Chapter 29
“YOU REALLY DIDN’T HAVE to do this.”
“I know,” Vale says, watching me. “I wanted to. Especially if I can’t be at the game today. I mean, I would’ve done this regardless, but it felt more necessary now.”
“If I didn’t already see you and Sunspot having some similarities, him in these shorts that look like all of yours would’ve been an obvious connection.”
“I was about to say,” I tell him, looking at the picture, “I need a pair like he’s wearing. But thank you, baby. I—this means a lot. And I’m going to thank you so hard when I get back.”
“I’ll be right here,” he tells me, biting his bottom lip.
I try to not let that bother me. I can’t let Barrera get in my head minutes before I’ve got to be at the locker room.
So, instead, I give Vale a deep, lingering kiss; one that convinces my own brain that it’ll be alright, that my boyfriend will be right here waiting for me and, until then, knowing how good it is to kiss him, how addicted I am to his lips, is going to drive me to give my all like always.
“First block of the game is all yours, baby.”
“Go be great, coraz ó n.”
Barrera seems to have put our conversation behind him.
Sure, he was letting out more frustration on me than usual the rest of the week during practice.
The number of times I had to hold in a “Fuck you” when he’d yell, “C’mon, Pi n a.
Don’t half-ass on us now, little bro,” when we were on the pitch or weight training or even just during warmups or conditioning has been what I—a whole-ass math major—can only quantify as a lot .
But today he’s acting like the guy I believed actually cared about me.
The guy that felt like the older brother I never had.
When I walk in, he’s all smiles, patting my shoulder, telling me how “That jacket looks good on you, little bro.” If there’s any resentment or bad blood between us coming from him, I can’t sense it now.
And maybe it’s all pretend, but I’ll take it.
If I don’t have to navigate playing the game and staying on the not-shitty side of my team captain, I will play along, and we can focus on how close we are to a championship.
I can cheer along with the rest of the squad as Barrera starts talking about how hard we’ve all worked to be here, right now, the number one ranked team in the NCAA.
And I can almost believe it when he points to me, his arm going behind my shoulders and bringing me in close as he says, “And let’s hear it for the number one keeper in the NCAA and how hard this guy’s been working to help us stay at the front of the pack. ”
The roar of my squad fills the room, vibrating off walls and lockers. My roommates smile at me and cheer me on alongside all the teammates that have helped us get this far. And Barrera slaps my chest, painting this picture of so much of what I dreamed of walking into this room for the first time.
It’ll all be worth it.
“Alright, boys. Let’s go out there and get this championship.” He lets me go and takes a step forward, putting his hand palm-down in the center of all of us. “P é rez, how about you lead us in an a huevo , yeah?”
“It’d be both a privilege and an honor, Capit á n.” P é rez’s hand lands on top of Barrera’s, and the rest of the team huddles in closer, arms out, hands close. “Three, two, one—”
“?A huevo, P é rez!” I yell from my side of the pitch, my hands circled around my mouth after watching a nasty two-touch goal; one of our juniors putting the ball back into play after these Rio Grande boys sent it out of bounds, and my boy wasting no time kicking it straight into the net.
Some beautiful work. Four–nothing right now and the game’s not even halfway over.
We’re playing like a team that knows how good we are.
And these boys from the Valley are starting to let it get under their skin.
This used to be a lot easier for them. The University of Texas–Rio Grande Valley versus A&M–Corpus Christi game was the annual meet up of a South Texas rivalry—not nearly as big as the main UT and A&M but way browner—and was, for a long time, more like a yearly ass whooping and an easy W for them.
Then they’d go back home ready to do it all again next year.
The last couple years the older guys on my squad have started to find their footing and have been making it harder on these RGV boys.
And then, for the first time in the regular season, we left Brownsville with a win of our own.
Now they’re back for round two.
I’m on the balls of my feet, holding in my words while I watch them get frisky on the defense, nearly tripping my teammates more than a few times, obviously going for ankles instead of the ball.
A couple of them already earned yellow cards for some foul play.
One of the four points we’ve got on the board was because of a free kick.
