It’s fine. You’re helping me survive philosophy. I think that deserves some pics.And at least these were sent to someonewho will appreciate them. How he appreciates them, none of my business. Although, the thought of it, Vale pulling those pictures up later, alone in his bedroom, bottle of lube nearby, thinking about me as he’s stroking himself or even got a couple fingers going lower, that’s notnota sort of hot scenario in a purely observational way. I can be honest about that.
Can’t wait to find out what getting you an A in the class gets me then. And, just putting this out there, because I believe in consent, what if I saved those pictures?
Whatever. Yeah. Fine. You better make me your wallpaper though. And if any weird guy ever hits on you, feel free to show him those and say I’m your boyfriend and I’ll beat him up.
Done, he sends with his own winky face emoji. A second later, a screenshot of his wallpaper shows up underneath, me sitting below the time.
I let out a sigh, a big smile on my face. And maybe some part of me is glad he’s the one I accidentally sent them to. A few minutes of texting, and those bad nerves are gone. Maybe I should make this part of my pre-game ritual. At least, until Leana gives me a reason to only be sending pics like these to her.
Bye Vale.
Bye futbolista.
How is it legal for us to be playing in 113 degree weather? And something about it being adry113 makes it worse. Even with the extra layers of sunscreen, it’s like the sun is literally frying my skin. Wild that people live in Arizona. I’m fighting for my life just to stay hydrated,andI’ve got to make sure balls don’t get past me? This is going to be what kills me. I can’t imagine having to be one of the guys running around too.
Because, for real, after eighty-something minutes of play, my entire kit is soaked in sweat, I’m darker than I’ve ever been in my life, I know the tan lines are going to be gruesome, and I just want to dive into a tub of ice. I’ll take the pain and my balls rushing up to my throat. Instead, I’ve got to use all the will left in me to give a hundred. More than a hundred. My boys and I have managed to keep these guys at zero for a whole game so far, but they’ve been just as on top of their defense, keeping the score at a solid zero-zero. There isn’t time for a breather or for some ice.
Six minutes turns into five. And then five minutes becomes four. Three, two, one—
The sound of the horn telling us we’ve hit ninety minutes rings through the field. A tie. I can see in Barrera’s eyes that he’s frustrated about it, but he also looks ready to collapse right here on the pitch. A tie’s alright. It’s not a win, but it’s not a loss. We’re doing too well and it’s too early in the season for it to affect our standing in the rankings long term. Ties happen. And for having to play a game in actual hell, I’m not leaving mad about it.
I keep my eyes on Cap, see how the captain of Arizona’s team jogs over to him and starts talking to him. From the looks of it, doesn’t seem like anything dramatic or messy. Shoptalk, probably. Barrera turns his head my way and then back to Arizona, saying a few more words, nodding his head, and then he starts running over to me while shouting for the rest of the team to hold up.
“They’re interested in doing penalty kicks,” he says as he reaches me, talking all breathy and like he’s trying his best to find some kind of second wind inside him. “Obviously, they’d just be for fun. The game’s over and they don’t count for regular season matches. Nothing will happen that affects your shutout. It’s more just for fun and some personal validation, assumingsomeone makes it past their keeper. And, honestly, I think they just want one more chance to be the first to get past you. I told them I’d make sure you’re cool with it first, though. So, what do you think? You got enough left in you to stop five kicks?”
“I—” I’m already thinking about my next shower. A meal. Air conditioning. But I can see how into this idea Barrera is. That he doesn’t want to turn them down. He wants to show me off a little more today, maybe be the one on our side to (hypothetically) get a point on the (not at all real) board. And I’ve never been the type to shy away from showing off. “Yeah. Let me get some water first but tell them to bring it.”
“Alright. Let’s go.” He repeats the words, this time yelling as he runs to the rest of the team, sorting out our kickers. Arizona’s keeper heads back to his post, giving me a short wave with his gloved hand. And Nguyen jogs over, handing me a water bottle.
Looks like we’ve got a little more game to play.
And, yes, this doesn’t count for anything. I heard Barrera say that. But if this team of Phoenix boys thinks they’re getting past me now, that I flew to the pinche sun to (again, hypothetically) lose a game, or to even let them score a (completely uncountable) goal on me, they’ve got to be having heatstroke or something. They’ve definitely got the wrong keeper.
Five shots. Five blocks. Five, and we’re done.
Quick glance and it’s obvious their first couple of kickers are just as tired as we are. They manage to give whatever they’ve got left in them, but neither is successful. I easily catch the first and the second goes straight for the crossbar, dinging off and behind the post.
But my boys are struggling too. There might’ve been some excitement about the idea theoretically, but now that we’re in it, I can see how we’re all running on empty. A kick right to thekeeper. Another attempt that curves completely away from the post. A low, annoyed huff comes out of me as I watch from the opposite side of the field, listening to the announcer. If this were any other game, in any other place, I’d be calling out to my teammates, yelling encouragement from the goal, because (sure, yes, love this game, so happy to be here, but) I’m not leaving with this having been a waste of time. Instead, I’m trying to conserve all my energy. Don’t go wasting it on shouting. Use it to drive me right where this next ball is going to land.
Arizona’s third kicker takes his place on the other side of a line of my teammates. This mexicano who tried to get one past me earlier in the game and came closer than maybe any other guy has so far this season. Followed up an attempt that I barely dove far enough to block with a second one I was almost too slow for, barely catching the ball before it went right past me. Afterward he shook his head at the ground, sweat coming off his thick, curly hair before he looked back up and gave me a genuine smile and a “Thought that was going to get past you,” as his fist came out, waiting for me to bump it. “Next one’s making it in.”
“Sorry, compa,” I mutter before wiping sweat from my upper lip, preparing myself for his kick. “Nothing against you, but this one’s not getting past me either.”
The crowd, most of them sticking around to see this, cheers him on, encouraging him to get this ball past me. A quiet noise that gets louder as he sets himself up, louder still as he runs toward the ball, and reaches its loudest when he makes contact. It’s a solid kick: fast, a good curve, goes right over my teammates’ jump. But it’s familiar. In not even a second, I see the curve going the same direction as his first try and I’m moving, rushing into a slide on the hot ground. My gloved hand goes out, enough for my fingertips to make contact, knocking it away from the goal and off to the side of the field.
Respect the try. And still closer than anyone else has been today.
I take a second to breathe, still on the ground. “Two more,” I mutter to myself. “I can do two more.” As I stand back up, I get cheers from my boys on the line. And, from the stands, cheers for the kicker and his pretty good attempt.
Ahmed does a couple lunges before running out onto the field. I can tell he’s trying his best to gather up everything that’s left in him for this. He wants it. He wants to be the guy who makes that “winning” point.
“¡Vamos, Ahmed!” I shout from the other side of the field, my gloved hands making a circle around my mouth. “¡Échale ganas, carnal! Too easy!”
I watch as he takes a moment and a deep breath in, letting it out, setting himself up, and starts toward the ball. I see how his foot catches it just right and sends it flying. Even from here I can tell that’s a beautiful kick. A line of Arizona players jump, their heads landing just underneath the ball. It goes into the air quick and then veers down, hidden behind those bodies. The second after that feels like whole lifetimes, waiting, expecting to hear how we’ve failed our fourth attempt.
Except that’s not what I hear.
“Gooooal!”
