Chapter 3
“Sí, MOM. Sí. YES , I promise. Yes, I’ll still be over in a while.
Yes, I’ll let them know I’m bringing food back with me,” I say, holding my phone up to my face, looking at her as she cooks all my favorites, picking my head up just to wave off the rest of the crew heading toward our place.
Ever since we got my mom a little tripod, she’s been nonstop cooking and FaceTiming simultaneously, saying she’s going to be just like her favorite Mexican TikTok comadres.
Every once in a while, Pops will come onto the screen, usually to steal a piece of chicken or flash a quick peace sign or ask where my roommates went.
They spent the whole drive back whispering, “Tell your mom I said hi,” and “What’s she making?” and “Will she adopt me?” and waving at her from the backseat.
“And how fast did you drive from my game to H-E-B and then back home to be cooking right now?” I ask, my voice all accusatory, knowing my mom behind the wheel of a car with a grocery list in her head can be a dangerous thing.
“No te preocupes,” she says, waving a wooden spatula at me. “I didn’t break any laws.”
“I believe you,” I say with a smirk, and, swear, the look she gives me back tells me that, if she even just minimally believed she could throw that spatula from their house and hit me all the way here, it’d already be out of her hand.
“Chinga— Go take your nap. Dinner will be ready in a few hours. Te quiero, Gabi.”
“Okay, Mom. Okay. Tambi é n te quiero. See you soon. Let me know if you need me to grab anything on the way. Bye.”
Nap time. That’s first on the agenda. After the game and having lunch with my boys, my eyes are heavy heavy.
I take sips of strawberry shake, my hand that’s not holding my socks, cleats (now switched out for a pair of Crocs), and goalie gloves—one now being used as a phone holder—is gripping the orange-and-white-striped cup (because P é rez kept whining about how we still owed him Whataburger for not going after Wake Up Call).
Yeah, nap and get out of this heat. I didn’t really think about it while in game mode, but now?
Verga , it’s burning up out here. Can’t wait to get to my room, fall onto my bed for a couple hours, and—
Hold on. She’s pretty. Like, nearly fell over trying to stop myself pretty.
Skin a little lighter than mine, her arms and collarbone visible from the skinny straps of her shirt.
Some kind of Lululemon shorts that are keeping my eyes at her hips and going lower.
Black hair tied back in a long ponytail.
Hot in a Danna Paola and Becky G way. And carrying a box that looks pretty heavy toward stairs. She could probably use some help.
Maybe she could use my help.
“Hey,” I call, jogging over to her, nearly tripping again and regretting not having my Crocs in sport mode.
Swear, third time it happens I’m going to bust my ass on concrete.
There’s only so many times the universe is going to look out for me while I’m quickly and immediately spiraling into Down Bad Mode.
“Hi. Hey. You got that? I can grab it for you. I mean, I can—you know. Carry that. The box. I—do you need help?”
She looks me up and down as she sets the box on the ground, her eyebrows rising a little like she’s confused that someone is actually offering to help her instead of worrying about his own shit on the day every other student is moving in, but then a smile starts coming before this cute laugh leaves her mouth.
“Bet you could. But your hands look a little full already.”
“I can manage,” I say back, going heavy on the confidence.
I can already tell she’s exactly my type.
Lots of sass in the face, fresh manicure.
The kind of mexicana that’s probably real fun at the pachangas, but also someone I could joke around with while eating hot Cheetos and cheese in my truck.
“I’m good. I promise. Could do this all day. ”
Her eyes squint like whenever one of my old high school crushes got annoyed and was all Why do men? And if she ends up telling me about how she can do this herself and doesn’t need some guy’s help, then it’s cool. I’m not going to argue with her. I’m sure she’s got it if she thinks she does.
But then she closes her eyes and lets out a long breath. And after that it’s another look; a different look. The look that I’ve also seen from those same high school crushes and a couple other girls I’ve dated or talked to, one that says “futbolistas are my weakness.”
