Chapter 9
Zoe
Four days pass, and the shift system for watching Wesley works way better than I expected.
Hades herself made a spreadsheet. It has colors and everything. Green for available, yellow for can-cover-in-an-emergency, red for training or meetings in that time slot.
“It’s kind of obsessive, if you ask me,” Jade complains when she sees it.
This morning the shift belongs to Iris, and she looks thrilled.
She sets Wes in a corner of the field under a canopy for shade, and just in case, she hides every inch of her skin under a mountain of sunscreen.
“Day four of camp,” she tells her phone while she records a video. She pans to the baby, who chews on a rubber toy, and Iris makes another comment about how good his hair smells, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s about to faint.
It’s nap time and Wesley refuses to sleep. This week, between heat worse than he’s used to and the number of teammates who want to hold him, naps get harder and harder. Poor Iris tries everything. Bottle. Pacifier. The pink elephant plush. Whitesnake.
Nothing.
“Give him to me,” Lucía murmurs, taking the baby from Iris’s arms.
She starts to sing. Something in Spanish. A lullaby I don’t know, a melody that rises and falls like waves.
Wesley goes quiet.
He watches her. Blinks. His eyelids droop.
Three minutes. Out.
“Whoa. How the hell did you do that?” Iris says, eyes wide. “You sing a little and boom, best friends.”
“My grandma used to sing it to me when I had nightmares,” Lucía says, rocking him slow.
“What do the lyrics say?”
“That the moon watches kids who behave.” Lucía doesn’t even flinch. “And kids who don’t behave get eaten by a wolf.”
“Jesus,” Iris complains, rubbing the back of her neck. “Spain is a little dramatic.”
Lucía shrugs.
Wesley sighs in his sleep.
“Why do you smell his head all the time?” Tina asks. She’s one of the younger players who come with us to camp.
“Because it’s like a drug,” Iris says, like this is obvious. “It smells like heaven.”
“It’s the baby shampoo,” Tina argues.
“No.” Iris leans in and smells Wes again. “It’s magic. Baby magic. It opened my eyes to a whole world of smells I didn’t know existed.”
Mid-afternoon, while Hades gathers us to explain a set piece, we all crowd around her, but I can’t stop myself from checking on my kid.
Tina takes a photo while he sleeps, framing Hades and the players in the background and leaving Iris out, even though Iris lies on the ground right next to Wes like a bodyguard.
“Méndez,” my coach snaps, dragging me back. “Are you with us or on the moon?”
**
When we get to the locker room and the younger girls pull out their phones, the chaos hits fast.
“He’s so cute!” someone yells, and everyone starts typing.
Apparently Tina posted the photo of Wesley asleep with the team in the background.
Caption: “Wes is bored watching his mom play ??? #FloridaPreseason”
The post fills with jokes. I stare at the picture like an idiot while Iris complains she doesn’t make the shot.
It’s perfect.
Tessa
Trouble shows up before sunrise.
My phone won’t stop buzzing on the nightstand. I grab it with half-open eyes, squinting against the screen. It’s probably some group chat losing its mind. With the time, it’s likely Europe. I need to mute notifications. But when the screen lights up, nausea crawls up my throat.
Instagram. Twitter. DMs. Missed calls.
Fuck.
I open Instagram first.
“Priorities? Zoe Méndez leaves her baby ALONE by the field while she trains,” says a sports influencer with over a million followers.
It’s Tina’s photo.
There’s Wesley. Asleep in his car seat. Alone. Next to an empty bench. The team is in the background, far away, like nobody cares. They even add a red arrow pointing at Zoe so nobody misses it.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter. “Jesus Christ.”
I scroll through hundreds of comments.
“Negligent mother.”
“She’s obsessed with her sports career, like all of them.”
“That kid deserves better.”
“Where’s CPS when you need them?”
“Typical of these soccer players who think they can have it all and only care about themselves and their fame.”
I close Instagram and open Twitter.
Trending hashtag: #MotherOfTheYear
Of course it isn’t a compliment.
I search Zoe’s name.
Mistake. Big mistake.
“With that photo, Zoe Méndez proves her career matters more than her child.”
“The problem with mothers who don’t know when to stop.”
“Why have a kid if you won’t take care of him?”
“Why doesn’t she just retire already?”
And then I see it.
A statement. From Nate Henderson. To a major sports outlet.
“I am deeply concerned about my son’s well-being. I am evaluating legal options with my attorney.”
I throw the phone onto the bed.
“Son of a bitch.”
I yank on a T-shirt and run into the hallway toward Zoe’s room.
I knock softly in case she’s asleep. Once. Twice.
Nothing.
“Zoe. It’s me,” I whisper.
Silence.
“Zoe, I know you’re in there. Please open up,” I say.
More silence. Then footsteps. The lock clicks.
The door opens five inches, and my stomach drops when I see her eyes.
“You saw it, right?” she asks, and her voice sounds wrecked.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Enough,” I breathe. “Can I come in?”
Wesley sleeps in his crib, clueless about the internet burning down. Zoe can’t stop crying.
“I’m done,” she says, breaking. “I’m not training anymore. I can’t. This was supposed to be fun and look how it ends. How the hell did this happen, Tessa?” She drops onto the bed and drags both hands through her hair. “It was a funny picture. A joke. Tina only wanted to—”
“I know.”
“Iris was right there. She was right there.” Zoe’s voice spikes. “Sitting with the baby. With water. With shade. With sunscreen. With everything.”
“I know.”
“And now everyone thinks I’m a shitty mom who dumps her ten-month-old to play soccer,” she sobs.
“Zoe, you know that isn’t true and—”
“And Nate.” Her face twists. “That bastard couldn’t wait to talk to the press. He says he’s evaluating legal options with his lawyer. He’s going to use this. You know it, right? He’ll use it against me. For custody.”
“We’re going to fix it,” I say, and I climb onto the bed beside her.
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.” My voice comes out rough, but steady. “But we’re going to fix it. I promise.”