24. Beatriz
Beatriz
The line for concessions is long, but Camila and I don’t mind.
The smell of popcorn and fried everything hangs in the air, music thumps faintly from the speakers, and once again I feel like I’m part of the game without being on the sidelines waiting for Alejandro to come home.
I’m here, in his world, and it feels right.
Camila tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, scanning the menu board like she’s memorizing it. Then she leans closer, lowering her voice. “So… I think I might be pregnant.”
My head snaps toward her. “Camila!” My voice comes out half-gasp, half-whisper-scream. “Are you serious?”
Her cheeks flush, but she nods, biting her lip like she’s both nervous and glowing. “I mean… we don’t know for sure yet. I haven’t tested. But I’m late, and Gael has been driving me insane asking if I feel different. Like, what does that even mean?”
I cover my mouth with my hand to stifle the squeal bubbling up. “Oh my God. That’s—Camila, that’s huge. You have to tell me everything.”
She laughs, rolling her eyes, but I see the shimmer in them. “We’re trying not to get ahead of ourselves. But honestly? The thought of having a little Gael running around…” She sighs, dreamy for a moment. “Or a little me, hopefully.”
The line moves, but I’m too caught up to notice. My chest tightens in this warm way, like love is contagious. I slip my arm around hers, squeezing. “You’d be such a good mom. And Gael—he already fathers the whole team. He’ll just have another person to boss around.”
Camila laughs, full and bright, and I can’t help but imagine it.
A child with Gael’s energy, her kindness.
And for a moment—without meaning to—I picture Alejandro with a baby in his arms. Not some distant possibility, but vivid.
His smile softer, his strong hands cradling something impossibly small.
It catches me off guard, this image, and I feel my lips curve without permission.
“What?” Camila asks, catching me.
“Nothing,” I say too fast, then shake my head with a laugh. “Just—you’d be amazing. Both of you.”
We shuffle forward and order—nachos for her, soft pretzel for me, two sodas. We juggle the trays and make our way back down toward the VIP section, our sandals clacking on the concrete steps.
The field spreads out in front of us, green and electric under the lights.
The crowd is alive, buzzing, and my eyes go straight to Alejandro even though he’s just one moving body among twenty-one others.
He’s easy to find—shoulders straight, every line of him carved with focus.
He moves like the game is his second skin, and maybe it is.
Camila bumps my shoulder as we slide into our seats. “There’s our guys.”
I grin, balancing my pretzel on my lap. “Yours looks like he’s about to murder someone for missing that pass.”
She snorts. “That’s just his normal face.”
We laugh, then shout as Gael steals the ball cleanly, driving it forward. The crowd roars, and we’re up on our feet, cheering like maniacs.
When we sit back down, Camila leans closer. “So, how’s travel been for you? You’ve survived almost two whole months on the road with the team. That’s basically wife training.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks heat anyway. “It’s been… good. Better than I thought. The first week, I felt like I was intruding, like I didn’t belong. But Alejandro made sure to change that feeling real quick. The guys did too, honestly. They tease me, but in the nice way.”
Camila smirks. “In the ‘we’ve accepted you as one of us’ way.”
“Exactly.” I laugh. “And I love watching him out there, even in practices. He’s different on the field, like he’s showing me this piece of him I don't get to see often.”
My eyes catch him mid-run, sweat glinting on his temple, jaw tight with effort. My chest tightens again, but this time with pride.
“And how’s Gael been?” I ask, turning the spotlight back.
She grins, fond and exasperated all at once.
“Impossible. He snores like a chainsaw after games, hogs the hotel pillows, and eats like he’s in a competition.
But he also sneaks coffee into my hand before I even know I need it, and texts me stupid memes when he’s sitting right across from me. I don’t know. He’s just… mine.”
I smile at her, warmth spilling between us. “I get it.”
For a few minutes, we fall into watching again, the rhythm of the game pulling us along. We shout for near misses, groan at fouls, laugh at the fans a few rows up waving a ridiculous handmade banner.
Then Camila nudges me, her eyes dancing. “So tell me, what’s the weirdest Alejandro travel habit you’ve discovered?”
I giggle, already knowing. “He packs his cleats in first, like they’re the most precious thing on the planet. And he refuses to use any hotel shampoo. He brings his own little bottles from home.”
She gasps, mock-offended. “Gael does that too! He says hotel shampoo ruins his hair. Like he’s got a hair-care sponsorship no one told me about.”
