Furia(9)

“Good job on that goal, Pali.” I was bursting with pride at how fine his shot had looked on TV.

“I was watching you the whole time in the kitchen, and you weren’t even paying attention to the TV.”

Roxana and I had dissected every play, but he didn’t need to know how obsessively we studied the men’s games. “I watched it at Roxana’s,” I said.

“Roxana? The pretty chinita from school?” He mocked our father’s voice. “And your game?” Pablo whispered after a few seconds.

My heart hammered. He’d remembered about my championship.

“We won,” was all I said. “I scored.”

He ruffled my already-messy hair and said, “Ah, Maradonita! I wish I could come see you someday.”

“Maybe next time.” I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

After his debut on Central’s first team two years ago, Pablo’s life had become even more complicated than when he was in the youth academy. He never had time to come see me play. Which was for the better, maybe. Ever since the baby leagues, he’d won dozens of international championships. Pablo had never laughed at me for wanting to be a futbolera. He had always encouraged me behind our parents’ backs, but he didn’t really know the hunger I had. He thought fútbol was something I did for fun. Maybe it was time I trusted him more.

“I’ll tell you the rest later,” I said.

He nodded, but his face darkened as he cleared his throat.

“What’s going on?”

“Diego thought he saw you outside the bar. Were you roaming around the stadium hoping to see him?”

“Stop it!” I said, and slapped Pablo’s leg.

Nico whined.

Pablo pulled away from me and looked into my face until I finally met his eyes. “Mirá, nena, you’re my little sister, and I have to protect you.” He sounded so much like our mom that I rolled my eyes. “I don’t like you going out all alone, coming back late, and doing who knows what.” He smiled but drilled me with one of his stares, the kind he’d inherited from our father. “Remember what I said last time?”

“What, Pablo? What did you say?”

“That you’re going to get hurt,” he said as if he were an ancient wise man. “Stay away from him. Trust me.”

Pablo was so full of it.

When I didn’t reply, he asked, “You haven’t been talking to him behind my back, have you?”

Last year, Pablo had given me the talk, a tirade about not being like the other girls and wanting a piece of Diego just because he was going to be famous. What Diego and I had wasn’t like that at all, but the words had burrowed deep inside of me.

“What are you now? My dad?” I asked, slapping his leg again.

“He’s only here for a week, you know? Then he’ll go back to his fame and fortune and glamorous life.” There was a sharp edge to his voice that made the hairs at the back of my neck prickle. What had happened between them?

“I haven’t talked to him. Happy now?”

Pablo’s eyes flickered away from mine, as if he knew way more than he pretended to. Had Diego told him anything? I was dying to ask, but my pride was greater than my curiosity.

“I saw how you two looked at each other the night he left,” Pablo said. “I’m a guy, too, Camila—”

“How did we look at each other? That was a whole year ago. And now, what? I’m not even supposed to look at him because he’s famous?” Now it was Pablo’s turn to roll his eyes, and I continued, “It’s not like that, Pablo. Not at all. We’re just friends, or we were. We haven’t talked much since he left. Besides, I’m too busy with school, and . . . planning for med school.”

Héctor’s laughter echoed from the kitchen, followed by César’s and my father’s. Pablo and I listened.

The night before Diego had left, there had been more than charged looks between us. A lot more. But ignorance was bliss, and I intended to keep my brother in the dark. What was the point in fighting? For all I knew, Diego was over our . . . fling.

I patted my brother’s shoulder and changed the subject. “In any case, I’m sure he was amazed to see you play. You guys flattened Talleres, honestly.”

Pablo laughed. “It was good to see him there,” he said with a crooked smile. “But I want you to come watch one day. When was the last time you came to the stadium?”

Two years. When Pablo had debuted on the first team.

“I’ll come see you one day,” I said. “Stallion.”

The nickname was perfect for him. Tall and dark. He could run forever and never stop smiling. How many girls had lost themselves over that grin?

“Pali!” Marisol’s musical voice called from the dining room.

Like an obedient lapdog, Pablo jumped to his feet and ran to her.

Pali?

Pali was just for family, and Marisol wasn’t that. God willing, she would never be. She had never given Pablo the time of day until Diego had left. But if I ever even hinted at this, I’d make an enemy out of my brother. I could deal with anything but losing Pablo.





6





Back in the dining room, César and Héctor thanked my mom for the delicious fugazza con queso. She hid her smile behind a paper napkin, but her eyes sparkled. Her gaze, so full of longing, flitted to my father every few seconds. She was still hoping, waiting, for . . . I didn’t know what. They’d been together since they were sixteen. If he hadn’t changed by now . . .