Chapter 6
Paula
First home game. The Seattle Emeralds stadium is packed, and I barely know how to react when Iris grabs my hand in the tunnel and laces our fingers together.
“Camera there,” she whispers in my ear, tilting her chin toward a TV operator to our left, and then she kisses my cheek.
She did it for the cover. It's professional. It's what we agreed on. Physical contact when cameras are around. Holding hands in public, gestures of affection. All within protocol.
The camera moves. Points at other players. The reason for holding hands disappears.
But Iris doesn't let go.
Neither do I.
We walk the last fifty feet of the tunnel like that, twenty-five thousand people roaring on the other side. The PA system rattles the walls. The floodlights are on and the Seattle sky looks like a gray sheet designed to make the artificial light burn brighter.
“Nervous?” I ask.
Iris looks at me. Green eyes full of spark. When she chews her gum fast, she's nervous. When she chews slow, she's locked in. Right now she's chewing fast.
“I'm always nervous before a game, even preseason, but don't tell anyone. I'm supposed to be the tough one on the team,” she says.
“Your secret's safe.”
“When I'm nervous, I score more. If I miss, I walk over to the photographers and scream something I shouldn't. The fans love it. Makes them feel like I'm one of them. And honestly, I am. I'll do everything I can to never leave this club.”
She lets go and sprints toward the center circle, hands up to greet the crowd, her blonde ponytail swinging side to side.
I climb to my seat next to Tessa. Wesley spots me and reaches out his hand.
The game hasn't started, but the kid is screaming nonstop.
Could be “goal” or could be any other word.
Tessa wipes his chin with a cloth. He's cutting some molars and chewing everything in reach: the collar of his jersey, his stuffed animals.
A couple days ago I let him bite my finger, and he nearly took it off.
Watching Iris play live is different. She reads gaps before they open, cuts with a hip fake that drops defenders flat. She receives with her back to the goal, spins, shoots.
The ball goes wide.
“Son of a bitch!” she screams, veering toward the photographers, and that section of the stands loses it.
Twenty minutes later, she scores.
She gets a through ball from Zoe, traps it on her thigh, turns, and drives it low, past the keeper's reach.
She rips off her jersey again and swings it over her head. Hades buries her face in her hands. Tina jumps on top of Zoe. The whole team celebrates. The stadium roars.
Next to me, Wesley screams:
“Iwis! Iwis!”
She sprints toward the sideline, points at our section, and blows a kiss our way.
And then she looks at me. The smile she gives me isn't her press smile. It isn't her Instagram smile. It's the one that comes out when she's playing with Wesley. The one I saw in Florida when she didn't know I was watching her tell him a story. The one that lasts two seconds and then vanishes.
She keeps running. Her teammates swallow her up and she disappears in a pile of hugs.
“She was looking at you,” Tessa says, voice low. “The kiss could've been for Wesley, but that smile… that was for you.”
I don't answer.
“For what it's worth,” she adds, “this is my second year with this team and I've never seen her look for anyone in the stands after a goal.”
“It's for the cameras, the sponsors, and all that,” I say, shrugging.
“Right, the cameras and the sponsors,” she repeats.
Sixty-third minute. Iris battles for a ball on the sideline. The score is one-nil and the crowd is pushing. The moment the ball goes out, the jumbotron cuts to us.
Our faces fill the screen at the south end. Huge. Pixelated. Mine and Wesley's. He crawled into my lap less than ten minutes ago because he wanted a better view. An animated heart frames our faces. The music changes. Heads start turning.
Twenty-five thousand people in the stadium, and the kiss cam has to land on me.
Wesley points at the screen with his tiny finger.
“Dere! Pola! Me!”
“Yeah, buddy. I see it.”
“Kiss!” the kid yells. He's been to enough games to know exactly how the kiss cam works.
The crowd starts chanting. Clapping. Whistling. The camera doesn't move. The heart blinks.
I kiss the top of his head. Wesley cracks up. The crowd cheers. The camera moves to the next couple.
Seventy-first minute. Iris takes a foul at the edge of the box. She gets up limping, brushes the grass off her knee, and says something to the defender that the microphones are better off not picking up. Jade Herrera takes the free kick. The ball floats over the wall and cracks off the crossbar.