Next thing I know, I’m following her up three flights of stairs with a huge, heavy box in my arms and my stuff on top of it, making it hard to see in front of me or even the ground below me, trying my best to act like this is easy work, actually, as much as I’m already sweating.
On our way up I ask if she’s from here (“No, San Antonio.”), if she’s a freshman too (“Yep.”) and for her name.
“Leana,” she says. “What about you, futbolista?”
“Gabriel. I go by Pi n a a lot, though. And usually Gabi or Gabo the rest of the time.”
“You really into pineapples or something?”
“Wait, what?” My eyes squint as my brain tries to find the context of her question.
Also, because some sun hit right over the top of the box and straight into my face when she turned to go up another set of stairs.
“ Oh , no. I mean, they’re my favorite fruit, but it’s my last name. My last name’s Pi n a.”
“And you’re from around here?”
“Yep. If you want, I could show you around sometime.”
I crane my neck enough to see her and, again, a face I’m familiar with. One that’s saying, “don’t assume I have time for you,” but also, “I might be into that,” all at the same time.
“Did you win your game?”
“Yeah,” I tell her, immediately going into a whole replay of how I defended five goal attempts, my voice amped up by whatever bit of adrenaline I’ve got left in me. “It’s just second nature at this point. But people are saying I might be the best keeper TAMUCC’s ever had. Maybe you could come—”
“Who’s this?” A deep voice says, interrupting me, before someone grabs the box, letting my stuff slide off the top and—except for the milkshake I manage to grab—onto the floor. A sweaty guy with an Islander Dad cap on, who doesn’t look happy about me standing here, eyes me up and down. “?Quien es?”
“I—I’m Gabi, sir. Gabriel.” I hold a hand out, acting like all my shit being dropped to the ground is no biggie, but even after he’s set the box down, he doesn’t reach for it. He obviously doesn’t care who I am.
“What are you doing?”
“I was already out and saw Leana; offered to carry that box for her. I can help out some more too if y’all—”
“You’re done now,” he huffs, taking a couple steps up, trying to block as much doorway space as possible. “You can leave.”
“But, if y’all need the help, I don’t mind—”
“We don’t.” Man’s like a big dog. I get it. Not the first time some girl’s dad sees someone like me and automatically comes to some conclusions. That we’ve only ever got two things on our minds: football and some dude’s daughter.
And, right now, looking how I do probably doesn’t help.
This isn’t first time meeting her dad attire.
But still. Don’t judge a book by its cover, my guy.
I contain multitudes. And it’s not like I was actually about to try something with Leana.
I mean, not, like, right this minute. I was genuinely trying to be a nice person, and my parents didn’t raise me to ignore someone carrying heavy shit by themselves.
My dad would’ve whooped my eighteen-year-old, college-freshman ass in front of God and my roommates and her if I’d just walked past like that and not offered any help.
Not worth getting into, though.
“Uh, cool.” One of my hands brushes over my head and stays at the back of my neck. Wow. I’m already so sweaty again. “Yeah, it looks like y’all got it from here. I’m just going to go then. To the building next door. And take another shower, probably.”
He doesn’t move, arms still crossed tight over his chest as he gives me an annoyed glare. I’m not even sure why I keep letting words come out of my mouth. He’s going to talk shit about me the second I’m out of earshot, I just know it.
I take a deep breath, my chest and shoulders rising a little more than necessary.
I’ll leave and let him talk his mess, but I’m still going to smile and give him a “Anyway, nice to meet you. Sir. Mucho gusto” as I go.
Leave letting him know I can get my cool right back, and not without one more try at shaking his hand.
With my dry hand. Again, just like my parents taught me.
A hmphh comes out of him and I swear I hear him mutter “pinche cabr ó n” while closing the door, but not before I catch Leana behind him, giving me one of those waves that are all fingers and a smile that feels pretty promising.
Might not have won him over, but I feel pretty good assuming I’m at least on the board when it comes to her.