Chapter 29 #2
I move enough, however slowly, for the medic to take a better look at the damage, hissing through my teeth as we lift my jersey and Barrera helps keep my arm high. “Shit, Pi n a,” he says. “He kicked you good.”
I look at the medic, whose face doesn’t hide that he agrees with my captain.
“It doesn’t look broken, or like the cleat dug into your skin enough to be a real problem, but you’re going to be in pain for a few days.
The bruises are going to be big. And the way your head landed, I’m worried you might have a concussion.
At least you’re not bleeding. But it’d only take something small to turn this into a serious injury.
The cleat spikes fully tore through your shirt too.
I’m not comfortable letting you play anymore. ”
“No,” I say again, looking at him and then at Coach. It comes out like a plea this time. I’m fully begging. “Please. Coach, you know how huge this is. Everything ends here if I step off the pitch.”
“Pi n a, I— Think rationally here. This isn’t a bad injury. It could’ve been a lot worse, and you’re asking for it to be. The way you make sure everything doesn’t end here, today, is for you to listen to our medic and me.”
I’m looking anywhere else except for him or to the stands. At the sky, gray from an incoming cold front. At a plane flying nearby. Because I don’t want to have to look him in the eye while I’m crying. I don’t want my family, my Pops, to see me like this.
“ Please. I can do it.”
“There’s no way that’s happening,” Coach tells me, his voice firm. “You’ve got three more years ahead of you. I’m not letting you add another minute to your record if it means you hurt yourself even more and I lose you for the rest of the season. For potentially longer if you really fuck up.
“For today, it’s over, Pi n a,” he continues, his hand gently landing on my less bruised shoulder. “But take care of yourself and we’ll see if we can’t get you back on the pitch for the championship game. ”
“From just a quick observational assessment, I’d say your chances are good of still coming back this season,” the medic adds. “Even before the final match. But you have to take care of yourself. And you have to walk off.”
“I’m sorry, kid,” Coach tells me. “But please listen to me here. Go with our medic, get your things, let him check you out, and find someone to keep an eye on you. Ask your parents, text a friend, wait until the game’s over and get Nguyen if you need to, but if you might have a concussion there’s no way I’m letting you go anywhere by yourself.
And none of that is a suggestion. It’s an order. ”
My eyes go to Barrera, memories coming to mind of him telling me that I’m the best keeper this team has ever had.
How much he’s pushed me this season. Him showing me that first ESPN article talking about me being a Freshman to Watch.
It’s like those same thoughts are running through his head too, as he steps up close and a hand lands at the back of my neck.
For the first time in a long time, I’m seeing that same guy who I met nearly a few months ago.
I want to believe that that’s who’s standing in front of me.
“Barrera.” My voice is strained, pleading. “Big bro. Come on. Please. ”
“I need my keeper at his best if we’re going to take this whole thing.” If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he sounds hurt for me. Like he’s actually empathizing with me here. “We’ve won. You’ve done exactly what I needed you to do today. Go home, Pi n a.”
I nod, wiping my eyes with my jersey. “This fucking sucks.”
“Yeah. I know,” Barrera says. “Just get some rest.”
I take a deep breath, trying my best to suck back in all the emotions and tears in my eyes, and give him one more nod.
And as I walk off the pitch, the sound of clapping and people cheering for me muted, slip off my gloves, grab my things from the bench, and give our backup keeper a quick fist bump and a “Ponte las pilas,” I try my best to keep it together.
I try not to listen to the applause that keeps coming for me.
Or the sound of the game going on without me as I hold on to my phone, typing out a text.
Can you meet me at the field in a few minutes?
On my way there right now.
And a blue heart.
“It’s okay, mi’jo,” Pops tells me for the tenth, maybe twentieth time as I continue to cry into his shoulder in the middle of the parking lot.
He holds me as gently as possible, my shoulder, bicep, and nearly half my chest bandaged up and held still with a shoulder sling, covered by my team jacket.
At some point I need to leave. After getting checked out, our medic helping me shower so I wouldn’t hurt myself, and being left alone in the locker room to grab my stuff and leave our field for the last time this year, I want to be anywhere but here.
Everywhere hurts, as much as the pain relievers are already helping, and being somewhere I can lie down for a while and forget how a kick to the chest ruined my shutout record sounds nice.
