they didn’t know about my dad, so I saved us all the awkward conversation by staying on the other edge of the pitch. When Coach arrived, she acknowledged me with a simple nod and studied her clipboard while we got ready with Luciano.
The girls from Praia Grande FC were giants compared to us. Coach reminded us to keep our eyes to ourselves, but it was difficult. The Brazilian girls had won the Sudamericano multiple times. They walked and behaved like professionals, going through their warm-up like rehearsed choreography, smiling for the cameras, ignoring the curious looks from the sidelines.
“Are you okay?” Roxana asked, her face already gleaming with sweat. “I heard that Diego came to see you.”
“Did you talk to him?” I looked around, hoping to see him on the sidelines. Maybe if he saw me play, really play, he’d understand.
Roxana shook her head. “He already left.”
My throat tightened, and I clenched my jaw.
It was a testament to her unconditional love that she let me be.
When the ref called the captains, Roxana and I trotted onto the field. Maybe because I oozed bad vibes, we lost the coin toss. We’d have to play facing east, and the sun would be in Roxana’s face for the crucial first half.
The field was full of recently filled holes and bald spots, but the lines were freshly painted, bright white. Before the ref called the teams in, a little girl ran along our lineup, handing out black mourning bands. “For Eda.” They gave us the incentive we needed to vanquish our fears.
Praia Grande was famous for playing an expansive game full of long aerial passes we had no chance of stopping. If we wanted to control the game, we needed to shrink the field and force them to play on the ground.
Coach Alicia said, “Play smart. Play hard. But above all, have fun.”
We all ran to our places.
The ref whistled, and the game started. I tried to summon la Furia, but she didn’t answer the call.
My jaw, still bruised where my dad had hit me, throbbed when I clenched my teeth. My mind flashed to Diego’s wounded eyes before he walked away.
“Loosen up,” Coach Alicia yelled, and even without looking, I knew her words were directed at me.
I unclenched my jaw and stopped fighting the memories.
I ran like the warrior princess in Diego’s stories. I’d turned my back on him, but our history was part of me. He was imprinted in every memory, every dream.
The sad, the difficult, the beautiful.
La Furia took charge of my legs and my mind. I muted my heart for now.
The game was locked at 0–0. I let it consume me, blocking every distraction. Here and there I heard a cheer, but when the ref whistled for halftime, I felt like I was coming out of a trance.
All I wanted was water. I couldn’t drink enough.
“Are you okay to keep going?” Luciano asked me.
I nodded, and he made a note in his book.
Then Coach Alicia said, “We’re going to defend and counterattack.”
Nobody contradicted her. Now that I had the chance to look, I noticed a solitary TV camera with a skinny, tall boy at the helm and Luisana, the reporter, standing under the shade of a paradise tree.
From us players to the coaches to the families and reporters, we were all part of something that went beyond the white lines of the pitch. We were all making history.
“You’re going to play wingback, Furia. Ready?” Luciano asked before I headed back out for the second half.
For the rest of the game, my job was to protect the goal and Roxana. I was much shorter than the Praia Grande strikers, but I was strong and fast, and no one crossed over my line.
Time slipped by, the sun glaring into my eyes, but the game remained scoreless. My blue-and-silver jersey stuck to my skin. A little tightness in the back of my thigh warned me to play smart.
When the ref marked the end of the game, the Brazilian girls looked at us with a little more respect, and my team walked off the field a little taller. Tying against the favorites was a feat, but I remained hungry for more.
“Why the long faces? We tied!” Luciano said. “A tie is one point. And it’s especially impressive against this team.”
He passed out water and Gatorade, and I gulped mine down so fast I didn’t even know which I had drunk. Now that the adrenaline had stopped pumping through my body, I smelled my sweat and the smoke of choripán cooking on a makeshift grill. The cicadas screamed, and nearby, graduating students chanted and celebrated.
On the way to meet Coach Alicia under the shade of a mora tree, I caught conversations in Spanish, Portuguese, and English. I recognized the official-looking men and women with clipboards, but there was no sign of Coach’s sister, Gabi Tapia.
