Chapter 8
Hades
When I get home, I find a container in the fridge with food I wasn't expecting.
Glass, with a blue lid. Filled halfway with pasta in tomato sauce, and on top of it, a note.
“So you eat something. Lauren.”
My ex-wife's handwriting is still the same as when she was twenty-five.
Tighter than it needs to be, with tiny little dots over the i's.
I don't know why I started noticing it so late, when we'd already divorced and everything we wrote each other was just logistics.
“Picking up Sofi at six.” “Nora threw up in the car.” “Are you taking the girls to the pediatrician?”
But this note isn't logistics. I guess old habits don't divorce at the same time people do.
Me: Thanks for the pasta.
The three dots appear after a minute. They disappear and come back.
Lauren: No problem.
There's the whole divorce right there. One word where years ago she would have written many.
**
The next day, at seven in the evening, I ring the doorbell of the house we bought to raise the girls in and that I never quite moved into.
The porch needs a coat of paint, I've mentioned it several times.
Nora left her bike leaning against the railing with a flat tire.
It's probably been there since I left for Florida.
My daughter Sofía opens the door with her hair still wet from the shower and a unicorn pajama set.
She throws herself at my neck the way she did when she was smaller, and I swear she weighs more than she did three weeks ago. She complains when I pull her against me, says I'm going to break her. God, I've missed them so much.
Nora appears behind her, with socks pulled up to her knees and an Aura Valley jersey I've never seen before in my life.
“Where did that jersey come from?”
“Mom bought it online.”
“How come?”
“Just because. I don't know, I think it's from that new player you signed,” Lauren says, stepping in; she's never been much of a soccer fan. “Dinner's almost ready.”
I sit in the living room, and the girls insist on showing me Pickle.
Nora complains that he barely does anything, just sleeps and eats.
I never let them have a pet before. Then she runs off and comes back with a notebook.
She did a drawing for school, the title reads “MY FAMILY” in capital letters.
There are the four of us and the guinea pig.
Me with a whistle hanging around my neck.
The guinea pig takes up most of the page.
Lauren watches from the kitchen and smiles.
We eat lasagna; the twins love it. Lauren always puts in too much béchamel. We used to argue about that, but it doesn't matter anymore.
The girls talk to me about school, about the guinea pig, about a new show on TV, about how on Saturday they're going to the stadium to watch the first game of the season. I tell them off for speaking with their mouths full, but I give up on it pretty quickly.
“Wave at me from the stands.”
“I'm going to be working, Nor. I'm the coach,” I remind her.
“Wave anyway. Three fingers,” she insists.
Three fingers is our code since the twins were five. If I lift three fingers quietly from the bench, it means I've seen them, I love them, and they should cheer loud for the team. I haven't done it in two seasons.
And then Sofía, casually, the way she'd mention what the weather's been like this week, drops it:
“Florida must be so cool,” she says. “Just imagine being in the pool in late February in a T-shirt, with Mireya Guerrero.”
Lauren sets her fork down halfway between her plate and her mouth and very slowly turns her eyes to me.
That night I'm the one who puts them to bed.
It's an unwritten agreement we have. When I come for dinner, that's my job.
I always use the time to read them a couple of pages of some book, and we stay up a little talking.
Nora asks me if one year they can come with me to preseason and miss school.
Sofía asks me if Mireya Guerrero is nice.
I kiss them both on the forehead and send them to sleep without answering that last question.
When I come downstairs, Lauren is waiting in the living room with two glasses of wine.
“I saw the look on your face when Sofia mentioned that new player,” she says, no preamble, holding my gaze.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I say.
“Diana, I'm not accusing you of anything. We're adults, we've been divorced five years, and we haven't touched each other in two. You don't owe me any explanation. But… you're playing with fire. You know that, right?”
“There's nothing going on,” I lie.
“I'm only asking one thing. Be careful. I'm asking for the girls' sake, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Promise me.”
“Yes, God. I already told you there's nothing,” I insist.
“One more thing,” she adds, swirling the wine in her glass. “If you need to talk to someone, you know I'm here. I'm not going to judge you, but don't keep it bottled up inside.”
I nod. She lifts her glass toward mine, and we toast without letting them touch.
**
Training sessions during the week are a disaster.
Mireya doesn't show up for the Tuesday video session.
On Thursday I get on Iris's case because she keeps touching her ponytail.
She gives me a strange look, rolls her eyes, and says nothing back.
I was expecting some sarcastic comment, something that would let me snap a couple of times and let off steam, but nothing.
I correct Mireya's position on a counter.
