Furia(63)

27





At the end of a scrimmage on a muggy November morning, Coach Alicia gathered the team. The months of preparation had blurred by, and the tournament was almost here. I gave Luciano an envelope containing my second payment, and he distributed copies of the final schedule for the games. For the next thirty minutes, Coach went over our rivals: Praia Grande, Tacna Femenil, and Itapé de Paraguay. Praia were the defending champions, but Tacna and Itapé were new to the tournament, like us. Two teams from our group would move on to the next phase. After semis, one would claim the trophy in the final. Somewhere in Brazil, Perú, and Paraguay, similar groups of dreaming, hopeful girls must have been wondering what kind of team Eva María was. They would see soon enough.

Rufina and I had a competition going to see who could score the most, and I was still soaring off a hat trick that had put me ahead. The outcome of the games didn’t matter—we played to get minutes—but it felt good to be in the lead.

“Nice goal,” Rufina said when the scrimmage ended, the corner of her mouth twitching. From her, this was basically a full-on friendly smile.

“Start from zero on game one?”

“You’re on!” We shook hands to seal the deal.

The team’s mood was bubbling, and Coach Alicia looked like she had gained an extra five years of life. A winning mindset was the road to victory, she always said.

In front of me, I saw Roxana’s eyes sparkle, but when I tried to get her attention, she turned around and left. I watched her walk away with Cintia and Yesica. They’d been riding to practices and scrimmages together for weeks. The jealousy didn’t torture me anymore, but I still missed her.

The team scattered, everyone studying their packets, as if reading and rereading the schedule would give them a glimpse into the future.

As I was leaving, Coach Alicia called me aside and said, “Now, Furia, if you play the tournament the way you’ve been playing in the scrimmages, we’ll be set.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, and laughed to hide how much her words of encouragement affected me.

“Are you and Roxana still not talking?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

The question took me aback, but I was glad she’d asked.

“We’re not,” I said.

“Not even at school?”

I crossed my arms tightly. “Not anywhere. She didn’t let me explain about Diego when I tried. She’ll never forgive me for keeping it secret, but she doesn’t understand.”

Coach gathered up the gear and slung it over her shoulder like Papá Noel.

“You’re right about that. She doesn’t understand, but at the same time, remember that your life is yours, Furia. At the end of the day, are you playing for yourself or to prove others wrong? Love is the same.”

“So now you’re telling me that this thing with Diego isn’t the worst idea?”

We headed toward her car, and I helped her load equipment into the trunk.

Finally, she said, “I don’t know about that. What I mean to say is, fútbol is life, but so is love, and so is family. My intent in coaching the team was never to create fútbol-playing machines. I know how much all of you sacrifice to play. I just wish you weren’t so hard on yourself.”

“But maybe it’s better this way, Coach. The rest of my life is a mess, but at least on the pitch I get to do what I love.”

Coach placed a hand on my shoulder. “And you’ve been amazing.”

I glowed with satisfaction, but it dimmed when she added, “It’s just that there’s something missing.”

I’d tried to do everything right. I’d been sleeping well, eating better, cutting out distractions. Without Roxana, I hardly ever talked to anyone other than the kids at El Buen Pastor and Diego. Even when he traveled for Champions League games, we always spoke before he went to sleep.

Last night, he’d said, “If your voice is the last sound I hear and your beautiful face is the one I see before falling asleep, then I dream of you. That way we’re always together.”

Butterflies danced in my stomach at the memory of his words.

“What am I missing? I’ve tried so hard,” I asked Coach.

Her eyes softened as she brushed my cheek with her fingers. “Joy. Fun. Abandon. You’re playing with too many voices in your head. Remember, you get in your head . . .”

“. . . you’re dead,” I finished.

Coach continued, “There are too many people whose opinions control how you perform. Let them go. Be yourself. You’re la Furia, but remember, the game is beautiful.”

Then she tapped her finger on my chin and waited for me to look up at her before continuing, “How are things at home? I haven’t seen your mom in a while.”

My mom had spiraled since Pablo had moved out. Marisol had dropped out of school two months before graduation. Every time she posted on her Instagram about decorating their apartment downtown or what she was planning for the nursery, my mom sank deeper. I wanted to help, but I didn’t want to fall in with her.

I couldn’t tell Coach that, but part of me hoped she could read my mind. Finally, I said, “She’s fine. I thought she’d come to the tournament, but Central’s home that weekend, so she might have to watch Pablo.”