Furia(43)

“How did you know I’d be at the little pitch?” I asked.

Diego changed la yerba and shook his head. Here by the river, his hair had taken on a life of its own; it curled luxuriously in ringlets. He took an elastic from his wrist and tied it into a bun on top of his head. I’d seen him in designer suits on a red carpet and in fancy rock star clothes driving his BMW, but dressed like this, like a regular boy who had never posed for photographers, he was irresistible.

“I didn’t know.”

“Then how did you find me?”

“I already told you, Mama.”

“But it’s hard to believe. The evidence”—I gestured to the picnic he’d come with—“shows that you were stalking me.”

“And why would I do that?” He raised an eyebrow.

Just like that, the words evaporated from my lips. The scent of the night, humid and kind of fishy, erased my thoughts. I wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

“One piece of advice Paulo gave me as soon as I arrived in Turín was never to forget my roots.”

“Paulo as in Paulo Dybala?” Paulo “la Joya” Dybala was Diego’s friend. I’d known this, of course, but Diego had never flaunted his connections before. Not that he was doing it now. It was just . . . Dybala.

Diego’s whole face lit up, dispelling the awkwardness that tried to creep between us. “I know, right? I wouldn’t say we’re friends friends, but I’ve been over to play FIFA or have dinner with his family.”

“Going over for FIFA and dinner makes you friends.”

Diego bit his lip. “I guess . . . and we play together. Like, on the same team. Camila, I have his old number!”

“Twenty-one!” we said in unison.

Diego went on. “First time I saw him, I couldn’t speak. I was like this.” He put his straight arms against this body and made a stunned face. I smiled, imagining the whole thing. “But he pretended not to notice and passed me a mate and an alfajor cordobés.”

“Your favorite.”

“He’s totally down-to-earth, and yes.” He laughed. “He’s my favorite.”

I realized Diego had been bursting to share this. Had no one given him the chance? Maybe the boys were afraid that he’d changed now that he couldn’t even drink our water. Maybe they were jealous that he had everything they wanted. Everything we wanted.

“Dybala told you not to forget your roots, and so you went to that pitch?”

“When I was eight and lived with Father Hugo, I used to play on that field. That’s where the Central scout found me.”

Pablo had started in the academy at twelve, and by the time Diego moved in with Ana, he and Pablo had been teammates and best friends for a while.

“He found you in Newell’s territory?”

Diego bit his lip and ducked his head. “I might have been one of the Old Boys in another life.”

“Impossible.”

“I didn’t know any better. But I’ve been one hundred percent Scoundrel ever since.” He hesitated for a second, and then he added, “My mom and I lived in that barrio before . . . before she left. I kept going back, hoping I’d see her or someone who knew where she was.”

“You haven’t heard anything even now?”

Diego looked toward the bridge that tied Rosario to Victoria. He shook his head. “No. I keep thinking now that I’m—” he hesitated.

“Famous?” I offered, and he smiled timidly.

“Yes, I keep thinking she’ll contact me. Even just for money. But she hasn’t, and I hope that she’s safe wherever she is. It’s my last night in Rosario. I had to go to my lucky field.”

I stretched out my hand to press his. “Lucky field?”

“Lucky field.” His gaze was so intense I had to look down. “You were magic out there. You have that joy . . .” He rolled the edge of the blanket between his fingers. “You’re like a female Messi, a Dybala. You could defend pretty well when you played with Pablo and me. But I had no idea you were this good. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Diego’s compliments mixed with the chill of the breeze and made me shiver. I wrapped my arms around myself. “I’m not like Messi or Dybala, or even you. I’m like Alex Morgan. Like Marta. My team doesn’t compare to yours, but one day I’m going to play in the Unites States with those women.”

He stared at me.

“Do you even know who Marta is?”

“Five-time Ballon d’Or,” Diego said, and now it was my turn to be impressed. “Of course I know Marta, nena. I met her in Monaco a couple of months ago.”

A cargo ship crossed the river, and a few seconds later, tiny cold waves lapped the shore and licked my naked feet. I hadn’t been swimming in the river in years.

He’d met Marta. In Monaco.

“Is that why you want to play in the States?” he asked. “Because Marta’s there now?”

“Marta’s one reason,” I said, surprised he even knew where she played. Pablo had no idea. “In an interview, she said she was switching from Sweden to the North American league because the best players in the world played there. Besides, English’s easier to learn than Swedish, you know?” He smiled on cue and motioned for me to continue. “I’ve always wanted to play.” I looked up to see if he was about to laugh at me, but his face was still and serious, so I kept going. “Their league is professional. But imagine . . .” I didn’t know how to explain myself, but he waited for me to find the words. “I know it’s far-fetched, but if I do well in the Sudamericano, maybe I can get called up for a professional team. Even the U.S. women’s league . . .” My heart pounded in my ears as I poured out my dreams at Diego’s feet. “It’s not Juventus, I know.”