In an instant, the phantom presence of my brother and his accomplishments eclipsed my win, my team’s efforts, and Coach Alicia’s never-ending work. I stood, stubbornly rooted in place, but Coach Alicia motioned for me to step forward and accept the trophy.
“Vamos, Furia!” someone yelled, invoking my braver self.
And just like that, the newly born part of me took over.
All of a sudden, I was raising the trophy as if it were the head of a vanquished enemy. The metal held the warmth of the yellow sunshine. Carried by the euphoria, we sang our battle song and together lifted Coach Alicia in the air like the hero she was. My teeth were gritty with dirt and blood, but still I smiled for the group picture.
The friends, families, and neighbors who’d joined our celebration sang along.
“Put that away!” someone yelled. “Don’t bring politics into the game! Not when there are reporters here.”
I scanned the crowd and saw a woman waving the green handkerchief of the feminist movement. Then I noticed a guy nearby with a TV camera aimed in my direction. Had he been recording the whole time?
Roxana and I locked eyes. She had a green handkerchief in her backpack, and in that moment, I was grateful she hadn’t pulled it out or, worse, asked me to wave it around like a victory flag. If anyone from school even thought we supported the movement’s pro-choice politics, we’d be expelled without consideration. Sister Esther had been clear on that.
But if my parents saw me on TV, being expelled would be the least of my problems.
“Capitana, give us a few words.” The reporter with the cameraman, a beautiful brunette with a beauty mark next to her red-painted lips, didn’t wait to start peppering me with questions. “How do you feel right now, number seven? First place in the Rosarina Ladies’ League. How did you learn to play like that? What are your plans for the future? What does your family think?”
Trapped into answering, I deflected the spotlight. “This was a collective effort. If anything, Coach Alicia’s the one who should be answering all these questions. She’s been working for years to take a team to the Sudamericano. I just do what she says.”
The reporter’s forehead creased with determination. “Of course, but from what I saw today, you’re pretty amazing. You have a flair that’s uncommon, especially for a girl. What does your brother, the Stallion, Pablo Hassan”—she flashed a smile at the camera as if she was hoping to charm him with the sound of his name—“say about how good you are?”
My teammates laughed. They all had a thing for Pablo, the fools.
Unnerved by my silence, the reporter pressed on. “Well, what does he say?” Her eyes swept over the crowd.
“My brother loves it,” I said, making soft eyes at the camera because what the hell? I was already in the dance, so I danced. “He taught me everything I know.”
The reporter’s voice lowered in pitch, and she asked, “Furia, do you have a message for your family? For the federation? Do you think this win is a turning point for women’s rights?”
She had seen the green handkerchief in the crowd, too. Frantically, I looked around, begging someone to rescue me from this woman and her dangerous questions.
“My family is very supportive, and . . . to the federation, I just want to say thank you for making this space for us girls.”
We’d made the space. We’d filled in the cracks of the system and made room for ourselves where there was none. No one had given us anything. We had taken it. But no one wanted to hear the truth. Most importantly, this wasn’t the time or the place for that conversation.
The crowd clapped enthusiastically. Finally, the reporter turned her attention to Roxana, and I wiggled my way out of trouble. The sun was low on the horizon, and now that the adrenaline from the game had left me, the evening breeze gave me chills. The sound of chanting from El Gigante squeaked from a phone speaker, and I tried to find its owner, who might have news from Central. It was the ref. A bulging sports bag rested at his feet.
“Did Central just score?” I asked, trying to sound friendly.
Instead of saying anything, even a simple yes, he gave a one-shouldered shrug and turned his back on me.
“Hurry up!” the camera guy yelled. “We can still make the second half! I can’t believe we’re stuck here at this game no one cares about.” He struggled to put his equipment away. Even in daylight, only fools displayed that kind of expensive camera traveling around this kind of barrio. “We gotta go now!” he yelled to the reporter.
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.