Furia(3)

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again. I could lie to my mom, but to Coach Alicia? Absolutely not.

On the opposite side of the field, the Royals in purple and gold warmed up, doing jumping jacks and stretches.

“Today is a big day,” Coach Alicia muttered like she was talking to herself, but I recognized the hope blazing in her words. If we won, we’d go to the Sudamericano women’s tournament in December, and that would bring us all kinds of things that were impossible right now. Exposure. Opportunities. Respect.

I was a dreamer, but Coach Alicia was one of the most ambitious people I knew. She wanted so much for us.

“If we win, a pro team might finally notice you . . . I had hoped Gabi would be here today, but in December? By then there’ll be no hiding your talents, Hassan.”

Coach’s sister, Gabi, worked with a super successful team somewhere up north. The rebellious futboleras like us couldn’t go pro in Argentina. In the States, though, it was a different story. Every time Coach talked about some of us girls going pro, I wanted to believe her. But to hide my ridiculous dreams, I laughed dismissively.

Coach Alicia pierced me with her falcon eyes. “Don’t laugh. You might not be playing at El Gigante yet, but you have more talent than your brother. You’ll go further than he will. Mark my words.”

Pablo would be richer for sure. I only wanted the chance to play, but even that was like wishing for the moon.

Coach Alicia half smiled. “You have something Pablo doesn’t.”

“What?”

“Freedom from society’s expectations.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Now, don’t give me that look.” She placed an arm over my shoulder in an almost-hug. “Pablo’s a professional now. If he doesn’t perform, the press slays him. You don’t have that pressure, except from me. I want nothing but the best from you today. ?Está claro?”

“Like water,” I replied, still wounded.

She winked at me and handed me a captain band. She walked away before I could explain that she was asking too much, that I was just a girl with strong legs and a stubborn streak.

There was no time for drama, though. I wrapped the band around my arm and did a quick warm-up on my own. Too soon, Coach called us in for a huddle.

Sandwiched between Roxana and Cintia, I gazed at my teammates’ faces as Coach Alicia urged us to leave everything we had on the pitch.

Cintia was the oldest player at nineteen. Lucrecia, la Flaca, was the youngest at fifteen, and her confidence had bloomed in the last few months. Sofía and Yesica had never played before trying out for Coach Alicia, and now they were the best two defenders in our league. Mabel and Evelin were unstoppable in the middle. Mía had played in the United States as a kid before her family came back to Argentina, and what she lacked in skill she made up for in determination. Abril, Yael, and Gisela joined us after their barrio’s futsal team disbanded. Absent from the huddle was Marisa, our best striker. Marisa’s two-year-old daughter, Micaela, was our unofficial team mascot. I’d miss her tiny voice cheering for us today.

“We’ve all made sacrifices to be here,” Coach Alicia said. “Remember that your families support you. Fight for your compa?eras, especially the ones who aren’t here today, and treat the ball with the respect it deserves.”

Without Marisa, there was only one sub, but after Coach’s words, there was no room for fear.

We cheered, “Eva María!”

It sounded like an invocation.

The ref blew the whistle for the captains to join him in the middle of the field. Roxana clapped her gloved hands and trotted to my side. Even with a thick headband on, Roxana’s hair was too fine to stay put. Tiny wisps stuck out from the black braid dangling down her back.

“Hard time getting out today?” she asked. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it. With Marisa gone . . .” She shuddered. The possibility of having two missing players was too horrific to consider.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Tell your mom my mom says hi.”

Roxana laughed. “Tell her yourself. She’s over there with the whole family.”

Her large extended family occupied the sidelines; the Fongs never missed a game. Some had been born in China, some in Argentina, and all of them were fútbol obsessed. My friend was rich in ways that went beyond the supermarkets and clothing stores her father owned.

“They look so excited to be here,” I said, laughing to hide my jealousy.

“Hurry up, se?oritas,” the ref called.

When he finished going over the fair play blah-blah-blah, I curtsied like a se?orita.

“Watch it, number seven,” he warned me. “You don’t want to provoke me.”

Apparently encouraged by his attitude, the other team’s captains laughed. I looked them up and down: a chemical-blond girl and a chubby one with pretty green eyes.

“We’re going to kick your ass,” the blonde said.

The chubby girl giggled. Her eyes didn’t look pretty anymore. “We’ll stomp that smirk off your face, Hassan.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a familiar fizzing sensation made my vision go sharp and blurry at the same time. I took a step in the girl’s direction.

Roxana pulled me back by the shirt.