Furia(53)

“I’ll send you the contact information for a doctor at the polyclinic on Martínez de Estrada, across from the sports center in el barrio. Doctor Facundo Gaudio treated me back when I hurt my ACL, remember? He’s also seen Pablo. Your mom will know about him. The polyclinic is free—”

A robotic voice announced the next flight to Rome.

“That’s me.” He couldn’t quite hide the excitement in his voice. Like he’d said, he was going home.

“You’re going to Rome first?”

The familiar envy snaked inside me again. I wanted to go to Rome. If I were another type of girl, I’d be there with him instead of staring at the humidity stain on my ceiling. But one day, maybe, it would be me getting on an airplane to join my own team.

“It’s only a layover. Next time you’ll be with me, right? The flight is too long to endure on my own.” He was so cheesy that I started laughing.

“Listen, I’m sure there are plenty of girls who’d be more than willing—”

“I only want you, Furia. I’ve only ever wanted you.”

I held my breath until the world stopped spinning, until I could stop myself from saying he was all I’d ever wanted, too. For a long time, that had been true. But it wasn’t anymore. I wanted so much more than Diego’s love or money could give me.

“Welcome, Mr. Ferrari,” a young woman’s voice said. “Have a safe flight, and thanks for flying with Aerolíneas Argentinas.”

The interruption saved me from needing to respond.

“Have a safe flight, Mr. Ferrari,” I said, imitating the woman’s sultry voice. “I’ll see you on TV next time.”

He laughed. “I’ll see you in my dreams and on FaceTime. Every day and every hour, know I’m thinking of you, and your lips, and those killer legs. And remember, next time, I won’t come back to Italy without you. That’s a promise. Te quiero, Furia. Get better soon. You owe me some shots.”

He hung up before I could say anything, and I stared at the ceiling, half wanting to squeeze myself inside the phone and half relieved he was now far away.

There was a teacher’s strike on Friday, which gave me a chance to stay off my hurt leg. My mom and I didn’t talk about either Diego or my team, but I could think of nothing else.

The next day, I was restless.

Saturday mornings were chore mornings, but Mamá must have decided to sleep in, because the familiar sounds of the washing machine and her radio competing with the neighbor’s music were absent.

Raindrops echoed in our apartment, which seemed empty without my brother and father. I stretched in my bed, careful not to overextend my leg. It still throbbed. The only other sound was Nico’s breathing in the hallway between my room and my parents’.

Pablo was with the team. Central’s game against Colón de Santa Fe was at three in the afternoon, and the bus wouldn’t be back until late. My father was . . . who knew where?

Coach Alicia’s words rang in my mind: no days off. Yesterday, I’d done some push-ups and sit-ups in my room. But today, my work for the team had more to do with the administrative aspect of the game than the physical one.

I had to convince my mom to sign the forms before my father came back.

By the time she got up, I’d already folded the laundry she’d left drying on the Tender by the space heater. I’d prepared her mates and gotten her favorite facturas from the bakery on the corner. I’d put away last night’s dishes and swept and washed the floor. The kitchen smelled of strawberry Fabuloso. If only I knew how to make the tiny stitches for the hem of the dress she’d left on her worktable.

When she walked into the kitchen and saw her chores completed, her eyebrows rose with delight.

“You went down to the bakery on that leg?” she asked.

“I paid Franco with two dulce de leche facturas, and he went for me.” I pulled a chair out for her like I’d seen waiters do in movies. She smiled as she sat and picked up a tortita negra, her favorite kind of biscuit. She grinned, black sugar dusting her smile. “I forgot how good these are.” She patted the table and in a conciliatory voice said, “Come, sit with me.”

We drank mate in silence, and then she said, “I’ve been thinking . . .”

I put my factura down on a napkin as she continued, “I felt like Pablo had no choice but to become a fútbol player. Once he started walking, he was always chasing after a ball.” She swallowed as if the words were too bitter. “Abuelo Ahmed once told me you had a good foot, that he’d seen you playing with Diego and Pablo, and panic seized me.” She clutched her shirt like she was trying to grab the fear still wriggling inside her. “When he saw how upset I was, he said you’d save us all.”

My father’s words about Pablo blared in my ears.

He’ll save us all.

And Héctor’s declaration: He’ll make us rich.

I shook my head. I was just a girl with a strong will. A girl who told too many lies. How was I going to save us?

“I don’t want you to save us, at least not in the way everyone else does. I want you to break the cycle, Camila. That’s why I want you to go to school. Why I don’t ever want a boy around you, even if that boy has a good heart and a good future and money. Fame and money eat good hearts like rust eats metal. Even the strongest perish, mi amor.”