At some point after we landed our first two goals, their aggressive playing turned into pure pendejismo.
It’s like they’re more concerned with starting a fight than they are with taking home the conference title.
Another whistle and a red flag from the ref when one of RGV’s players runs into Barrera like guy’s playing rugby instead of football, nearly knocking him to the ground.
They’re close enough that I can see Barrera’s face scrunching and fuming.
He takes a breath and looks my way as I mouth “Stay cool,” my hands doing a downward motion like Keep it under control, please .
Yeah, I might be counting down the minutes until I can stop pretending like the two of us are bros, but nothing good happens if our captain acts up and gets himself carded.
They set up his free kick, a beautiful one that goes right past UT’s keeper. Five–zero. We’re eating these guys up alive.
“There you go, Barrera!” Coach yells, clapping his hands, looking confident. At this point, mans is just having fun. “That’s how you play.”
Our captain jogs over to him and they dap each other up like they’re bros. Coach turns his cap around so the bill’s at the back as he talks to Barrera for another few seconds before sending him back to the pitch with a “Keep it up! Don’t stop now.”
And then there’s the 180 in vibe difference happening when I look over to the away side benches and their team all yelling at one another, lots of arm movements and finger pointing.
It takes a minute for their coaches to get control over the squad, but eventually, after a short huddle up and some player switches, the game goes on.
Their new boys look more focused, with an equal amount of intensity but lacking all the desire to take out some kneecaps in their eyes.
Nguyen and our defense are still making it just as difficult, but there seems to be some focus happening.
Like maybe I’ll actually get to see some play today.
Their passes are rough now, and they’re handling the ball even rougher, but they’re doing enough to keep my teammates off them.
A little more than enough, if the ref were to ask my opinion, but when I give a quick glance to my right and catch him standing there watching the game go by, he doesn’t seem to be seeing anything worth a whistle.
Maybe his lungs are tired, or he’s giving them a freebee.
They aren’t messing with my squad. I might get to play some soccer today. By all means, look away for a minute, my guy. I’ve got this.
I’m halfway into a split, getting a fast stretch in when one of their wingers gets passed the ball, a clear line ahead between him and me.
“Ponte las pilas, Sanchez!” I yell, watching a sophomore on my squad rush to catch him.
And I see this RGV player sprint closer and closer, his arm coming up as my teammate reaches him, and then he sends the ball my way.
It’s a little high for me, but not nearly enough to be worried about as my hands go up.
With a confident smile, I jump, lean left, and feel something solid meet my gloves for half a second before being bopped away. And then, fuck —
A hard, stinging pressure hits the left side of my chest, near my shoulder. It’s like something solid’s run into me but also like a bunch of little sharp things. Like the bottom of a cleat.
Before I even know what’s going on, I hit the ground rough, my head banging on the dirt hard.
I think I black out for a second. I’m not entirely sure what happened.
All I know is that the ball isn’t in arm’s reach.
I hurt. And I’m dizzy. I try to move, realizing that the game might still be happening, and I need to keep guarding my post, but the muscles in my shoulder and chest and bicep are on fire.
I can’t help the yell that comes out as my face scrunches up and I fall back down on my back.
Lots of sounds are happening. Yelling. Like someone’s fighting. Whistling. Lots of boo s. Coach’s voice somewhere nearby saying, “P é rez, Ahmed, back to the sidelines,” and asking, “Pi n a? Pi n a, you with me?”
I think I tell him, “It hurts,” but my head’s still fuzzy. I don’t know if words actually came out. I do know another yell comes out. One that burns when he and Barrera each take a side and try to lift me up.
It’s Coach saying, “I think we’ve got to pull you from the game, kid,” looking from me to our team medic that gets my mind sobering up. And that gets an even harsher yell, the “No!” scraping my throat as the medic starts feeling near the injury.
“Can you even move your shoulder, Pi n a?” Barrera asks, giving me just enough space to watch me try. And it’s not that I can’t— I can —but it feels like someone’s ripping my arm off and I can’t hide the pain from my face nearly enough to convince either of them that I’m fine.
But I have to be. I have to keep going. All the work I’ve put in has to mean something.