We crack up, trying not to spill our food, and it feels so easy—like I’ve known her forever, like she’s already family.
I could get used to this.
Not just being Alejandro’s, but having this—Camila, the team, something that used to feel out of reach.
The game surges. Alejandro intercepts a pass, his footwork so sharp the opposing player stumbles. I stand without realizing, yelling his name, my voice lost in the roar of the crowd but still mine. He doesn’t look up, but I feel connected anyway. Always.
Camila grins at me. “You’re a goner.”
I shrug, laughing breathlessly. “Completely.”
We settle again, the buzz of the stadium wrapping around us.
Camila munches on nachos, I tear off bites of pretzel, and our conversation drifts softer, steadier.
About future things. About maybe moving in with Alejandro officially after summer ends.
About what it means to love someone who lives in stadium lights but still comes home to you.
Camila shares how Gael once called her from the team bus at three in the morning just to describe a dream he had about her making pancakes. I admit that Alejandro FaceTimes me from hotel hallways because his roommate snores and he can’t sleep without hearing my voice.
We look at each other and laugh, not because it’s silly, but because it’s the kind of love that makes you silly.
And then—because my heart won’t stay quiet—I glance back at the field, at Alejandro running hard, jaw tight, alive in the game.
He's mine.
I get to keep him. Us.
After everything, somehow, I do.
The thought nearly makes my throat ache.
Camila nudges me again, softer this time. “Hey,” she says. “You okay?”
I blink fast and smile. “Yeah. Just… happy.”
The game presses on, minutes ticking, energy building, the whole stadium breathing as one. Alejandro glances up once—just once—and our eyes catch. It’s quick. A heartbeat. But enough. My chest floods with something that feels like certainty, like maybe this night is bigger than I realize.
I settle back into my seat, Camila’s shoulder brushing mine, the noise of the crowd all around, my heart steady and wild at the same time. Whatever’s coming—I feel ready.
The second half starts before we know it. But Camila is still laughing about something one of the TV commentators said. The big screen flashes highlights, and then switches to crowd shots—cheeks painted, kids waving foam fingers, a couple kissing hard enough to make the whole stadium oooo.
“Uh-oh,” Camila says, grinning. “Kiss cam. Pucker up, profesora.”
I’m about to make a joke when the graphics blink again. The words SURPRISE CAM pop up in giant letters. The music dips, and a voice over the loudspeaker says, “We’ve got something special during this hydration break.”
Hydration break.
July.
Right .
I stand a little, trying to see over the railing. The players are near the sideline, taking sips, stretching, coaches talking fast. Alejandro’s head is tipped back as he drinks, throat working, sweat shining at his temple. He looks up toward our section scanning the area in search of me.
When he sees me, everything inside me stumbles.
An usher appears at the end of our row, speaking quietly into a headset, and I swear my stomach flips inside out when she asks, “Beatriz?”
Camila squeezes my arm so hard it almost hurts. “Go,” she whispers, eyes bright. “Go, go, go.”
“I—” I start, ridiculous, because he’s right there on the screen now, not hurt, not anything except… smiling zone. “Oh my God.”
The usher leads me down the steps, through the short gate toward the field. My legs don’t feel real. I’m dimly aware of the crowd sound shifting, this buoyant wave that rises and falls like the ocean. Security nods us through.
The grass smell hits me first—earthy, clean, alive. Alejandro hands his water bottle to a ball boy, wipes his hands on his shorts, and starts toward me.
It feels like the longest short walk of my life.
When we’re close enough to reach for each other, he doesn’t. He takes a breath like he’s trying not to laugh or cry or both, and lifts his hand in a small, steadying gesture.
Wait just a second.
A stadium host appears at my side with a microphone. I don’t take it. I’m not saying anything. I can’t. My hands are shaking so badly I curl them into fists.
Alejandro motions to the host, takes the mic, and the stadium goes strangely quiet at the same time my heart gets louder.
“Hi,” he says, looking at me, only me. The mic carries it everywhere, but his voice is for me alone. There’s a smile tugging at his mouth, one I’ve seen a thousand times, and it still knocks me out. “Bee.”
I choke on a laugh that might be a sob. “Hi.”
“Quick thing,” he says playfully, blue eyes bright. He tips his head toward the ref, who’s pretending to check his watch while grinning. “I asked for two minutes. He gave me one. I’m going to steal three.”