The game ends one-nil. Win. Iris pulls off her cleats at midfield and waves to the crowd barefoot. Someone throws a team scarf from the stands, and she wraps it around her neck.
Later, in the press room, reporters wait to ask her and Zoe some questions. She walks out with wet hair, clean clothes, her press smile locked into place.
“Iris, great game. How do you feel about the win?”
“Amazing. The team was unreal. Zoe gave me that pass and I trapped it on my thigh and thought: if I don't finish this, I'm retiring.”
“We've noticed you've been in very good company since preseason camp in Florida. Care to share anything about the new relationship?” asks a reporter who seems more interested in gossip than soccer.
Iris smiles and tilts her head. Showtime.
“Her name's Paula. We met at a coffee shop. She ordered an espresso, I ordered a latte that I spilled all over her shirt walking past her. Instead of killing me, she asked me for another coffee. I thought it was sweet. Love at first stain.”
Laughs. The reporter scribbles in a notebook.
“She seems very serious, doesn't she? We've never seen her smile,” another one presses.
“Paula is more serious than most. It's like dating a calculator with pretty eyes.”
“A calculator with pretty eyes?” another reporter asks.
“Oh man, don't tell her I said that. Very pretty eyes, by the way. Very dark. Very serious. They light up when you bring her coffee. That's a trick I've picked up lately.”
More laughs. The reporters love her. Iris knows it. She feeds them headlines nonstop. Quotes that get shared and drive traffic.
***
At midnight, in Iris's apartment, I go through the stadium's security camera footage. Section by section. Stand by stand.
Camera seven. North section. Row twelve, seat twenty-three.
There he is.
Young. Mid-twenties. Thin. Brown hair. Thick-framed glasses.
A black T-shirt with @yoursecondskinseesyouforreal printed in white letters.
Until now, he posted from behind anonymity.
Now he wears the alias. That's a shift in behavior, and when that happens with a stalker, it never leads anywhere good.
I take a screenshot. Zoom in. The image is grainy, but enough. Narrow nose, small jaw. He doesn't watch the game. His eyes stay on Iris. When she moves, his head turns. When she celebrates the goal, he doesn't clap. He sits still. He watches. Just watches.
I write in my notebook: “Subject visually identified. Location: north section, row twelve, seat twenty-three. Close to the players' tunnel access. Next step: coordinate with police for formal identification.”
A screenshot and a T-shirt with an alias aren't enough for a restraining order. I know that. The subject bought his ticket, sat in his seat, made no attempt to contact Iris. Legally, he's a spectator. He has every right to be at the game.
I save the screenshot. Open another recording. Camera three. Tunnel area. End of game.
Iris walks off the field after the win. Club scarf around her neck, cleats in her hand. She walks among her teammates. The crowd screams. Flashes pop.
And at second fourteen of the video, she looks up at the stands.
Second fifteen. She finds me.
Second sixteen. She smiles.
Second seventeen. She keeps walking.
I rewind. Watch the sequence again.
Rewind again. Searches. Finds. Smiles.
The third time I watch it, I close the laptop.
Iris Vance walks off a field with twenty-five thousand people screaming her name, and the first person she looks for is me.
My heart is beating too fast.
My phone rings, and pulls me back.
“Have you eaten?”
“Abuela, it's midnight.”
“It's one here. I saw your player's goal.”
“You watch soccer?”
“Carmela sent it to me on WhatsApp. She says she's your girlfriend,” she answers, like it's nothing.
“Who's Carmela?”
“My neighbor. She likes soccer. I haven't told her anything about your job, don't worry,” she assures me.
“Abuela, nobody can find out about Iris. It's really important,” I remind her.
“Your voice changes when you say her name.”
“My voice doesn't change,” I protest.
“It does. It softens. Like when you were little and you'd tell me about that dog you wanted to adopt.”
“Go to sleep, abuela. It's late. I love you.”
“Take care of yourself. And take care of her. Both at the same time, mija,” she says before she hangs up.
I lie on the bed. The laptop on the nightstand, closed. Inside it, a video I've watched three times. Searches. Finds. Smiles.
Down the hall, the murmur of Iris's TV bleeds under her door.