Furia(64)

My mom wasn’t doing fine. She had never planned on making it to my games. Central was playing in town then, but that small truth didn’t make my words less of a lie—the first I’d ever told Coach. My cheeks burned with shame.

“You go find that joy in playing again, okay?”

“Are you telling me to smile?” I asked, faking outrage.

Coach laughed, throwing her head back. “No, Hassan. I’m demanding that you make everyone who watches you smile.”





After the talk with Coach, I stayed at El Buen Pastor until Sister Cristina kicked me out. It was First Communion season, and she had to prepare the church for the first of many celebrations. I wanted to help, but she pointed at my short shorts and my muddy legs and sent me home. She wouldn’t budge even when I changed into my warm-ups.

On the bus, my phone chimed. I peeked at the screen and saw that Juventus had won, thanks to two goals by Diego. I itched to watch the replays, but the bus was full, and I didn’t have earbuds with me. Besides, I wasn’t going to flash a phone this fancy in public. The phone was my connection to my team, to Diego, to the rest of the world. I couldn’t afford to lose it.

When I arrived home, the TV was on at top volume, my father, Héctor, and César eating a picada of cheeses, salami, and bread while my mom cooked in the kitchen.

“Hola, Camila,” said César, ungluing himself from the TV long enough to smile and nod at me.

“Hola to all,” I said so I wouldn’t have to kiss anyone. But nobody really paid me any attention.

When I walked over to see what was so mesmerizing, I realized they were watching the Juventus game. I almost choked when Diego appeared on the screen.

“There he is,” César said, stating the obvious.

Héctor glanced at my dad nervously.

My mom left the dishes in the sink and stood next to me, crossing her arms.

Instead of showing the team’s warm-up, the camera panned over the Allianz Stadium. It was filled to capacity. The sky was already dark. The game had started at six in the evening in Turín, but in mid-November, it was almost winter there.

My breath seized when I saw Diego jogging to the sideline to talk to one of the coaches. He zipped up his warm-up jacket. Someone from the crowd said something to him, and his eyes crinkled deliciously as he smiled.

He was the same Diego as always, but on TV he looked like an alien on another world impossibly far away.

Jay, Juve’s giraffe mascot, ran behind him, urging the crowd to cheer, but there was no need for that. A solid roar rose when Diego waved, and I got goose bumps. Central’s fans were passionate, but this was something more. There were so many people in the Juve stadium. They all cheered for el Titán.

“Diego!” my mom whispered. It was a prayer that my brother would one day be where Diego was.

After warm-ups, the team headed back to the locker room, and a reporter sprinted over to Diego.

“Titán, unas palabras!” he begged in an unmistakable Buenos Aires accent.

Diego stopped, but glanced at his teammates.

“Juventus loves you, Titán,” the reporter said. “Do you still think you’d like to return to Rosario later on in your career, or do you want to remain a bianconero forever?”

“Ooh!” my father exclaimed. “Now he’s done for.”

It was such an unfair question. If he said nothing compared to playing in Italy (and how could it?), the Central Scoundrels would never forgive him, but he couldn’t snub his adoring tifosi.

“I have a contract for three more years. I’m grateful for it, and I’m trying not to think beyond that. But I’ll never forget I’m from Rosario. I’m a Scoundrel until the day I die and beyond. I’m a Juventino until the day I die and beyond. Central gave me the chance to be here in this cathedral of fútbol. How can you make me choose?”

My dad’s stone face softened. The reporter must have felt chastised, too, because he changed the subject. “Who’s watching you back home?”

Diego looked straight into the camera like he was looking directly at me. When he licked his lips, my hands prickled.

“My mamana, my friends from 7 de Septiembre. The kids from El Buen Pastor.”

Like it was just the two of them exchanging confidences at home and not on TV for the world to see, the reporter said, “You know what I mean.” He laughed, but Diego looked at him, uncomprehending. “Okay. I’ll ask on behalf of all the girls who wish they were here with you—is there a special friend out there cheering you on?”

Diego’s gaze strayed from the camera. He actually blushed and tried not to smile, biting his lip. “Yes, there is someone. My first goal today is for her.”

“Someone,” Héctor said, turning to look at me.

I pretended not to notice.

“Give us a name,” the reporter insisted.

But Diego looked over his shoulder. Someone was calling for him. He shrugged and ran off.

I was fire turned into woman. If I moved, I’d combust into flames.

My first goal today is for her.

My mom announced that dinner was ready: milanesas, mashed potatoes, and fried eggs.

“I’m happy for him,” César said.

I went to the kitchen to make myself a plate.

“My first goal!” My dad threw his hands up. “He’s an arrogant prick.”