“Yes, Coach,” she answers, flat.
“Vance, stop touching your ponytail!” I shout, because I can't admit that Mireya's cold tone cuts deeper than a knife.
“Oh, Coach, it's a tic I've had since I was little. I can't help it. If I don't do it, I don't score goals. And if I don't score goals, Drummond's going to call you to complain. Up to you,” she says, opening her hands and shrugging while Tina tries to hide a laugh.
Mireya does exactly what I tell her. Nothing more. Not a trace of the creativity that defines her, and nothing works.
After the afternoon session, Nika Wallace shows up at my office.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Sit down.”
She sits in the low chair, the one every player hates because it sits two inches below mine.
“I'd like to talk about my minutes on Saturday.”
“I decide who gets minutes.”
“Okay, just tell me if I'm starting the game or not.”
“You're starting.”
I say it without thinking. Mireya has spent a week training badly while Nika has given everything in every session.
“I'm starting?” she asks again.
“That's what I said. Four-back line. I need runs in behind the back line. You cover more ground. Mireya links up better, but you're faster. That's it. Is that everything? Because I have a lot to do.”
“I want to know one thing.”
“For God's sake,” I mutter.
“Am I starting Saturday because I'm better than Mireya for this game, or because something happened between you two?”
I raise my eyebrows as far as they go and fix her with a look meant to end the conversation.
“What did you just say?”
The problem is she repeats it. She doesn't apologize, and she doesn't waver.
“I'd remind you that I'm your coach,” I say, gripping the marker in my hand so hard the plastic cracks. “I hope you're not saying what I think you're saying.”
“I haven't said anything unprofessional,” she defends herself.
“Then start being a professional right now and get out of my office,” I tell her, pointing at the door with one finger.
“Guerrero isn't better than me,” she murmurs, holding my gaze. “The problem is that you look at her like she's the answer to something you've been asking yourself for years. And I can't compete against that,” she adds, dropping her eyes.
**
Friday at six thirty I gather the players in the video room.
They might think the lineup announcements don't weigh on me, but they do. Some of them know nobody's taking their spot. For the others, these meetings are agony. I know it well, because not so many years ago I was one of those players.
I start with a short rundown on the opposing team. Very physical midfield, they prefer to attack down the left, and the left back pushes forward regularly. A striker who's fast and strong on the ball.
Fifteen more minutes to go over our set-piece strategy.
Then the lineup.
I read it straight from my notebook.
“Goalkeeper, Castillo. Four-back line, right to left: Lucía, Bennett, Carter, Park. Midfield: Zoe Méndez, Jade Herrera, Jamie. Right wing: Iris Vance. Left wing: Walsh. Striker: Wallace.”
The room goes quiet.
Iris turns to look at Mireya, then looks at me.
“Damn,” she says. Just that.
Nobody comments. Nobody has to. I'm the coach.
“Substitutes called up: Vargas, Guerrero, Lin, Tina, Schmidt, Roberts, McGraz.”
Mireya doesn't look up.
I go on for a few more minutes, running through transitions and marking assignments.
“Questions?”
Nobody says anything.
“Good. Tomorrow I want everyone ready two hours before kickoff. Go get some rest.”
The players stand, chairs scraping across the floor. They file out in clusters, talking low. Iris walks past me and makes a strange face.
Mireya is the last one out. She passes beside me and turns.
“Good luck tomorrow.”
**
Saturday at two in the afternoon, Tina has put reggaeton on in the locker room.
Zoe already has the captain's armband on her arm.
Iris put on gloves she doesn't need but likes to wear.
Lucía is on her knees tying her cleats with three knots, like she does before every game.
Jade is talking quietly with Walsh about corners.
We walk out through the tunnel, and the stands erupt as the PA system blasts music to get the crowd going. No matter how many games you've played, stepping onto the field is always something.
I look up toward the box, and I see them. Sofía is wearing a club jersey, I'm guessing with the number I wore years ago on the back. Nora is wearing Mireya's Aura Valley jersey. Lauren is sitting between them and hasn't taken her eyes off me.
I lift three fingers.
Nora sees it and elbows Sofía. Both of them smile. Lauren gives a slow nod.
On the bench, right behind me, Mireya Guerrero is already seated with her eyes fixed on the center of the field.
The eleven players from the opposing team walk out to the center circle. Ours do the same. Handshakes. Coin toss. Iris raises her arm, says something, and Lucía laughs. Nika is already in her position. Ready to prove she deserves the spot.
The opposing coach nods at me from across the field.
Whistle to my mouth.
Opening kickoff.