Chapter 17 #2
I let out a breathy laugh, looking from him to the ground. “I’m the tutor now, huh?”
And it’s fun. The last time I really got to get into some fundamentals and teach was during the summer at the camps my old high school would put on for elementary kids. It’s a special kind of cool to see someone pick up a skill I showed them and watch how they get better and better.
In between drills, Vale, with his phone in hand, gets some short clips of me teaching him, telling me to act like a “real coach,” and posts them on his IG stories.
And while a real coach might say to stop fooling around, I can’t tell him much because I’m the one who told him to grab his phone in the first place when he pointed to a spot near the middle of the pitch and started being like, “Bet you can’t kick a goal from all the way back there. ”
And now there’s video proof that I can.
I get some of him too, and he watches each of them before posting to make sure I’m “not recording me fucking up for all my friends and family and followers to see.”
Being out here and fooling around is 1000 percent better than staring at some page of a textbook. Maybe especially so because when Vale’s in his bent knee stance in front of me, I can’t help but get a view of his ass that could be described as perfect. Maybe.
“Nah, don’t use the tip of your foot,” I call out to Vale, watching him dribble.
At least, if he asks, that’s what I’m doing.
Solely focusing on this new career of his as a rookie footballer.
Taking my role as coach seriously. For sure not being constantly distracted because his cheeks are just right there being hugged by his shorts in a way that makes me wish I was fabric. “Only use the inside and outside.”
“It feels weird.”
“That’s why you practice until it doesn’t. Trust me, your feet and toes will thank you the sooner you get out of that habit. You don’t want to end up with fucked-up feet.”
He smiles while concentrating on the ball on the ground and his footwork. “You talk like I’m about to join a team.”
“Maybe you will,” I tell him with my own smirk. “And then when you’re the team MVP, you can thank me.”
“I’ll make sure to mention you in my acceptance speech. Gabi Pi n a, hater of caves and philosophy. Incredibly above-average kisser. The GOAT of all goalkeepers.”
It takes a second to let my mind reboot after that kisser drop. But then I’m good and all, “Y tu futbolista favorita.”
That smile comes up and right to me. Only me. And, shit, so many parts of my body go all fluttery when he says, “The only futbolista who will ever have my heart.”
I smile back, squatting down to grab the ball, looking for anything to distract me and get me back into focus. “Alright. Let’s do some more.”
Vale honestly isn’t bad. Promising, even.
After getting confident with dribbles, I start playing some defense on him, trying to steal the ball and upping the stakes, just minimally.
I’m not trying too hard with it. I can feel him tensing up at first, being forgetful and bordering on sloppy on the passes between feet and dribbling, focusing too hard on where my feet are instead of his own.
“You’re okay,” I tell him, offering encouragement even as I try to work against him. “You know what you’re doing. Just think.”
And, gradually, I see him breathing. Every time he messes up and we start again, some of that confidence comes back. He’s remembering what I taught him. He’s realizing that, hey, we’re Mexican. This sport is in our DNA.
An hour, hour and a half, and soon we’re two hours in, agility cones forgotten and fully into some one-on-one football.
He’s surprisingly fast on the switch-up now that he’s getting the hang of it.
Swear, if he’d started just four, five years ago, he could’ve been a solid forward.
Truly scary on a pitch. Vale catches me close to a steal and, wham , he’s kicking the ball a few yards away.
A quick shared look and breathy smiles and we’re off, rushing for it, laughing and yelling and our hands are coming out, trying to keep each other away.
My foot’s reaching for it, I feel the ball touch my cleat, and then—
Bam! Vale’s body runs into mine, our arms reaching for something to stay stable, feet trying their best to keep us up. And then feet not doing a great job at keeping us up. Not even a second later, my back’s hitting the ground as I let out an oof and then a groan when Vale lands on top of me.
It’s quiet for a moment, my eyes taking in the clouds and sky straight up above me before I’m asking, “You good?” I can feel his breathing, so I at least know he’s alive.
“Yeah,” Vale says. “Sorry. I couldn’t stop myself in time.”
When I pick up my head, his face is only inches away from mine. He’s lying on top of me, skin pressing on skin, his hand resting on my sweaty shoulder.
“It’s fine.” I let my head fall back to the ground. Not as uncomfortable as I’d have assumed. “Could use a breather anyway.”
“You’re going to have grass and dirt all over your back.”
“Then you’re going to have to wipe me down when I get up for that messy foul,” I tell him, laughing through the words. I close my eyes so I’m not getting too much direct sunlight. “And here I was thinking maybe you should actually try out for the team.”
He laughs back, and I can feel every movement of his body as he does.
“I think I’m better in the stands. But I’ve got a pretty good coach.
” And then, even without looking, I can feel his hand slowly coming to my face, his middle finger gently tracing the small scar on my nose I forget is there most days.
The thought quickly comes and goes of how easy it’d be to kiss his palm right now.
“Soccer injury?” Vale asks, bringing me out of my head as I feel his fingertip leave my nose.
“Yeah. What happens when my hands aren’t quick enough,” I tell him. The memory of that day, a ball breaking my nose, quickly replays in my mind.
“Did they end up scoring on you?”
A smirk comes across my face when I tell him, “Nope.”
I open my eyes and pick my head up again so I can look at him. Really look at him. And let myself take in the feeling of him on top of me. The way his hand brushes a couple blades of grass off my chest. The way his eyes slowly take in all of my skin. The way our legs tangle together.
How easy it would be to reach for his face and pull his lips to mine.
I’m so fucking bi.
