Chapter 12
Mireya
Seven days without training and I'm about to lose my mind. For a professional athlete, being forced to sit still is its own kind of torture. My head fills with noise, like every alarm going off at once with no way to shut any of them down.
Tessa visits on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, always at eleven on the dot.
She arrives with her medical bag, a fresh ice pack even when I don't need one, and two different types of kinesiology tape.
She does her work in silence. She knows that the itch to get back out there hurts more than the injury itself.
“Zoe rushed back when she tore her ACL years ago, and she's still dealing with the consequences,” she reminds me every time I complain.
Then she makes coffee for both of us in the kitchen and fills me in on everything happening with the team, even though I video call several teammates every night.
“You're doing well,” she tells me on Friday, packing up her things. “Start putting some weight on it carefully, and tomorrow we can try the hydrotherapy pool. You'll get to see the rest of the girls.”
“When can I get back on the field?”
“Two more weeks, no arguing. If you argue, three weeks,” she jokes.
I walk her to the door on my crutches, and when it closes behind her, I go back to the couch and scroll through my messages with Diana.
Seven days of this. If she's hard to get words out of in person, over text it's nearly impossible. Monday at eight in the morning, after Tessa dropped me at home from the club: “Did you get back okay?” Me: “Yes.” Her: “Good.”
Tuesday: “Ice every twenty minutes?” Me: “Every twenty.” Her: “Okay.”
Every day like that.
Just over twenty words in a week. I counted. At least she's stopped by here a couple of times after training. We decided it's better I don't stay at her place for now, to avoid problems until we figure out what we're actually doing.
Me: Tessa says I start the hydrotherapy pool tomorrow. And in two weeks I'm back on the field. I'm dying here, you have no idea how bored I am.
Both checkmarks go blue, and then the three dots appear.
Diana: Bored how? Reading? Not playing? Or me?
I read it four times, and on the fourth something in me cracks and a laugh slips out. Diana is attempting a joke.
Me: Not of you yet. But you could honestly come by more often.
Diana: Tomorrow I'll pick you up at eight and make you dinner at my place.
I close my eyes, and a stupidly wide smile takes over my face.
Me: Are you going to send me home before midnight again like I'm Cinderella?
Diana: If you promise to behave, you can stay over. Followed by a wink.
**
The next day, Tessa picks me up for the pool session. It's strange; I feel almost as nervous as I did on the first day of preseason.
I'm starting to get the hang of moving on crutches, and the first thing I hear when I arrive at the training facility is Iris screaming, coming out of the locker room.
“Oh man, Guerrero, you're back among the living!”
“Back among the injured-on-crutches. Don't get too excited.”
“Hey, but look at those forearms getting seriously toned. With those, you're going to be killing it,” she jokes.
She hugs me carefully, mostly because Diana tells her not to even think about knocking me over. Lucía, Park, Walsh, Tina, and the rest of the players come up behind her.
“Nika! Get over here and say hi to Guerrero!” Zoe calls.
She hesitates a couple of seconds, but walks over with her arms slightly stiff at her sides, and when she's standing in front of me, she doesn't quite know where to put her hands.
“Hey,” she says.
We stand in silence until Iris makes a signal to the others to give us space, using an excuse that makes no sense but somehow works anyway.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
“Getting by, more or less. Three more weeks and I'm ready to come back.”
“Okay.”
“And you.”
“Good.”
A pause. The conversation is about as comfortable as a wet jersey.
“You played well in the last game. It was hard watching it on TV,” I admit.
“Yeah, thanks,” she answers, nothing more.
Then she pulls a bracelet from her bag; a black braided leather cord with two small beads, and hands it to me.
“It's from Tana, my niece. She's nine. She made one for every player on the team. She gave you a green bead for our team color and a blue one for Aura Valley. Hope you like it.”
“Thank you. Tell Tana it's beautiful. And, Nika, what happened in that scrimmage? Forget it, okay? I know it was just an accident.”
She opens her mouth a couple of times, but the words don't make it out, so she just nods and walks away. Fortunately, Diana comes over right then, pretends she's checking in on how I'm feeling, and drops her voice low.
“I'll pick you up tonight at eight. I'm making you a real dinner.”
“Do I need to wear something nice underneath?” I ask, lowering my voice to a murmur.
