“Ya voy, Capitán.”
And the thing about starting a game barely holding on to my composure, more pissed off than I’d like to be, is, instead ofletting it bother me the whole game, I can embrace those feelings. Use Barrera’s words and threats that replay in my head over and over again as fuel. I can let that frustration and anger fire me up. As long as I stay focused, I’m just going to play harder, stronger. Turn it into motivation. Don’t let anything past me.
It’s just that staying focused part that takes some control. Let the rage come out and play, but don’t let that energy start taking out everything in its path.
Nearing the halfway mark, as I send the ball back into play after another blocked goal attempt from an A&M International player, kicking it right at Barrera, I mutter, “Go fucking score, then, pendejo,” under my breath. When I heard Vale cheer for me after that save, the faces of people who aren’t brave enough to say what they think filled my head—of my team captain telling me it’s what everyone’s talking about instead of saying exactly what we both know: that it’s him and maybe a few other upperclassmen on the squad who’ve got a problem—and I nearly added too much power behind the kick.
Even just watching the game has me more on edge than usual. My yells of“Corre, chingón,”to one of the sophomores on the team are less encouragement and a lot more irritation. I can feel the words scraping my throat as I keep going while watching him try to get the ball from a guy on the other team who’s outnimbling and outsmarting him. The rest of them have gotten smarter too, huddling around Nguyen, trapping him between bodies, knowing that if he had a straight shot, he’d already have shown them why he’s becoming the best our defense has.
This was supposed to be an easy W. Texas A&M International’s record’s one of the worst in our conference. There’s no reason that any of my boys are slacking like this on them. Why I’ve got to give 250, 300 percent to make up for it.
Their guy sends the ball my way. A decent shot, fast, not too high, and far to my left, thinking that the distance and speed will be more than I can match.Too bad my feet are quicker, compa.I take a couple fast steps and jump, just high enough for the ball to land right at my chest, my hands catching it easily. I drop, hit the ground, and not even a second goes by before I’m back up, a smile on my face. I do this every day. And now I’m three-for-three on attempts this game. We’ve got a point on our side thanks to pinche Barrera. Another five minutes and I can take a breath; and then in just over forty-five, I can go clean off and put all this behind me—get some food and boba with Vale and not let this afternoon spoil my weekend.
“Solid try,” I tell the guy as he jogs away, his head to the ground. I don’t expect to make a friend here, just being sportsmanlike. When he doesn’t say anything back or give me a wave of acknowledgment, I don’t think much of it. This is more for me anyway. Being nice helps filter out the remaining parts of me that are still bothered. I leave him be and ready a volley, barely catching him out of the corner of my eye as he turns around and steps toward me.
“Pinche joto.”
A keeper with less balance and less cool would’ve tripped over his feet. Instead, I pause midair, bring the ball and my leg back down, hearing all my teammates, who were ready and waiting for me to get us back into play, asking what’s going on, and ignore them as I stare straight at this puto, making sure I heard him right. “What the fuck did you say?”
“Me escuchas. ¿Eres un joto, no? That’s not your boyfriend over there with your jacket on? The one I saw you walking in with before the game. El maricón.”
Nah.Hell nah.I’m able to control myself enough to not put him on the ground right now but I do fully get up on him, chest to chest. I don’t care if he’s got a couple inches on me. And all theways I wanted to show Barrera how he should keep his mouth shut, I can fully show this guy. “You say one more word about him, I’m kicking your ass right here and all the way back to Laredo.”
He laughs, his smile all cocky. “Damn. You are a culero, huh? Protecting your jotito. Or you just get what you need from him? One of those that loves getting passed around by athletes? Let me take a turn; see how he compares to my girl.”
Before I can think, I’m dropping the ball and pushing him. All my frustration’s overflowing now, and I can’t bring myself to let this slide. I watch him stumble a bit, but stay up, and then rush at me. “Come on then, culero.”
“You motherfu—”
“Gabo.”I hear Pérez’s voice a second before I feel him grabbing me at my chest, and bringing me back, both of us falling on the grass. And then more voices. This guy’s teammates are pulling him back and some of my teammates look like they’re trying to hold Nguyen and Ahmed back, both of them yelling at the guy who was talking shit. The ref is whistling nonstop. But, above it all, I hear that fucking Laredo player’s voice. “Culero. They know too?” And if it wasn’t for Pérez putting all his weight purposefully on me, not listening to me tell him, “Let me go,” I’d already be up and clocking him.
“I know it sucks,” he says, bringing his mouth close to my ear and talking only loud enough for me to hear. “I know you hate letting him have this. But doing nothing is the best thing you can do, Gabo. Trust me. Don’t get flagged for some little bitch who doesn’t matter. Don’t throw away your shutout because you want to get one punch in. Not in front of your parents, papi. And Vale wouldn’t want that for you.”
I’m breathing hard, almost in huffs, clenching my whole face. Because I want to hit this guy. I could fucking cry with how much I want to kick his ass all the way back to Laredo. But Pérez is right. I’ve got to be the guy who does nothing. For the second time thisgame, all before we’ve hit halftime, I’m losing. Not at football but at standing up for myself and for someone I care about. And when I get back up, I’ve got to pretend I was just overreacting about something he said that isn’t true. I was just in a bad mood already.
Because that gets me some kind of win. Everyone walks away, Barrera gives me a glare like he’s holding in a lot of words he’d like to tell me right now, Coach convinces the ref not to bench me—but that dick also gets off without so much as a warning—and I get to keep playing. I get to finish out the first half, and then be back for the second. And when we win 1–0, I can leave with that win. I can leave with our perfect record and more minutes added to my own.
I fake a smile as teammates laugh about calling meEl Toronow instead ofEl Chivobecause “Man was ready to charge at that guy, you see it?” I’ve got Mom checking my face to make sure I didn’t get hit, all, “What is this?Did you get hurt here?” holding my face tight in her hands until I convince her it’s just some dirt from being on the ground; and Pops staring at me like he’s trying to read intention; and me doing my best to keep that far away from the front of my mind. I walk off the field still being one of the most promising college players the NCAA has to offer while actively ignoring Vale as he leaves with Kat, knowing that Barrera’s watching every move I make right now.
But I get to keep playing. I get to keep being great. Just like I wanted.
And that has to be worth it.
A few soft taps on the other side of my door are followed by the sound of it opening slowly and Vale’s voice asking, “Is it okay if I come in?”
I lift my head up from my pillow, my eyes going from the ceiling to his face. To all of him standing a few feet from my bed, my jacket in his hands. And, more than anything, I don’t want him to go.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Stay.”
He closes the door and walks slowly over to my bed, taking a seat, nearly touching my side. And then he studies me. I let him look at my eyes, my mouth, my torso, and arms that’re still carrying some tension.
“Orlando—Pérez—told me and Kat what happened. How that guy was saying some really homophobic shit at you, and I … I can give this back to you if you want.” He holds my jacket out between us, waiting for me to take it. “I don’t want you getting yourself into trouble for me. Because of me. You didn’t ask for that.”
“No,” I say, careful to make sure none of the negative feelings I’ve had today come out with it, but still wanting to sound sure about this. “I told you to hold on to it. And I haven’t changed my mind. I’m not … they don’t get to have that.”
They already get too much from me. Of me. They already get to take too much away. Realizing that has made this game, being a player, so much more stressful. But Vale wearing that jacket? That sight takes away stress. I’m not giving it up.
“And when someone else tries to fight you about it? When you’ve got to fight someone else’s battles because they think something about you that’s not true?”
