Chapter 4
THE SLOW, BUILDING, ELECTRIC beat of DannyLux’s “SOLTERA” begins playing over a few speakers.
As he starts singing, I give some relaxed poses, some smiles, the clicking of the camera barely audible over the music.
And, when the drop happens, I let myself go, dancing along to the beat, my arms out, one hand fisted and pumping up in the air and the other holding a ball.
I even shake my ass a little. Behind me, the white walls go blue and then green, and, in front of me, there are more camera clicks and the bright white of flashes.
“Boy’s a natural,” I hear Barrera tease, standing nearby. And P é rez is all, “?Qu é sexy, papi!”
I’ve seen videos on social media about college media days.
Seen in that I’ve been obsessed with them the way the rest of the world gets obsessed with Bama Rush TikTok every year.
When athletics teams get their pictures taken, modeling for the camera—I’ve wanted to be in their shoes for as long as I can remember.
And now I’m here, in a fresh jersey, the day after my first home-game win, and it feels just as badass as I envisioned. Like I’m a celebrity or an Olympian.
“Let’s go!” I yell, taking a step toward the camera, my face showing that same determination I have on the pitch while ten, twenty flashes happen in the span of a few seconds.
The photographer has me do it again, and then a third time, before P é rez hands me a Mexican flag.
I hold it up behind me, the top corners clenched in my hands, and then I drape it over my shoulders, changing my stance up between clicks, giving the guy lots to work with.
“Alright,” Coach says, waving his hand toward the photographer. “We get it, Pi n a, we could leave you here all day and you’d never get bored. Think we got enough, though. Nguyen, you’re up.”
He’s not wrong, and as much as I’d like to keep going and make sure that our photographer got the best picture he could possibly take, I’ll trust his talent and expertise and walk off.
I take a chair by Ahmed and P é rez, already changed out of their kits, while some synthwave starts playing for Nguyen, the two of them looking at P é rez’s phone and all the unserious videos and pictures we got of the four of us—Nguyen included—before our individual photos.
Us in a line, our fists clenched and arms flexing like a bunch of Hulks while we were yelling at the camera.
Nguyen being carried by the rest of us, a ball in his hands.
The four of us posing like we’re shooting invisible arrows into the air.
And a clip of me running around with Ahmed on my shoulders and of the four of us doing pullups on the crossbar of a goalpost.
“You got to send me that one,” I tell P é rez, pointing to a photo of the four of us doing one long prom pose.
“Some cuties, for real,” Ahmed adds through a cackle.
“Puro chulitos,” P é rez says.
A quick whistle steals my attention, catching Barrera motioning me over with his head. I quickly knock fists with my teammates, telling them to save my seat, before standing up and following our team captain into the locker rooms.
“What up, Cap?” I ask him, watching as he leans against Nguyen’s locker next to mine.
I take the opportunity to change out of my own uniform, pulling the jersey off and then the shorts and socks, replacing them with basically the same fit Leana caught me in: mesh shorts I’ve got in twenty different colors that cover up a solid quarter of my thighs on their most modest days and a shirt that used to have sleeves before I took some scissors to it, making armholes that go from my shoulders down the sides, and nearly hit the bottom of the tee, taking off so much fabric that I’ve got at least one nipple breaking free half the time.
“Hoochie daddy meets slut me out all in a person who embodies the boy next door , but is daily out here barebacking Crocs because no one can be perfect,” as Kat—a forward on the girls’ team, P é rez’s best friend, and basically one of the boys and an honorary member of the Fantastic Four at this point—puts it.
And I’ll gladly take that. The smirk I gave them when I first heard them say it told them all they need to know about how not mad I am to fall in the middle of that Venn diagram.
Also, I know in my heart Crocs were not meant to be worn with socks. I’ll die on that hill.
“When you’re done, Coach is letting me be the bearer of good news.” Barrera says. I look at him and catch a knowing smile on his face as I hurry to pull up my shorts.