“Or you could come without anything underneath at all, that works too,” she answers with a wink before disappearing into her office.
**
At five to eight I'm already waiting outside my door, nervous, a bottle of red wine in my hand. She arrives exactly on time, as always, and when she gets out of the car to help me, I can't stop noticing how good she looks in just jeans and a shirt rolled up to the elbows.
The moment we get to her place, she settles me on the couch and practically sprints to the kitchen. I hear the oven open, the rush of hot air, the crinkle of aluminum foil.
“I made lemon chicken,” she calls, poking her head around the door for a second. “Don't expect anything fancy, but I'm good at it, at least that's what my daughters say.”
And the truth is, the lemon chicken is good. So is the salad. The wine, better than I expected.
We talk about the twins, about Wesley, who's learning his colors and apparently decided this week that he won't eat anything green because Iris told him vegetables are turtle food.
We talk about my mother, about my old team, still sitting at the bottom of the standings but at least no longer having to worry about going under for the next five years.
We don't mention the injury.
“So you're staying?” she asks after dessert, and I swear she blushes a little.
“I was counting on it. I wore nice underwear. Coming with nothing on seemed a little over the top,” I answer with a pointed little smile.
That lands. She actually blushes.
Before I know it, we're both in the bathroom. She hands me a new toothbrush, still in its packaging, and we brush our teeth side by side in front of the mirror. Thank God Iris isn't here to see this.
When she turns off the lights, I climb under the covers in her 2011 World Cup jersey and no pajama pants.
“For someone who's terrifying at training, I didn't think you'd be shy,” I murmur, turning to kiss her forehead.
“Defense mechanism, I think,” she admits, shrugging.
“You know what? I watched the final of that World Cup with my father when I was a little girl. You lost on penalty kicks, right?”
“I watched it from the bench, basically chewing my fingers down to nothing,” she confesses.
I can almost picture it; a twenty-five-year-old Diana Creed biting her nails through the most important game of her life without ever setting foot on the field. I smile to myself and, without thinking, slide my hand under her shirt.
She does the same, her open palm moving slowly across the skin of my back, so slowly, and I forget to breathe for a couple of seconds.
I ease myself on top of her, careful not to put any pressure on the ankle, press my body against hers as we kiss, feel her tongue finding mine, slide my thigh between her legs, and press.
Diana breathes in deep. She pulls back half an inch. Presses her forehead to mine and closes her eyes.
“Mireya.”
“What's wrong?”
“Not tonight either.”
“God, you can't leave me like this,” I say.
“I want it to be something special when it happens, and for that I need your ankle to actually be healed. If it gets worse because we couldn't wait, I'd never forgive myself,” she says.
“Okay, but my hand stays where it is, that has absolutely nothing to do with the ankle.”
I'm trying to be funny, but honestly, my body has very different ideas right now.
**
“Have you been awake long?” I ask, opening my eyes slowly.
“A while.”
“Looking at me?”
“A while.”
“Diana. That's unhinged.”
She laughs and moves the hair off my cheek. Carefully, as if I'm still sleeping and she doesn't want to wake me. Then she slides her hand slowly along my face, her thumb tracing my cheekbone, and I find myself leaning into her touch without meaning to.
I lift my hand and brush the tips of my fingers along her collarbone. She lets out a slow breath.
“If you keep doing that, I'm going to have a problem with what we decided last night,” she murmurs.
“The waiting thing?”
“The waiting thing.”
“Okay. What if I touch you here?” I ask, running the back of my hand across her nipples and feeling them tighten.
“I'll go get breakfast,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me.
“You're bringing me breakfast in bed? That's practically honeymoon behavior. I forgive you for still leaving me wanting more.”
She comes back a little while later with a tray. Two cups of coffee, avocado toast, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
We eat without rushing, the covers pulled up to our waists, my good leg draped over hers.
And for some reason, that slow breakfast under the covers feels like exactly the right thing.
**
“This is for you. Please don't open it until you're inside your place,” she says when we pull up in front of my apartment.
She takes a folded piece of paper from her pocket. Small, square, and she presses it into my hand.
“What is it?”
“You'll know in a few minutes,” she says, squeezing my hand.
She says goodbye. I go inside and unfold the paper with my heart in my throat.
“There are things I find hard to say out loud, even when I feel them. This is one of them. I love you.”