Furia(6)

The reporter seemed unfazed by his rudeness, but there was a stiffness in the way she held her shoulders. Instead of running like he obviously wanted her to, she turned her attention back to me. My body froze. But the woman just approached me with her arm outstretched for a handshake. “Thanks for your time . . . Furia, right?”

The camera guy fumed behind her.

I nodded, and she said, “Good luck with the Sudamericano. I’ll be cheering for you, and if you ever need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you,” I said, but what could I ever need from her?

“Luisana! We need to go!” The camera guy was advancing on us, stomping, on the verge of a temper tantrum.

Luisana inhaled deeply, as if praying for patience.

He grabbed her arm. “My contact at Channel Five said el Titán’s in the stands.”

She shrugged his hand off, and without another word, they ran toward their car. They were gone in a whirl of screeching tires and smoke.

El Titán, Diego, was in town.





4





“Let’s go, Hassan,” Roxana said, her medal showing through her shirt. “My parents want to make it home before the game’s over and the street gets blocked.”

Although I hated when she called me by my last name, I ran to her side, bursting to tell her that Diego was at the stadium. Diego Ferrari was Pablo’s best friend, Rosario’s golden boy, an international sensation. The press called him el Titán because the names God and Messiah were already taken by Maradona and Messi. They said that on the pitch, Diego had more presence than royalty.

He was one of those rare talents that comes along only once in a generation. Last year, Juventus had swooped in and signed him for their first team before he had the chance to debut for Central.

He’d been my first crush, had given me my first kiss, and like millions of people around the world, I was obsessed with him.

I stopped my words just in time.

Roxana didn’t like him. But then, she didn’t like any male fútbol players. She claimed they were all narcissistic jerks, and considering my father and brother, I couldn’t really disagree.

Diego was different, though. But I hadn’t seen him in a year. A person could change a lot in that time. I had. Who knew how fame had changed him?

The temptation to try and catch a peek at him was too strong. Chances were, he’d go to the bar right across the street from Roxana’s and wait to celebrate with the guys if Central won or commiserate if they lost.

My team should’ve been heading out to celebrate, but unlike the professional players, most of us were broke. The girls trickled off the field, each one going her separate way.

“Chau, Furia,” Cintia said.

Mía and Lucrecia echoed, “Chau, Furia.”

Coach Alicia was packing the equipment into her car: balls, nets, and corner posts. At the sound of my new nickname, she looked up and winked at me. “No days off, team!” she reminded us.

I waved at Coach and the girls. And without owning up to my ulterior motives, I followed Roxana to her dad’s car.





The roads around the stadium were all closed. Even when Mr. Fong explained that he lived on the next block, the young traffic officer wouldn’t budge.

The song blaring from thousands of throats in the stadium swallowed Mr. Fong’s protests.

Un amor como el guerrero, no debe morir jamás...

“Drop us here, and we’ll walk,” Roxana said to her dad. “I’m dying to go to the bathroom.”

Her parents argued back and forth until Mrs. Fong said, “It’s fine, Gustavo. Let’s drop them off. I need to check something at the store in Avellaneda anyway.”

“In that case, this is your stop, girls.”

“Just be careful, chicas,” Mrs. Fong called after us as we got out of the car.

“I love your parents,” I told Roxana. “My dad would’ve fought me even if he’d wanted me to walk home to begin with.”

Roxana shrugged, but her cheeks turned a little pink. “I guess they’re all right.”

The men’s game was over, and people trickled out of El Gigante, their faces glowing with glory. They swung yellow-and-blue-striped jerseys and flags in the air, chanting our Sunday hymns, happy because Central had won and nothing else mattered.

Fútbol could do that—make people forget about the price of the dollar, the upcoming elections, even their love lives. For a few hours, life was beautiful.

We stood at the corner of Cordiviola and Juan B. Justo behind a group of guys singing and jumping in place, waiting for an ambulance to drive away. The scent of charred chorizos from the choripán vendor made my stomach growl. A line of officers made a roadblock across the street. Before we could continue toward the house, a rumble of excitement erupted from the singing guys.

A girl in their group ran to the barrier of disgruntled guards.

“She just saw el Titán,” a boy announced. “Diego Ferrari.”

Like the rest of the people in the street, I turned my face toward the bar like a sunflower chasing the dawn. Right then, Diego walked out, and the street exploded into applause and cheers.

In a distressed but obviously new leather jacket and a white T-shirt with the image of Lionel Messi as the Sacred Heart, Diego looked like the superstar he was. His brown hair was gelled back, but it still curled around his ears. He wore studs. Diamond studs that glinted when he moved. The reporters swarmed around him while he signed everything people put in front of him: paper, jerseys, an arm, a baby’s blanket.