He hands me his phone, a website pulled up.
ESPN. And— santa mierda —right there, bold and bright, Ten Freshmen to Keep Your Eyes On is at the top.
Under that is a picture of me at the goalpost, pointing and yelling something to (I’m assuming) one of my teammates out of frame.
I can’t remember which game over the last couple of weeks that’s from.
Could equally be from either El Paso or Sul Ross.
When I look back up at Barrera, his eyes are watching me, an obvious pride in them at being the one who gets to share this with me.
His hand comes down on my shoulder, giving me that captain-y tight squeeze.
“Thought you should know before everyone’s sending you links.
Congrats, Pi n a. You’re number three on this list.”
“I—” I don’t know what to say. As I scroll past numbers ten through four, my brain’s still adding up everything in front of me, trying to prove that this is, for real, real life.
And then there I am again, my official team photo, me all straight and serious; a big No.
3 with my name and position next to it; and a whole paragraph of “the dark horse of the list and one of two from Texas’s Martin Catholic High School, the eighteen-year-old freshman, and now starting goalkeeper for the Islanders, comes into TAMU-CC with an admirable record as a high school player, and is starting off the season with a shutout that is still holding strong and could be the defensive star to complement A&M Soccer’s offensive force and carry the team into the top of the rankings this season, showing a drive and skillset far beyond his years.
” Below that is even more text with predictions about being shortlisted for the NCAA’s Rookie of the Year, for the Border Conference’s Freshman of the Year, and even for their Player of the Year (in a list full of seniors, including the guy standing in front of me, and a handful of juniors).
“No mames,” I say while falling on a bench, my attention never leaving Barrera’s phone screen.
My heart’s trying to hammer its way out of my chest. My free hand’s gripping a leg, so maybe I can get at least one of them to stop shaking.
My eyes are fighting back tears as I let out the only other thing I can think of: “How do they even know who I am?”
“You’ve got to know how stupid that question is,” Barrera says, taking a seat next to me with a grin as he shakes my shoulder until my mouth goes from straight-lined and unsure to smiling. “Where’s the excitement?”
“Sorry. I guess, I … honestly? If I wasn’t seeing my face and my name and some sports reporter talking about me, I don’t know if I’d believe this. Out of every single freshman footballer out there, number three? ”
“My boy, let yourself be not-humble for a minute. I’ve watched you put in the work.
I know that you’re doing extra training on the side, all by yourself.
I’ve just seen you go, now, three games and not let a single goal attempt past you.
I’m seeing a number three—no, number one —freshman player in the whole country, and I’d be emailing someone at ESPN right now if they’d left you off this list. I’ll knock you down back to the ground tomorrow, but, for today, let it stoke that ego. ”
“Yeah. Okay.” I nod and take a deep breath, my fingers squeezing the skin of my legs. “Thanks, Cap.”
“Just speaking the truth. But, most important, nothing changes, alright? You keep doing what you’re doing, playing the game, being the best.”
“For sure. I will.”
As everything he’s said starts to settle, I feel less surprised and more …
driven. That’s what comes next. The excitement Barrera asked for too, sure, but mostly it’s me wanting, more than anything, to get back out there and play another game, add more minutes to this shutout, practice more, get in the gym, do drills, cardio, whatever’s going to keep me on that list and get me higher.
Some players out there never get the chance to be seen, but I’ve been handed this opportunity to prove myself. And I’m taking it.
I don’t want to just be the support. The guy in the background.
I want to be the force. The heart. The main character.
The whatever part of the cell that’s the powerhouse.
That. I want to be relied on. And most of all, I want to be great.
I want to be talked about the same way players like Ronaldo and Messi are talked about now. The greatest. Un crack. El Chivo.
Barrera swings a leg over the bench, grabs his phone back, and glances one more time at my photo, giving it a small smile.
“And when you need more encouragement, you let me know. Because I’m also going to keep pushing you.