“I’m sorry, Pops,” I say, seeing visions of a younger me getting hurt for the first time playing football and crying for my dad.
Of Pops taking a knee and looking at me, making sure I was genuinely more okay than my five-year-old brain thought I was.
And of him telling me that sometimes we get hurt.
But we’ve got to get back up, always. To keep going.
“I couldn’t keep going. As badly as I wanted to.”
“Don’t apologize, Gabi. You’ve got so much to be proud of, yeah?
There’s no other eighteen-year-old in the country doing what you’ve done this season.
And you got back up. You showed him that you’re going to be around to play another day and for a long time after that.
You’ve taken a lot of bigger hits. You’ll be okay, boy. ”
“I was so close to hitting the top ten. To having one of the ten longest shutouts in history.”
“Pues, this year you’re number eleven, next year you’re number ten. Breathe, okay? It’s not the end of the world. You’ve already made me prouder than anyone else in those stands. I’m always proud of you.”
I nod, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, trying to force some calm on myself.
One day, maybe soon, I’ll be able to think of today like that.
How, out of all my football-related injuries over the years, this isn’t even in the top five worst. But the cost of it is what hurts like breaking every bone in my body.
It’s making my brain go irrational, calling me a failure. And I can’t shake out the voice.
Being eleven versus ten could’ve been the difference between being expendable and being necessary.
Now all I’m seeing is how breakable I am.
How easy it is to just take me out of the game.
And that’s without them knowing that I’m also bi.
That I’m bi and I want to be great. I have to be great.
I want the chance to show everyone that I could be both.
As proud of me as Pops says he is, have I done enough to prove to him that I could be both?
“You can still come home with your mom and me.” Pops holds my chin up, looking into each of my eyes like he’s checking if he can see any signs of a concussion just from that. “Your room’s all ready for you.”
“I’ll be okay, Pops. I—Vale’s here, and he’s going to take me back, and I’ll have everyone there. I promise, I’ll have too many eyes on me. I’ll be okay.”
“Pues.” He looks over at Vale standing only a couple yards behind me and then walks past me over to him, putting a hand on my-boyfriend-he-doesn’t-know-is-my-boyfriend’s shoulder.
“I want a text at least once every other hour. And once every four hours for the rest of the weekend. And if he starts feeling the tiniest bit worse, take him to the hospital. We’ll be around.
His mom’s going to want to make sure he eats. We’ll bring enough for all of y’all.”
Vale nods, giving him back a “Yessir.”
“’Ueno. You’re a good kid. I’m happy Gabi’s got you.”
“Always,” Vale tells him with a soft smile, giving me a quick glance. “We’ve got each other.”
And when my parents finally hug me (carefully) goodbye and start walking to their car, I don’t care if they look back and catch us, I don’t care if Coach sees, I can’t wait until we’re back at the house.
I take steps as quick as I can to Vale and hug him.
One armed, but still as tightly as I can, fighting back more tears as he hugs me back and tells me, “I know how hard this is for you. I know how much this matters. And I’m so sorry, Gabi. ”
“Do you need anything?” Vale asks as we get in the truck.
He watches me, ready to jump in and help, but thankfully letting me do this on my own.
I hold on to the grab handle and pull myself up before buckling myself in with my good arm.
When I’m finally settled in, I hear his sigh, knowing that it took a lot for him to give me that.
“No,” I tell him, the word coming out quiet. “I’m—I don’t need anything. Just home.”
I can feel Vale’s eyes on me, watching me lean on the door, and he tells me, “Don’t fall asleep, okay coraz ó n?”
I let out an “Mm-hmm” and then a “I won’t,” just to make sure he believes me. As much as I’d like to.
It’s a short drive, but with Vale’s careful driving so I can lean and rest without a bump knocking my head against the window, it feels like forever.
When we’ve finally made it, Vale stays close by as we walk up the stairs, even though I tell him that I can walk fine.
He helps me take off my jacket and then my soccer pants and makes sure I’m careful as I lie down.
And he rushes downstairs with an “I’ll be right back,” returning with my bottle filled with water, setting it on the nightstand.
“Will you get in with me?” I ask Vale, watching him take my championship basket over to my desk chair.
“What about your roommates? When they get back they’ll—”
“I don’t care. I just want to hold you. If Nguyen and Ahmed find out about me—about us—I’m okay with that. I—I need you right now. Please.”