“This isn’t the ideal result,” Coach Alicia said. “But like Luciano said, we got a point. This is historic. Not only is Praia the defending champion, they have a direct pipeline to several professional teams, and you, chicas, held them back.”
The parents who had crowded around to hear Coach’s speech applauded proudly. I looked back, just in case, but my mom wasn’t there.
So much hung on the results of our games. But like Coach had told me months ago, no one had any expectations of me. Not even Diego had really believed I could make this a career. We didn’t have to win. We didn’t have to score. We just had to show that we were something.
“Now,” Coach continued, “drink plenty of water and eat a good lunch. Rest. Don’t go too far. We warm up in four hours. Meet me beside field number seven.”
Without being told twice, my teammates and I followed the scent of food. Choripán in hand, most of us watched other teams, marveling at the beauty of their style in some cases and laughing at their blunders in others. Some of these girls had never been trained, and it showed. But they still played with heart and grit, which was nothing to underestimate.
Finally, after one last shared lemon popsicle, Roxana and I headed back to meet Coach. Field number seven was right next to the bathrooms. The temperature had climbed into the low thirties, and sweat ran down my back just from doing basic stretches. I felt a pull in the back of my leg. “Not now,” I muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Roxana asked next to me.
I grimaced. “The leg . . . it’s tight.”
“Let me help you.” She walked over and helped me stretch my leg. “I hate to say this, but if it gets worse, you know you have to tell Coach.”
I knew. At the same time, if I told Coach my leg was tender, she’d bench me. I couldn’t let that happen.
Our next game started. Tacna wasn’t as disciplined a team as Praia, but they had a tougher style that disrupted our rhythm. Every few seconds, one of our players was sprawled on the ground, but soon the ref stopped calling fouls in our favor. Tacna took control of the game, and we ran in every direction, our lines in disarray. For the first fifteen minutes, we couldn’t seem to find our legs. Then, taking advantage of a blunder in their defense, I passed wide and far to Rufina. She kicked, and the ball crossed the line in a perfect arc.
For a second, we were all too stunned to celebrate, but someone on the sidelines broke the silence, and we all ran to Rufina and jumped on her. She clasped my hands in hers. “I’m winning, Furia.” She winked, and I laughed. The competition between us felt silly and small now. We all won, or we all went home.
The minutes went by in a rush. Mabel scored a free kick, and Rufina passed me a beautiful heel. All I had to do was softly push the ball with
the tip of my foot. The ball kissed the goal line, and I pointed my fingers toward heaven, thanking the angel on call.
I had scored at an international tournament. Scoring a goal is almost like kissing. The more you do it, the more you want. I wanted to keep scoring until it hurt.
Rufina hugged me.
After that, we knocked and knocked on Tacna’s goal, but the keeper was like a spider, blocking every single shot. With seconds to go, Julia made a run from the back. She shot a cannonball that no human could stop, but it bounced off the crossbar.
The ref blew the whistle. Roxana remained undefeated on the goal. Our team danced and sang in celebration. We had four points. Day one had been a success.
32
That night at Roxana’s house, in the giant bed her mom had prepared for me with crisp sheets and fluffy pillows, I couldn’t sleep any better than I did in my tiny twin with Nico fighting me for room. My fingers itched to take Roxana’s phone and text Diego. Not even the victory was enough to fill the void he’d left in me. Although we’d been apart for months, we’d talked every day. I missed him in the core of my heart—his jokes, his silly memes, the glimpses into his day-to-day life. But now we were worse than strangers.
“He must hate me,” I said.
“He could never hate you,” Roxana said, hugging me tightly after she found me crying. “But he’s impulsive and proud. One day, he’s going to realize what he was really asking you to do, and he’s going to regret it.”
The next morning, Roxana and Mrs. Fong drank mate in the kitchen, poring over the report of the games. Unlike yesterday, when all the teams had started with a clean slate, the standings were all over the place today.
“Where do we stand?” I asked, helping myself to a croissant.
“Itapé won both their games yesterday,” Roxana explained. “Three to zero and one to zero. They have six points. We have four. Praia has one, and Tacna has zero.”
“Two teams go on to the semifinal with the other bracket?” Mrs. Fong asked, and Roxana nodded.
“So we have to win or tie.”
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