You’re like the little brother I never got, and I want to make sure Coach and I are doing what we can to make sure you only keep rising.
Right now, it’s a freshmen-to-watch article, but in a few months it could be an All-American selection.
A couple years from now, you could be winning a MAC Hermann.
I want you to go to sleep seeing yourself there.
MLS SuperDraft. Offers from teams in M é xico. ”
The vision comes clear in my mind: me wearing an El Tri kit. A World Cup goalkeeper. A World Cup team captain . Pops and Mom cheering me on from the stands in France or Brazil or Japan.
“I mean,” Barrera continues, “the MLS is great, and I’d like to be in Austin or Houston next year. It’s getting more attention. But, shit, you know how football down there is religion. It’s culture. And you could be the next Ochoa. Better, even. A fucking saint of the sport.”
“You think so?”
“I know it, Gabo. You’re the future of this team.
You’re going to be the face of it by the time you graduate.
Hell, you could be the face of the game by that time.
At least, collegiately. I’m just glad I get to see you start, knowing that I’m leaving this team in good hands after this season.
But you’re going to be a busy boy this semester.
So show up to all your classes, be early to practice, don’t have too much fun with the girls around here, and you’ll be good.
Don’t change a thing about what you’ve been bringing or doing.
That’s what Coach and I need from you, okay? ”
He holds his fist out, waiting for me to press mine to it. I smile as I tell him, “I will, Cap. I’m ready.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good.” He comes in for a hug, patting my back a few times before pushing himself off me. “Now get the hell outta here. Enjoy your final hours of freedom before your life’s textbooks and football.”
I might still be a little bruised from yesterday’s game, but I’m walking back to my teammates with the peppiest of peps in my step.
Looking like I just lost my virginity or something.
Mind full of ideas about how the future will look, of my face on ESPN on TV and kids wearing my kit and being called someone’s favorite player (or, at least someone who’s not my parent). And—
“He’s back,” P é rez chirps, bringing me quickly back to reality with him, Ahmed, and now Nguyen, who’s standing behind them with his hands on their shoulders. “We’re all done here, if you and Capit á n are finished. Coach said we can go. And I call shotgun.”
“You can’t call shotgun while we’re still inside!” Ahmed says back, glaring at our teammate before turning back to me. “What did Barrera need to talk to you about anyway?”
“I, uh.” A smile immediately starts growing across my face, all toothy and dimply. “I’m on ESPN’s website. I’m one of the ten freshmen to watch this season.” All the nerves in my body light up, like I need to jump or run the excitement out. “I’m number three.”
I’m barely able to finish saying the word three before Ahmed and P é rez, faces going from impatient to, quickly, openmouthed, big-eyed, and excited, are jumping out of their chairs and onto me, screaming.
The rest of the squad that’s around starts staring, muttering under their breaths like they’re wondering if these two are trying to beat the shit out of me right now.
Nguyen stays back, but smiles at me and, after I’ve managed to calm our roommates down, he puts his hand out for a high five.
Which is basically the equivalent of an Ahmed scream or P é rez getting the zoomies, and rarer and better than even a handshake from that one baker-judge-guy on that British baking show my mom likes to watch.
“Nguyen, go get changed!” Barrera yells, coming back into the room. “And all four of you, go home. Or I’m making you run laps.”
Fuck that. Especially with leftover enchiladas waiting for me at our place. He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
“We got to celebrate,” P é rez yells, his arm over my shoulders as we walk out. “Toast to our boy here and get plastered.”
“It’s Sunday,” Nguyen says. “We’ve got classes tomorrow. That’s not happening tonight.”
“Pues, this coming weekend then. Ahmed, find a party. There’s got to be some frat house throwing a fucking rager we could get ourselves into.”
“On it, brother,” he answers, twirling his phone in his hand before he brings it up to his face to unlock it. “We’ll have at least three options by Friday. Guaranteed. Five, six days from now, we pop our college-party cherries.”