Furia(59)

My brother left before dawn. I’d hoped for a chance to talk to him, to make sure he was okay. But he surprised me.

I imagined him packing his brand-name clothes and his Dragon Ball Z figurines before he vanished like a ghost at the sight of the sun. I was happy for my brother and proud of him, but part of me seethed. Now that he was about to have his own family to take care of, he’d left me behind.

My underwear was gone from the bathroom window. I hoped it hadn’t fallen, because then Nico would’ve for sure found it. Slowly, I ventured out to the kitchen. Although my leg felt better than it had yesterday, my whole body was sore from bracing for my father’s explosion.

The expectation had been worse than the actual fight.

My mom sat on her throne, Nico at her feet. She and I looked at each other. It felt like we were both washed-up shipwreck survivors. She wasn’t sewing today. She just sat by the window, nursing the mate in her hands. Usually after one of her fights with my dad, she looked wounded, teary, but now she just looked defeated.

A cramp stabbed me, and I pressed my hand against my belly.

My mom smiled, and her eyes turned velvety, soft, grateful. “Gracias a Dios your period came. I was praying you wouldn’t be pregnant, too, mi amor . . . I don’t want you to go through what Marisol will suffer. Stupid girl!”

My face went hot. If I were a cartoon, steam would have been coming out of my ears. “Why would you be afraid I was pregnant?” My voice cracked. “My period’s always irregular.”

She shrugged one shoulder and waved my embarrassment away with a hand. “Camila, I was seventeen once and in love with a boy everyone wanted. The difference was that I gave in to the love, and I fell.”

“I’m not stupid,” I said. She hunched her shoulders, and immediately I wanted to take the words back. But it was too late.

My mom passed me a mate, a gesture to show me my comment hadn’t offended her. “No. You’re not like me,” she said, tapping at her phone. “You’re smart enough to go to the university. And because you were born under a star, you also have the chance to play fútbol. Fútbol, of all things. You have many opportunities . . . don’t waste this chance.”

Maybe if someone else had said those words, I would’ve accepted the advice. But coming out of her mouth, it sounded like an accusation.

She rose from the chair and headed to the bathroom. Her phone was unlocked, resting by the thermos. I looked at it, and blood rushed to my head, making me dizzy.

On the screen was a picture of Diego and me at the beach a few days ago. We were on our knees, my head was thrown back, and his mouth was on my neck.

A picture was supposed to be worth a thousand words, but this one didn’t contain the beauty of finally being with him, the thrill of feeling him tremble when I touched him, or the glimpse I had into a limitless future in which we could dominate the world together.

Instead, it showed a girl selling herself for a chance with . . . what had my mom said? A boy everyone wanted.

All the other girls, las botineras whom I’d always looked down on—what were their stories, their feelings and intentions? What got erased by scandalous pictures?

I clicked on the screen and saw the picture had been posted on one of those wives and girlfriends gossip blogs that twisted every relationship a footballer might have for clicks and likes.

I ran to my room and grabbed my phone. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of accounts dedicated to footballers’ romantic lives. I found whole profiles devoted to Diego’s every move, and the picture of us by the river was on all of them.

Working-class boy, one of the accounts described him. Workhorse who doesn’t party like the rest of the players his age. Who’s el Titán hiding? Who’s that girl?

I felt sick.

Before I could make myself stop looking, I got a text from Roxana.



Really, Camila? You weren’t going to tell me at all? What game are you playing, huh?





I called her four times, but she never answered.





25





By the time I made it to Doctor Gaudio, the master healer of torn muscles and other athletic afflictions, a week after my injury, my leg was almost back to normal. I didn’t really want to go, but Coach Alicia wouldn’t even let me practice again without a doctor’s note. My mom was too busy pining after Pablo, who refused to come to the house even if my father wasn’t there, to come with me. So I skipped school and went to the polyclinic by myself.

I sat in the hard plastic chair, trying to ignore the nurses and receptionists as they drank mate and chatted. They didn’t seem to notice the line of people who had gotten up before the sun to see a doctor.

Diego texted, encouraging me and trying to distract me. This clinic couldn’t possibly compete with the photos he sent of his medical checkups at the Juventus headquarters. The brightness of the futuristic facilities dazzled me through the screen. And I didn’t want his pity. He’d sat in this waiting room plenty of times before, but time and distance softened the sharpest edges of even the worst situations. When he said he actually missed the polyclinic, I told him I’d text him later.

I caught the eye of a mom sitting across from me, holding her crying baby on her lap. I couldn’t tell how old the little boy was, but he had big brown eyes and even darker hair. He cried in a monotone, yellow snot running from his nose to his chin. His chubby cheeks were chapped from the cold. I wondered what Pablo’s baby would look like, and I imagined Marisol here with him. Or her.