Chapter 18
“BOBA AFTER THIS?” I ask Vale, my weight leaning on the railings at the bottom of the stands, him on the other side, his hands so close to mine it’s honestly making me antsy.
I can’t stop smiling, getting a look at him in my jacket.
Every time I see him in it, it just gets better and better.
And, sure, maybe I should be running away from that feeling.
Call me hedonistic. Gluttonous or prideful, even.
“Oh, or tacos? Tacos and then boba?”
“Yeah,” he says with a smile. “Both. I like that idea. I think you deserve it after getting your first A minus on a paper. And before you really have to start studying for the midterm.”
“Hey, hey. Hey. No talk of that right now. Don’t bring down the mood.
” I knew Vale was going to mention it soon.
Coolidge literally told him yesterday while we were walking out to make sure I was staying on top of it.
And he has, as much as I’ve tried my best to do anything else.
To Vale’s credit, I’ve already got a basic outline made; we went over a couple of my past papers and summarized the important points; and he had me reread (against my will) that Socrates, what is piety, “sell out my dad” story.
I’m not excited about this midterm, but I’m not unprepared.
He lets out a soft laugh, rolling his eyes at me. “Don’t let any shots get past you today and I promise not to bring it up again until Monday.”
“Deal.”
“Pi n a!” Barrera calls, nudging his head back, telling me it’s time to start getting serious. And then again, an even more stern “Pi n a!” when I spend truly not even two more seconds to let myself take one more glance at Vale. Can’t have nothing.
I hop off the railing and jog over to our benches, taking a stance next to Cap. His arm reaches around my shoulders and pulls me in close. His eyes stay straight ahead, looking at the other team as he asks, “He doesn’t have another hoodie, or what?”
“Who?”
“That guy you were talking to. The one you’re always talking to instead of focusing.”
If this was anyone else, I wouldn’t let him get away with that kind of accusation.
I’d make it known that, even if I’m still one of the newer guys on the squad, he doesn’t get to disrespect me like this.
As if I’m not constantly putting my entire focus into this game, even when I’m not on the pitch.
If he was anyone else, I might know how to push back.
I might not be so worried that one wrong glance, and he’s going to see in my eyes all the things I’ve thought involving Vale.
The thoughts I leave back in my room the moment I put my kit on and leave, as much as my heart goes wild when I see him here for me.
“He’s my friend. What’s it to you what he wears?”
“It’s my business because I’m looking out for you,” he says, backing up just enough to finally have the decency to look me in the eyes.
And I do my best to not look away. To not let him be the alpha dog he’s convinced he is.
The few inches he’s got on me has never felt so drastic, like he’s trying to make himself even taller, wanting me to feel like he’s not just looking at me but looking down on me.
“Everyone here can see what he is. How he looks at you. They’re making some observations about the way they think you’re looking at him too. And that makes it my problem.”
I try even harder to not flinch as his eyes squint, like he’s looking for a truth here. As if he’ll see for himself what’s just chisme and what’s actually real.
“I don’t care who your friends are, and I don’t care who’s blowing their backs out.
Except when I see the way some of the people here for us look at him.
When I see the way they look at the two of you.
When I start hearing whispers of what they’re calling it.
That’s my business. When I start hearing people think I’ve got a maric ó n on my team, it becomes my business. ”
“Don’t say that word,” I snap at him, quietly enough to still keep this between us. “And so what? You’re going to dog on me instead of defending him? Defending me?”
“Do you need defending?”
“I—” Shit. “That’s not what I mean. And you know that. I’m saying you’re not going to have my back? You’re just going to let people talk shit about me?”
“Chinga’o, Pi n a. Nah. I’m not getting myself into a problem that can be solved if you’d just go to the bookstore and get him a hoodie. Take your jacket back. Give it to a girl. Boom, solved.”
“So, fuck everything I’ve done so far this season because one of my friends has a jacket with my name on it?
” I ask. My whole body’s vibrating, losing the kind of composure I’d like to have before I’m about to play ninety minutes of football.
But I’m not going to get pushed without pushing back.
Not when someone who says he cares about me, who calls himself my big brother, has something to say about Vale.
“I’ve put in the work. I’ve shown up every day and then some.
I’ve never given less than two hundred percent every time I’m on this pitch and wearing this kit.
So much for all that little bro talk, huh? ”
I’m really trying to keep my cool, as much as every word that comes out of my mouth makes me feel bolder and makes me want to fight even more.
As long as I keep my cool, it just looks like I’m having a friendly teammate talk with my boy, my Capit á n.
Also, besides Coach, this one guy holds my future for the rest of the season in his hands.
That never seemed like a threat until now.
Back when he had a lot of good things to say about me, I was comfortable with it.
Embraced it, even. Drank the juice. Chugged it.
But, until now, or very recently, he never gave me the impression that he cared at all about Vale.
Not until some pinches putos started being a little brave and talking mess.
“I’m telling you this because I don’t want all of that to mean nothing.
Because you’re my little bro. I’m reaching a hand out, Pi n a.
Grab it or don’t. It’s your choice. And, either way, enough of the being a smartass.
You’re getting way too comfortable. Too confident.
Remember your place. That, as good as anyone might tell you you are, it’s always below me. I’m the one who runs this team.”
I look away from him, straight out to the grass.
“How about I’ll keep doing what I’m doing and if anyone has a problem with me letting someone wear my clothes, he can let me know to my face.
He can tell me straight up. And, if there isn’t anyone big enough to, right here and now, then we can go on with focusing on this game. ”
I can feel his glare. Hear how he spits on the grass. And I know that I’ve got a big, red strike one in his mind. “Alright then, little bro . Get to your post.”
“Ya voy, Capit á n.”
And the thing about starting a game barely holding on to my composure, more pissed off than I’d like to be, is, instead of letting it bother me the whole game, I can embrace those feelings.
Use Barrera’s words and threats that replay in my head over and over again as fuel.
I can let that frustration and anger fire me up.
As long as I stay focused, I’m just going to play harder, stronger.
Turn it into motivation. Don’t let anything past me.
It’s just that staying focused part that takes some control. Let the rage come out and play, but don’t let that energy start taking out everything in its path.
Nearing the halfway mark, as I send the ball back into play after another blocked goal attempt from an A and then in just over forty-five, I can go clean off and put all this behind me—get some food and boba with Vale and not let this afternoon spoil my weekend.