like an afterthought and then kicks it back with his foot.
The ball somehow arcs up and goes right in the net, the scoreboard lighting up.
He gives me a cocky, knowing smile, because he knows how good he really is, and then leaves.
Chapter 6
Alejo
Game day.
I wake up before my alarm, not sure if I even slept a wink all night. Rest is important to us, enough so that Mateo has us logging our sleep schedules into a silly app, but I certainly can’t sleep the night before a big game. I’ve seen the greats like Marcelo or Luciano conk out and I’m sure it helps them, but my heart races and I get too nervous to sleep.
I used to hate the way my nerves played up before games but Mateo taught me about controlling those nerves and turning them into energy. If I have nerves plus focus, then I can do what I need to do during the game. I can attack, assist, score.
I could probably stand to sleep in since the game isn’t until seven p.m. but instead I get up and go about my rituals. I wasn’t kidding when I told Thalia I had a few superstitions. The first one is that I stand on the balcony and face the field, saying a prayer that the trials we have learned on the practice pitch will serve us well in the game.
After that, every room I enter that day must be with the left foot, otherwise I have to make the sign of the cross three times.
I use my lucky deodorant which is three years old and only used on game days (it still works, don’t worry).
Then I text my brother Armando and my mother and say Hala Madrid.
They text back immediately, having been waiting for it.
Hala Madrid!
Training is light to nonexistent on game days, usually just a warm-up if that, but even so I like to hit the pitch as soon as I can with my noise-cancelling headphones on and just run through the motions and get my head in the zone.
I get changed in my room, slip on my headphones and then head out the door.
I don’t hear her coming.
I run right into Thalia who is holding a big mug of coffee, having just come from the kitchen.
The scalding hot coffee spills onto her shirt and arm.
“Ahh!” she cries out as the mug falls to the ground.
“?Lo siento!” I tell her. “I am so sorry, so sorry.”
I whirl around to press my thumb against the electronic reader and my door opens. I grab her hand and pull her inside my room.
“I’m so sorry,” I say once the door closes behind us. “Are you burned? Are you hurt?”
She’s staring down at her shirt and then glances at her arm, which is red. “Ugh.”
“Take off your shirt,” I tell her.
She glances up at me hastily, her brows scrunched together. “What? No.”
“You’re just going to wear that all day?”
“I need to run water on this arm,” she says, going over to the bathroom and running the tap.
She’s being bashful and stubborn, which is kind of adorable. I go into my bedroom and rifle through the drawers until I bring out a white match jersey from my early years.
“How is it?” I ask, going to her side in the bathroom. I peer at her arm in the sink. It’s more pink than red, and it’s not blistering.
“It’s fine,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “It’ll be fine.”
“I’m sorry I ran into you. I didn’t hear you,” I apologize.
“It’s okay. I was walking fast anyway,” she says and then shoots me a shy smile. Her gaze drops to my hands. “What’s that?”
“Put it on.”
“I’m not taking my shirt off here.”
I can’t help but grin at how she’s acting. “I’ll turn around. Did you even bring a spare shirt for today?”
“I’ll go talk to Mateo about it,” she says. “They must have extras.”
“For the game, sí,” I place the shirt in her hands. “Until then, here you go.”
Then I close the door so she can have privacy.
She’s in there for a long time. I’m about to tell her that I’m going to go leave so I can practice when she comes out.
My shirt is absolutely swimming on her and I wish for nothing more than to see her in just this shirt. No pants. No underwear. Just this shirt as she climbs onto my bed. Then I’d slowly peel it off of her, taking my time to explore her body and make her see that