Furia(26)

I leaned against the wall. “I beat you by like two seconds. How did you win?”

“I had the best view,” he said, standing next to me.

It was golden hour, the sun hovering over the horizon like it didn’t want this afternoon to end, either.

“It looks beautiful,” Diego said. From here, we could see the whole esplanade. “It’s changed so much in just a year. I didn’t know they’d put up a fair and a carousel.”

“I didn’t know, either,” I said. It was like I, too, was seeing Rosario after a long absence.

“I love it.”

“As much as you love Turín? Do you love la Juve as much as you lo—”

“—as I love Central?” Although he guessed my question, he didn’t answer right away.

“Well . . . do you?”

He sighed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

Finally, he answered, “I never knew the heart could expand to love different places and clubs so much.” He looked at me then, and his eyes were sparkly like the diamonds in his ears. “Central will be my first love forever—my home, the catapult I needed to become el Titán, you know? And La Juve? Ay, Camila! That place is magical. The people there are sick with futbolitis. The passion . . . when I do something on the field and the stadium explodes . . . I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like a fever.”

“Yes, I know,” I said.

Diego was claimed by la Vecchia Signora, a demanding mistress. I could never compete with her.

“La Juve is the most winning team in Italy,” he continued. “The weight on my shoulders when I put the jersey on . . .” He shivered. “It’s something indescribable . . . like I’m possessed by one thing and one thing only: the need to be the best.”

I wanted what he had. I needed to play on a team like that, to feel the love of the fans. I needed the chance to do something impossible and amazing. To be great.

I wanted Diego’s life. But I wanted to live it, not watch it from the sidelines.

We looked at the river in silence, and after a few seconds, he asked, “Do you want to head back to the car? We can go eat dinner.”

“Don’t they feed you in Turín?” I asked. “You never stop eating.”

Diego laughed, and two girls jogging past us glanced at him. One of them did a double take and said something to her friend.

“Come,” I told him, and grabbed his hand. “Let’s go before your fans attack you again.”

We made our way back through the fair. About halfway there, we found a stage where a group was singing a cumbia song to a dancing audience. As if to prove his point about wanting a simple life, Diego stepped in front of me and said, “Dance with me.”

I almost accused him of playing with me. I took his hand and followed him to the center of the square.

When I turned fifteen, I hadn’t had a quincea?era, but since my father was out of town, my mom had let me go dancing with Pablo and his friends. Diego dancing cumbia had plagued my dreams ever since.

Now he expertly led me and sang softly in my ear. I lifted my arms to hook them around his neck. His fingertips brushed my waist where my sweater crept up. He twirled me elegantly, then stepped behind me, pressing me close to his chest.

The steps were so familiar, I didn’t even have to think to fall into the next one. I leaned my head back, and he dipped his face and kissed my neck. I looked at the stars, which were just starting to come out.

The song slowed, and when I turned around, we were face-to-face, just a breath apart.

“What are we doing?”

“We’re dancing, Mami.”

“Se?or,” a girl’s voice said. “A flower for your girl?”

We both looked to the side to see a girl of about thirteen with a handful of individually wrapped roses.

“How much?” he asked.

“Fifty each.”

Diego took most of the colorful bills from his wallet and handed them to the girl. “I’ll take all of them.”

Her face lit up in a joyful smile. She brushed her dark brown hair away from her face, nodded at me, and said, “Good for you,” handing me the roses.

When I took them, a thorn pricked me. “Ay!”

Diego took the flowers and looked at my hand. A drop of blood was blooming on the tender skin where the thumb meets the index finger. Without hesitation, he lifted my hand to his mouth and licked the blood away, making me burst into fire.

“Sana, sana, colita de rana,” he whispered.

The band started playing another song. A girl with a boy in a rugby jersey watched me from next to the stage. I recognized her green eyes and hostile expression from yesterday’s game—the Royals’ captain.

Diego handed me back the flowers. “Flowers for my girl.”

My heart thundered in my ears. Me. His girl.

Stunned, bewitched, I took the flowers and placed them in the crook of my arm like a beauty pageant winner. He held my other hand, and slowly we walked back to his car.

“?Gracias a Dios!” we said in unison when we arrived at the parking lot and saw his car, safe and sound under the one streetlamp.

When we got in, I placed the flowers on my lap. The tips of the petals had already wilted. The clock on the console read 8:00.

“I know you need to go back home,” he said. “But we have the rest of the week.”