Furia(50)

In January there would be team signings. If I got what I wanted most of all, who knew where I’d be then?

Before I could put another wedge between us, I kissed him. How many times had my father promised my mother he wouldn’t cheat on her? How many times had Pablo lied to girls for a moment of pleasure and then forgotten his promises as soon as he zipped up his pants?

If Diego could promise me anything, it was to be ruthless on the field. To never let his dreams go, because if he could make it, maybe I could, too.

He broke away first. “I brought you something, too.”

I opened the black backpack he handed me. I must have looked like Karen as I rummaged through the T-shirts, shorts, socks, training jacket, and best of all, a pair of brand-new Adidas cleats in classic black and white.

“These won’t give you blisters. And those shirts repel sweat, so they won’t stink like your old ones. Camila, if we bottle that scent, we could sell it to the government as a weapon of mass destruction.”

I didn’t know how to thank him. He wouldn’t have brought me all this stuff if he didn’t believe in me, right?

“Gracias,” I whispered, holding the boots against my pounding heart. “I can’t play the scrimmage on Saturday, but—”

“You have to recover. Train harder every time. Don’t give up,” he said, and like that, I forgave him for forgetting my tournament.

He took out a slick cardboard box the size of a chalkboard eraser. “There’s also this.” When he opened it, the glass screen mirrored the shock on my face. It was a phone. The kind of phone not even Pablo could afford. The kind of phone boys in the streets literally killed for.

“Why?” I asked, while in my mind I was doing cartwheels. Now I could be part of all the team chats.

Diego’s mouth curved into a smile.

“You need a phone, right? We’ll be in touch. We’ll talk every day. See? There are apps for music, and you can keep track of your trainings, and . . . we can talk all day long if we want to.” He sounded like he’d been practicing that speech all week long.

“But the Wi-Fi . . .”

“I prepaid for service. There’s an international plan with enough data that we can chat on WhatsApp all day.” He misunderstood my stunned expression. “We can make this work, Cami. If you want.”

“I do,” I said. I wrapped my arms around his neck, careful not to drop the phone that was worth more than all my other possessions combined.

In my ears, the ghosts of my abuelas whispered like a Greek chorus that their dreams ended with those exact words—I do—but I pushed their advice to the bottom of my mind.





21





From downstairs, I watched a man walk out of my apartment. A black beret and a dark scarf covered his head and his face.

My mom was home alone. What was he doing?

Adrenaline jump-started me. Ignoring my hurt leg, I climbed the stairs two at a time. Just when I was about to reach him, my fists ready, he lifted his face. It was César. The fight left me in a rush. He pushed his thinning hair behind his ear.

“Princesa.” His silver tooth glinted in the corner of his mouth when he smiled.

“César? What are you doing here?” My mind was trying to connect the dots, but no image formed.

Rain dripped from the metal railings, and from the corner of my eye, I saw movement in the downstairs neighbor’s window. Franco waved at me from behind his grandma, who was peeking through the curtains.

“Hola, Do?a Kitty,” I said, waving, and she darted back.

César lifted his eyebrows. “These neighbors are better than the secret service, right? I think she’s been keeping track of how long I was alone with your mom. Vieja de mierda.”

I couldn’t help it—I giggled. César was one of those people whose insults made me laugh instead of flinch.

“What were you doing?” I asked.

César shrugged and opened his denim jacket to show me a Juventus T-shirt. “For one thing, I hadn’t seen Diego. He texted me that he’d be here, and I said I’d come over to say hi.” César’s eyes were sparkling. Now that he didn’t have to pretend not to care about Diego in front of my dad, he was starstruck. “Then your mom and I kept talking. You know how it is.” He always looked down when he talked about my mom, and I wondered why he tried to hide their friendship. But then, my suspicions, Do?a Kitty’s spying from behind the curtains—it was all proof that a friendship like theirs would always be an anomaly.

“You’re not going to the game with my dad and Héctor?”

When he looked back up, sadness veiled his eyes. He said only “No,” but the word hung in the air, as if waiting for me to guess what he couldn’t say. He took a breath. Were my father’s secrets fighting to stay put in the bottom of César’s heart?

César had to know about that girl in the short dress. Had he been talking with my mom about my dad? But then he exhaled in a puff, ruffled my hair, and said, “You’re going to get sick in this weather. Go in. Your mother is just starting el mate.”

I nodded, realizing how my cold had vanished at the sight of Diego.

“You look just like she did at your age, you know? Be nice to her.” He kissed me on the cheek and continued down the stairs, his hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket.