Chapter 4
Four
We stand at the head of the tunnel, the announcer ready to call our team onto the field. Another night. Another game. And once again, Margaret McCrae is here to cause trouble.
“Careful, Lucca, you wouldn’t want that sneer to become permanent. How would you ever get another date?” Roman slaps my back.
“She’s just one ref,” Zev says at my right.
And he’s right. Just one official. One referee who seems to have it out for me.
“You’ve got this,” Callum says beside Zev.
“Of course I have this,” I say. “The question is, do you?” I peek around to Callum, pushing down my annoyance with McCrae and grinning at my friend. “Isn’t your lucky charm out of town?” I laugh, taking all the pressure off me and placing it onto my friend.
“Harsh,” Callum says. “I don’t need luck. Sure, I like it when Fran can be here, but I’m not going to—”
“Cool it,” Zev says. “He’s just trying to get you going.”
I chuckle again. Callum is so easy to get riled.
“And to think,” Callum says, “I was going to suggest we all go out after the game.”
I smirk. “Can’t anyway. I’ve got a date.” I lift my brows, letting their minds assume what they want to.
“Of course you do,” Roman says.
“One I cannot reschedule.” I wink at my friend. Sure, I’m giving them the wrong impression, but I do have a date. Not exactly the kind they’re thinking of. But they don’t need to know that.
“Do we know her?” Roman asks.
“Nah.”
“The real question is,” Callum says, eyes on the field, “does Lucca know her? Did he meet her seven days ago? Seven hours ago? Or seven minutes ago?”
“Seven minutes,” Zev and Roman say in unison.
I laugh again. “You guys are just jealous.”
“Nope,” Cal says.
“Nuh-uh,” Zev mutters.
Roman slaps my back. “Not even a little.”
I should laugh. But somehow, my three closest friends all being in committed, happy relationships doesn’t please me this minute.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m normally very happy for them.
Each and every one. They’re good guys. And I like all of their girls.
Two of my friends are already hitched. I’m holding out that Zev will stay unmarried with me a little longer, though I can’t exactly call the man single.
Rosalie’s got him wrapped around her finger.
I am happy for them.
I’m just not ready to be one of them.
“And now,” the announcer booms over the stadium speaker, “your Reno-Tesoro Red Taiiiils!”
We jog onto the field, ready to line up and wave as the starting lineup. I watch Callum as he crosses the line, one hand patting Margaret McCrae’s shoulder. She turns, her brown ponytail flicking to the side, and then she’s smiling at Cal.
She smiles.
It’s a pretty sight. One that might deceive lesser men into thinking she had a heart. Still, I’m surprised to see it. I was certain the woman had one expression: sour.
Callum nods. I can see his mouth moving as he speaks to her, and then the woman laughs.
She’s laughing?
Not possible.
Why is Callum talking to the enemy anyway?
That’s what I’m pondering when I run right into the Graveyard ahead of me.
“Oof!” Roman grunts and stumbles over his next two steps.
McCrae’s eyes find us with our small disturbance, and the smile Callum produced quickly falls into a glower.
“Do you have better things to look at than where you’re going?” Roman says.
“You’re just slow,” I say. “What’s up with Callum talking to McCrae? He smiled at her.”
“He’s captain.” Roman shrugs. “He’s just being cordial. He talks to all the refs. He’s probably welcoming her back.”
“What’s the point?” I gripe.
“Maybe he made a crack about her keeping you in line. I don’t know. Maybe if she’s smiling, she won’t be in the mood to shut you down with a card today. Have you never heard the saying, ‘You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar’?”
I grunt. “She doesn’t have good moods. She’s our ringmaster. Her joy comes from our mistakes.”
Roman snorts. “Are you serious? Tell me I never sounded as bitter as you.”
The Graveyard—we call him that for a reason. Though he has been dramatically less bad-tempered since Stella came back into his life. Still, I stare at him. He knows she’s got it out for me. We all know it.
“You are serious.” Roman huffs out a laugh, like I’m being silly. I’m not.
“She’s the worst.”
“She isn’t the worst,” he says. “Or have you forgotten Phillips? That guy called every little thing. He stopped the game whenever he got the chance. The power had gone to his head.”
“And she isn’t power hungry?” I say, gesturing to the middle of the field where the four refs for this game huddle.
Roman slaps my hand back to my side. “No. I think you’ve put more stock into her calls than is actually there.”
