Chapter 17
“YOU’VE BEEN STARING AT that same page for the last thirty minutes.”
My head perks up, and it takes me a second to remember where I am.
Cuco’s playing from my speaker at my desk, which neither of us are using.
Vale sits at the head of my bed and I’m lying down on my stomach between him and the wall, the book I clearly haven’t been reading open in front of me.
He’s focusing on his laptop, working on an essay for another class, which is great for me because I don’t get caught lingering on his face.
“Sorry. I’m having trouble focusing today.”
I let out a sigh through my nose and turn over on my back, tossing the book to the far corner of my mattress, not caring when I hear it thud as it hits the floor.
He’s right. I’ve been off the last few days.
The whole week. Spending minutes that turn into entire hours lost in thought.
Because of him. Well, it’s not his fault.
Because of Kat. Because Kat got in my head, and now I’m constantly spiraling.
I’m either trying to persuade myself not to care and to go back to a place where the bisexual dots hadn’t been connected (the better, safer way to be spending my time) or I’m spending too much time on those dots; trying to figure out exactly when my heart started feeling a type of way for Vale.
Which always ends the same. Maybe I’m overthinking this.
No, I’m for real overthinking this. One conversation with a friend doesn’t have to change my entire life.
It doesn’t have to change anything. Not if I don’t want it to.
Not if it can’t. And especially not if it might end up with Vale at the center of drama he doesn’t deserve.
Except every time I see him now, I can’t ignore the way his smile gives me butterflies.
How eager I am to spend time with him. To be close to him.
A couple nights ago, we both sat here and watched some X-Men series on his laptop for nearly four hours.
And, better, I got to watch him be so into it, giving me backstory and context and be all, “They do Roberto kind of dirty in this one, and he doesn’t once play soccer in any of these episodes, but you’ve just got to keep going. I promise it gets good.”
And a couple nights before then, he showed up for some studying with a few Talenti sorbets (for after, so I had a reward to work toward) and we went through some ice cream and chamoy and taj í n and argued about which ones were the best and worst. Hearing Vale say (so incorrectly) that strawberry is better than raspberry almost made me think, “Actually, nah, I’m not bi after all. This isn’t going to work.”
Until I was hearing his laughter and my heart was like, “Not so fast, cabr ó n.”
I, more than once, imagined him falling asleep on me. Holding him while we watched episode after episode until he couldn’t keep his eyes open and telling him, “Just stay the night.”
Because, more than the overthinking, it’s the overimagining that’s killing me.
I get caught not paying attention in class.
I’m letting easy kicks get past me in practice.
The usual internet tabs I keep handy aren’t doing it for me like they used to.
I almost screamed when Nguyen knocked on my truck’s window yesterday when he saw me just sitting in the driver’s seat thinking about Vale.
The only positive is that seeing Vale at my game yesterday, wearing my jacket again and cheering me on, did the exact opposite.
It makes me want to play better than I ever have.
But now we’re not at the field. I’m not on the pitch.
There aren’t a couple hundred other people around to help me divide my focus.
We’re here, alone, in my room. He’s on my bed and my mind is constantly playing all those late-night hypotheticals of him on my bed .
And if I let those linger too long, I’m going to have to turn back onto my stomach or else he’s going to get a big sign that my head’s not thinking about philosophy right now.
I watch Vale set his laptop down at his feet and scoot it farther away from him. He looks at me and asks, “What do you usually do when you have trouble concentrating?”
“Most days I find something else to focus on. Go to the park, find a field, kick a ball around. Do some drills.”
“I should’ve assumed that,” Vale answers with a chuckle.
“All my roommates are gone right now, though.” P é rez is with Kat. Nguyen’s girlfriend came down to visit. Ahmed is—actually, I have no idea where Ahmed is. “Not that I can’t do drills by myself. And I don’t want to force you into—”
“Nah,” he says before I can finish. “I’m down for some soccer.
Let’s go. You can teach me some stuff. Maybe I’ll even try to call it football like y’all do; really get into the vibes.
That way your brain’s still going but it’s not on any of this work you obviously aren’t finishing today.