And, yeah. That scares me. Being this self-aware scares me. Because I also realize that, when I said I didn’t want this, that was a lie. Even if it can’t matter, the truth is I could easily want something like this.
And I wish it could matter. In a good way. I wish I had a choice about this. I wish I didn’t feel so powerless. I wish I could give in to how powerfully my heart feels for Vale.
Because when I let that realization exist, it’s so fucking powerful.
But so is the fear. What if a teammate saw us like this? What would Nguyen or Ahmed say? Or, incredibly worse, what would Barrera say?
Nothing about how I feel about Vale seems wrong. I like this so much. And I want this so badly. I wish I could have him. I wish I could change. Frondizi and Pops didn’t think about this situation.
What if I’m not allowed to change?
“You alright?” Vale asks, his voice soft. And only then do I realize that he’s laid his head down too, resting right over my heart.
“I … yeah. Just—can we stay like this for a few minutes?” I ask him. “Please.”
“Whatever you want. And as long as you want.”
“Have the rest of my raspa,” Vale says, handing me his Styrofoam cup with about a quarter left of strawberry-and-mango-flavored ice, chamoy, and taj í n.
He gave me a bite (and his tamarindo straw) on the way back and I don’t know who’s been gatekeeping the fact that we’re allowed to mix flavors, but that’s not something my parents ever let me do. I might never get pineapple again.
Or maybe pineapple and mango? Yeah, for sure that.
“Thanks,” I reply before taking it from him and tilting the cup up to my mouth, letting the raspa slide in. “You want to shower?”
“What?” Swear, Vale’s head almost pops right off his neck with how quickly he turns. And it’s in that second that I realize he took those three words very differently than I meant them. But now I’m thinking— nope.
“Sorry. I meant, like, if you want to shower, go ahead. And I can go after you.”
“Oh. I, uh … I didn’t bring any extra clothes with me.”
“You can borrow some of mine. Here.” I start going through my closet, picking out a long-sleeve navy tee from my high school days with Seagulls Soccer on the front, and a pair of gray cotton shorts. The fabric at the bottom of the legs curls from when I cut them even shorter.
And I try not to think about Vale wearing my clothes.
About how he holds the shirt and shorts close to him, like he’s trying to be careful with them.
About the way his mouth opens like he’s going to say something but then he just gives me a smile and heads to my bathroom, pushing the door behind him.
Except, it doesn’t close all the way. If he doesn’t notice or he meant to leave it a little open, I don’t know.
And I don’t move to close it because then it’d probably be obvious that I was watching him or maybe give off some kind of energy that I’m uncomfortable with the door open in a got to be at least five feet apart otherwise it’s gay sort of way, which isn’t at all the vibe I’m trying to put off; if anything I would like to be zero feet apart.
I would like to see what that feels like.
Vale immediately focuses on his phone and putting on some music (and I’m going to need to ask him the name of this band later) and he doesn’t do anything when the door starts slowly opening a bit more, his phone louder than the quiet squeak of it moving.
Eventually it stops, but, from where I’m standing, I get a good look at him as he starts taking off his sweaty shirt, exposing his smooth, lean back.
And then he’s going for his socks. And finally— oh my fuck .
I turn around as quick as I can, catching my breath, realizing that I don’t think I was breathing for a minute.
I shouldn’t have been looking. I should’ve walked out of my room or put myself in a corner and stared at the wall or done anything except look.
I shouldn’t have seen him just now, pulling down his shorts and underwear in one single motion, seeing a part of him I looked at no less than twenty times while we were at the park but this time with nothing covering him.
I shouldn’t be thinking about how, if I was convinced his butt was nice in those shorts he was wearing (which it was), this was …
I can’t even describe it. I shouldn’t be trying to.
Finally the water starts and I can take a breath.
Think rationally. He might’ve done that purposefully.
Well, not purposefully, but maybe he thought nothing of needing to close the door.
He knows already how modesty isn’t something that we’re super big on in this house.
When we were playing FIFA, P é rez was talking about how all of us see one another showering on the daily after practices.
How we’ll fully walk into each other’s bathrooms when they’re midshower to grab some toilet paper whenever we run out.
He and Ahmed were sitting there in their underwear.
If I hadn’t been studying with Vale, I probably would’ve been shorts-less too.
The only difference is that Vale isn’t them.
I can admit that all three of my roommates are good-looking guys.
That Ahmed’s got social confidence and Nguyen’s got that quiet-dude charm and P é rez has a humor and this weirdly infectious charisma and they’re all catches.
They’ve all got really nice bodies. But they’re my bros.
And Kat made a good point: they aren’t Vale.
They don’t cross off my checklist like he does. The way he has today.
I can’t stop thinking about every time he smiled at me today. How it’s honestly one of my favorite things.
And I like it when he teases me. When he got some surprisingly good footwork in and kept me from stealing the ball from him and said this is why they keep me at the goal.
I like how things feel easy with him. How I could spend an entire afternoon with just him, doing another one of my favorite things. That he’s this space away from the world, someone who sees me when I’m stressed and in my head and says, Let’s go fix that.
I like how it feels when he’s lying down with half his body on my torso and his head on my heart.
And I like how good it feels to want him. To let my guard down just a little, just for today, and just to myself, and imagine.
He makes me smile just thinking about him.
That kiss . And at the front of my mind is how hot he’d look with his legs on my shoulders.
How hot he probably looks in the shower right now.
How much hotter it’d be if I were in there with him, soaping each other up, my fingers getting introduced to the crease of that incredible ass, and him on his knees—
And now I’ve got some extremely solid proof of how I feel about him trying to tear through my shorts.