Furia(57)

“I have to say, I’m impressed with Coach Alicia. She has a good system. And the respect you girls have for her is palpable! Of course, the respect is mutual, because she stood by those two girls holding hands in front of everyone. Times are changing.” She sounded like she’d been asleep for decades and was just waking up to a new world.

For a moment, I considered sitting down next to her, putting my head in her lap, and telling her about Diego and me, and then, if I was brave enough, asking her what Miriam had meant about an atadura, a binding. But after we ate, she turned the TV on. The commentators were shredding Central.

“What’s wrong with the Stallion?” Luisana asked.

“What does she know about fútbol, anyway?” my mom hissed from her worktable. But Luisana had been the one to compliment my skills.

Another commentator added, “Pablo had a great opener, but this game was laughable. Lately, Hassan hasn’t been the player we saw last season in Rosario. He looks tired; he can’t run. Look at that!” The TV showed a clip of Pablo missing a high pass. “He lost every ball he touched.”

My mom closed her eyes in agony, and then she switched the TV off. She left the dress unfinished in the kitchen. Quietly, she locked herself in her room, and when I got the message that she wouldn’t return, I went to my own.

Nico followed me. I wanted to comfort my mother, tell her that those commentators had never stepped on a pitch and didn’t know what it took to perform at the top every game. But no matter what I said, it wouldn’t be enough.

In my room, I looked at my phone for the first time all day. Roxana would believe that Pablo had bought it for me, but my mom would know who it was really from.

I turned it on. The screen glowed in the semidarkness of my room as notification after notification popped up and made the phone vibrate. Nico’s ears perked in alarm.

“Shhh,” I warned him, a finger to my lips. “Don’t give me away. It’s that silly boy sending me stupid love notes.” I covered my mouth with a fist to stop the giggles from escaping.

Part of me felt guilty that I was euphoric even though my brother had played an awful game, but how could I help it? My mom knew about my team and supported me, and Diego loved me, even if he was far away.

Miriam’s warning echoed in my mind, but I pushed it down, down, down to fester along with my worry for my brother and dread over what my father would say if he ever found out my mom was my agent and manager.

I unlocked the phone and scrolled to Diego’s first message. It was a picture of him, his hair rumpled, his eyes tired but still shining. The ocean inside me rippled with pleasure.



Just arrived. The mister wants me to report to practice tomorrow. I can’t wait but I think I have a cold. Wish me good luck. When’s your next game? Score a goal for me and I’ll score for you! Te quiero.





After that, he’d sent a link to an article about famous couples who were both successful in their careers. The first picture was of Shakira, no introduction needed, and Gerard Piqué, the Barcelona defender. She was by far the more famous of the two. To compare Shak and Geri to us was totally apples and oranges.

And that’s what I texted him: emojis of apples and oranges and a meme that said keep trying.

Instantly, he replied with a laughing emoji.

It was midnight in Turín, four hours ahead of Rosario. He should be in bed, especially if he was sick.

What about the other couples? he asked.

I scrolled down.

Mia Hamm and Nomar Garciaparra had been retired for years. They didn’t count. When I told Diego, he sent me a picture of his laughing and dismayed face. I brushed my hand over the screen, longing to touch him.

The next couple was Alex Morgan and her husband Servando Carrasco.

How did those two make it work while playing on teams on opposite coasts? Would Diego and I ever be able to pull that off?

I replied with a picture of me wearing just the Juventus jersey and a caption that said, I like this couple much better. She’s a world champion, and hardly anyone knows who he is.

The three dots at the bottom of the screen made me nervous. Maybe I’d offended him. It had been a joke, but not really. Was it really so outlandish to suggest that maybe one day I’d be more famous than he was?

Finally, his answer came, I won’t be able to go to sleep now knowing you’re wearing my jersey in your dark room. You’re cruel, Furia.

I sent him a laughing emoji, and he replied with, Soooo jet-lagged. So tired. Dream of me.

He hadn’t really said anything about my comment.

I missed his lips on mine. His strong arms around me. The smell of his hair.

Dream with the angels, I texted him and put the phone away.





24





My father’s voice thundered from the kitchen and woke me with a start. I pulled the phone from underneath my pillow: it was three a.m.

Witching hour, when demons come out to wreak havoc, babies’ fevers spike, and Death calls to collect her souls.

“What I don’t understand is what she went there for,” my father yelled.

“Andrés, please,” my mom begged. “Let’s talk tomorrow, mi amor.”

“You, shut up!” My dad’s voice reverberated through the house.

I held my breath so he wouldn’t know I was awake. Would the new doorknob and chain protect me?