And you can say that you were at least some kind of productive. ”
My head tilts and my eyes squint a little, like I’m trying to catch him faking me out. “You want to learn some football? ?De veras?”
“As much as I enjoy watching you play, I think it’s time I try being on the other side. And my dad will be so impressed. Plus, my eyes could use a break from a laptop screen, and I’m basically already dressed to spend the day outside.”
He stretches his legs out and pats the skin of his thighs not covered from the running shorts he’s wearing.
Shorts that look a lot like the kind Leana would wear.
They look really good on him. No doubt he’s wearing them more for comfort and because he thought it’d be a lazy day of studying, but the opportunity has presented itself.
And, needless to say, they’ve been one of my biggest distractions the entire morning.
Like I’ve been looking for reasons to look at his pretty, lean legs.
The only reason I don’t feel all the way weird about it is because I’ve caught him doing the same thing at least twice as many times.
“Also, I really want a raspa,” Vale continues. “Half strawberry, half mango maybe. With taj í n on it. So, we play for a while and then get raspas after.”
I take in a breath as I sit up, letting it out slowly, trying to make it look like I’m wanting to at least consider pushing through some more studying. But, “Alright. Let’s go. I’ve never said no to raspas or football in my life, and I can’t start now.”
This is much better.
I pull my shirt over my head and throw it onto the crossbar, taking in the pitch.
The grass has yellowed and probably hasn’t been watered since the last time it rained, weeks ago, and the other goalpost doesn’t have a net, but it’s perfect.
This, at some city-owned park in Corpus Christi or on the streets of Tamaulipas or at a field near my t í a’s tienda in Veracruz, is where I fell in love with the game. Where I’m happiest.
“Alright,” Vale says from behind me, tossing me the ball so he can take off his shirt too. “Show me how to score on you.”
In no universe could I have kept in the laugh that comes out hearing him say those words.
“Verga,” I finally manage after the cackling stops.
I drop the ball and start kicking it straight up, watching as it goes above my head and then down to my foot again and again.
Four, then five times before finally letting it hit the ground.
“Cocky already. Don’t get too ahead of yourself, Vale.
We’ll start with some beginner stuff, see how that goes, and if you don’t break your ankle, maybe we can move on to kicks. ”
I show him how to dribble, having him go between agility cones while keeping control of the ball, and, when he’s got the hang of that, we move on to quick passes from foot to foot.
Some level-zero basics to get a sense of what I’m working with and how fast he catches on (which turns out to be pretty quickly).
I keep close, watching his equally careful and graceful movements and the ball going back and forth between the insides of his feet at a medium pace and then a little faster and then—
“Oh fuck , ” he yells when his left foot trips over the ball and he starts stumbling.
“Got you,” I let out as my body rushes forward and my arms wrap around Vale, keeping him up. One of my hands is right over his heart, and I can feel the fast beat of it from the rush of nearly getting a face full of dead grass and dirt.
I haven’t, like, touched him touched him since the party.
Mostly hugs and small moments of body contact.
And now I’ve got a hand on his bare chest and the other on his stomach, my palm over his belly button.
I’ve brought him in close, his back pressed to my also bare front, my nose buried in his hair.
His own hands are clinging to my arms, slowly getting looser as he calms down.
“I—you good?”
“Yeah,” Vale answers, his voice breathy. “Thanks for catching me.”
“Claro.” I force myself to let go of him now, before I have to start thinking of a reason that I’m still holding him. “It happens. Grass and dirt stains are part of the game. We’ll try again, though. You’ve got the hang of it.”
He does. After a few more near falls, he gets into a groove, and not even a second goes by in between the ball hitting right foot and then left foot. Level zero fully completed. Passed with flying colors or whatever that saying is. “Think you’re ready for more?”
“Bring it,” he says, his smile and eyes confident.
This time, when I show him how to pass the ball between my feet, my right leg spreads, creating some space, and then I do the same thing with my left. “Think of it as going from a two-step to a cumbia.”
“That’s the most Tex-Mex thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“Well, that’s how it was explained to me. Basically what you were doing before, but adding a little spice to it, yeah? And remember to stay low to the ground. Keep the knees bent.”
“Yeah, I got this, coach.”