Furia(39)

Coach Alicia placed an arm over my shoulder and the other over her sister’s and said, “In the beautiful game, words are redundant. Furia, go play, and tell my sister why you deserve a place on a professional team in our native language.”

I smiled and ran to the field to sing the wordless song of the captive women who roared in my blood. My ancestresses had been waiting to sing for generations.

I was their medium.





16





As if someone had flipped a switch, la Furia ate up her adversaries. Camila took second place. She sat back and observed, cross-armed, a smug smirk on her face.

The American girls complained that the ball was a little deflated and the pitch uneven, and under other circumstances, I might have been embarrassed. Not now. It was time to show them what we could do. La redonda, the ball, obeyed me. She followed me because I treated her well. I cherished her. I treasured her, and most importantly, I let her sing her own song. Energy flowed through my team, and although the game remained scoreless, the North Americans showed signs of fear. Still, I wouldn’t be able to play full steam for much longer. My team needed to score fast and then park the bus, play defense until the end.

Knowing I was showing off, I sent a rainbow over their number five in the midfield and muttered Ole! so only she could hear me. I ran, feeling her hot breath on the back of my neck, but she never caught me to take her revenge. I was too fast. I passed to Yael, but she was offsides.

The Yankee goalie sent the ball all the way to our half. Mabel was ready to block it with her chest.

I got a break and ran through their line of three defenders. Rufina was standing, unguarded, in the perfect spot. I crossed the ball to her, and with a first touch that belonged in a FIFA video game, she punted it across the goal line.

Rufina bellowed in victory.

My teammates joined with their raw voices in a cry that made the sparrows shoot from the trees.

“Grande, Camila!” Diego yelled from the sidelines.

My trance broke, and la Furia fled like a spooked cat.

I scanned the crowd gathered along the sidelines while I ran to the midfield for kickoff. Looking for Diego.

“Watch out!” Roxana yelled.

Too late. My left foot, the one with the magic touch, landed in a hole I’d been avoiding perfectly well until that moment. My ankle twisted in exquisite pain. As I fell to the ground, my visions of a future full of glory went out like a light.

Gasps and cries of sympathy rose from both teams in a mixture of English and Spanish, curse words and prayers. Then there was a smoldering silence.

Not now, I begged La Difunta. I’d leave her water—blessed water from the sanctuary, even—my heart on a platter, five years of my life for the miracle of not being injured.

Coach Alicia was beside me in seconds. “Don’t move your foot,” she commanded, rolling down my sock to take a look. Although her fingers were soft, my muscles spasmed with pain.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” she said, but she shook her head. “I’m going to have to take you out.”

Quietly, she helped me to the sideline. There wasn’t a bench, so I sat on the damp ground. My toe poked out of my busted cleats. I needed a new pair.

The North American players and my teammates regarded me with pity, but the scrimmage resumed. I looked at Roxana protecting the goal but couldn’t make out her expression.

Mrs. Tapia and Coach Alicia whispered to each other. I couldn’t hear what they said, but the disappointment was palpable.

This had been my chance, and it was ruined.

I looked over my shoulder for Diego, but I couldn’t find him.

My team’s concentration fractured, the Yankee girls scored once, twice, three times.

La Furia retreated to the depths of my soul. Now I smelled the ammonia scent of my sweat and felt the burns the pitch had left on my skin. Every scratch and kick and elbow to the ribs throbbed. A stitch in my side made it hard to breathe, and when nausea made saliva pool in my mouth, I spat it out unceremoniously. A few minutes later, after another goal by the Yankee team, Coach blew the whistle, and the scrimmage ended.

A few of the North American girls celebrated, but soon the two teams were shaking hands and exchanging kisses on the cheek. Yael and Rufina spoke on the midfield, and Luciano joined them. The parents gathered their chairs and blankets from the sidelines as Coach Alicia went along, shaking everyone’s hands.

I clambered back to my feet, and when I started putting my things in my backpack, I saw Diego looking at me from the corner of the pitch, his brow creased with worry. Tears burned my eyes. I pressed my lips together hard so I wouldn’t start crying. The last thing I needed was to fall apart in front of everyone. In front of him.

He started walking in my direction, but at the sound of Coach and her sister approaching, I turned away from him.

“Are you okay, Camila?” Gabi asked. “Everything was going perfectly until that fall.”

“You got the goal on video, didn’t you?” Coach Alicia asked, standing between us. She sounded angry. I knew she wasn’t mad at me, but it was my fault I’d let myself be distracted.

“I got it,” she confirmed. “I can’t wait to see more of that in December, okay?”

I nodded, because there was no way I could speak without crying.

On the pitch, everyone was talking to each other despite the language barrier. Roxana and the Yankee goalie seemed to be exchanging contact information, and they took a selfie together.