Strobing lights flash around the field, and I bite back my argument. Roman’s wrong on this.
“Tesoro,” the announcer sings. “Now for your starting lineup! Number three—”
I jump in place, ready to get this game started, ready to run off some of this negative energy around me.
“Your favorite Brazillian defender, Lucca Cruuuuz,” the speakers boom with a sing-song voice, with my name. And man, do they love me. That crowd is roaring.
I start my jog, but it’s like I have no control as my gaze flicks over to Margaret McCrae who watches me with a deadpan expression. Honey and vinegar. That’s what Roman said. Does he really think I give her vinegar?
I am all honey, all the time.
I wink at the woman just to prove it. Of the two of us, I’m not vinegar.
But honey doesn’t work on McCrae—never has. Her brows lower, and before I can reach center field, she’s scowling at me in disgust.
We beat the Rhinos two-to-one, and somehow I go the entire game with only a few glares from McCrae.
“If she carded me every game, the league would notice,” I tell Callum. “They’d fire her.”
“Wow,” Zev says. “Just when I thought you couldn’t be any more full of yourself.”
Roman snickers. “You played a clean game.” He shrugs as if that’s all there is to it. “You sure you don’t want to go out with us tonight?”
“And leave his girl stranded? Lucca Cruz would never do that,” Callum says.
“So true,” I say, pointing his way. “We’ll hang out next time.”
I’m one of the first Red Tails back to our Lakeview apartment complex. I take the elevator up to my second-floor apartment—anyone who faults me never ran for ninety minutes straight. It’s been a week, and my body is feeling it. Tomorrow is an off day, and I’m more than ready.
Besides, I’ve got work to do tonight. I’m saving some energy.
Back in my apartment, I open up my laptop and type in PlayZone.tv. I hit play on the video with highlights of our game. Then I grab my black beans, long grain rice, and eggs.
I listen to the voice of the announcer as he gives a play-by-play of the game that I lived just moments ago.
My beans cook in one pot while I sauté the rice with garlic and onion in another. Vovó’s favorite dish—rice and beans topped with a fried egg. My grandmother was a simple woman. Simple and intentional. She raised me when my parents could not. She loved me. She made sure I never wanted for anything.
She’s gone now. Has been for three years. But I’ve never missed her birthday.
I stir my rice concoction. Rich, savory steam rises from the sautéed veggies and spices. I breathe them in, my senses taking me to a time long past, back to a little village in Brazil.
I’ve lived in this country for almost nine years.
But I grew up in Brazil, speaking Portuguese, learning English at a young age, and playing ball every chance I got.
My mom left before I could walk, and Dad died before I could talk.
So, Vovó raised me. She took care of me as if I were her own boy.
And when I told her my dream of playing in the States, professionally, she made sure I knew I could do it.
Somehow, she made sure I got the best coaching—I still don’t know how she arranged it.
She worked as a lavadeira, a laundress, until her hands cracked and bled from the bleach and hot water.
When she had enough money, she sent me to the U.S.
, to Skyline FC in Chicago. I’ve been working and playing in the States ever since.
I glance up from my dish, eyes on the screen, as the sports announcer describes the lead-up to Callum’s goal, pulling me from my trance.
Callum’s in the shot—but so is McCrae. She stands there, tall and thin, bright yellow shirt and black shorts—her official uniform, checkered flag at her side.
Maybe Callum did put her in a good mood—she only called in three fouls to the center official today. And “yellow” never left her lips.
I grunt, then shut the laptop. I don’t want to think about McCrae. It’ll only sour my mood. And I can’t be grumpy today. Not on Vovó’s birthday.
I fry up two eggs, then pull two plates from the cupboard.
I dish for myself and for Vovó. I set my small kitchen table for two.
Dinner dishes, glasses with a shared ginger ale—just like when I was a kid.
And one cupcake between our plates—lemon, because that’s what my grandmother would have chosen.
I light the candle in the center of the little cake and snatch a framed photo from my living room mantel.
Sitting, I reach across the table and set the picture of Vovó from her eightieth birthday right next to her dinner plate, making sure she faces me.
It's silly. But this meal, this cake, that photo, it brings her back to me, even if only partially, even if only for a moment.
I hum Parabéns a Você, the traditional Brazilian birthday song, and blow out Grandma’s birthday candle. “Feliz aniversário, Vovó.”