And then a voice message follows: “And when I say see if you want anything, I mean you and Vale, obviously. Take care of our boy, Vee. I heard some cowgirl is great for football injuries, solo lo digo. Or would it be cowboy for y’all? Anyway, got to get back now. Love you, papi.”
“Classy, Pérez,” I say, handing Vale back my phone.
And then I watch as he takes his shirt and pants off too, and carefully crawls over me, giving me a “Pinche futbolista” when my free hand goes to his thigh as he’s straddling me, and I knowI’ve got a look in my eye that’s telling him that maybe my teammate had a valid idea on how to make sure he keeps me awake.
“I don’t like that he had to kick me on my left side,” I mutter as Vale finally settles next to me, throwing a blanket over our legs. “That’s your side. It’s weird, you lying on the right side of me.”
“It’s just for a few days,” he tells me. “And then you can have your side of the bed back. I promise.”
“Pues, at least get closer. I want you on me.”
“You’re hurt.”
“Barely even on this side. Promise.”
Vale lets out a sigh, but his smile gives him away. He slowly settles half his body on me, his leg draped over mine, his arm around my stomach, just under my sling, and my free arm comes around him, holding him tight. This isn’t how I imagined coming back from the game. There’s no celebration, no excitement, no plowing him on this bed. But at least I’ve got him. I’ve made it through one more game and we’re still here.
“What should we do now?”
“Talk to me,” he says, his head under my chin. “We can get into that philosophy paper I’m sure you’re almost done with. Talk all about how Risieri Frondizi has made you want to double major.”
“Nah.Hell nah.I’ll take the concussion.”
“Shut up.Then tell me something footballish. Like … who’s your favorite goalie?”
“My favoritegoalkeeper”—I stress the word and smile seeing Vale bite down on his lip like he knew that was going to get me—“is Keylor Navas. Best in the game.”
“What’s special about him?”
“Well, for starters, he’s short for a keeper, like me. I mean, he at least hits the six-feet mark, but still technically on the shorter side for a pro.”
Vale’s head perks up, and he tries his best to gently put some weight on me, just enough to look at me. “I remember you mentioning that on the first day of Philosophy and thinking you were talking shit. You’re not short.”
“I don’t hit six feet. Pro keepers average, like, six-three. Most want to be on the taller side of that number. I’m shorter than Navas is. Think about it; you want someone who’s got the most reach possible at the goal, right?”
“I mean, sure. Yes. That makes sense, but, wild finding out you’re short by some standard. Keep going.” He settles back down, letting out a soft breath when I tighten my hold on him. “Tell me more about Keylor Navas.”
“He’s Latino, got the CONCACAF Goalkeeper of the Yearthree times in a rowand was named their Player of the Decade. And just watching him, you see why he’s considered the greatest. He’s got it all. All the qualities that make a great keeper.”
“Except for the height.”
“Except for the height,” I repeat, a small smile forming on my face.
“Do you ever … don’t you think it’ll be really cool when, one day, some ambitious college footballer is talking about you like this? Smiling the way you smile right now because of how huge of an inspiration you are to him. Imagining you at a goal when they hear the wordgreatness.”
“You see that for me?”
Again, his head perks up, and I catch his soft smile and how his eyes get sad for a second. For only as quickly as whatever thought was there crosses his mind, before he’s back. His face comes close to mine, and he kisses me gently, slowly. Every single nerve on my tongue and lips wants his touch and attention, calling for him.
“I do. I know it’ll happen.”
I tell him more about Navas. I pull up clips of his games (or, tell Vale what to look up on his phone), replaying five- and ten-second bits, pausing and going into what exactly was so legendary about each moment. All the while, Vale stays cuddled up close to me, my good arm wrapped around him, my fingers tracing shapes on the skin of his back. He listens to every word; sometimes when I catch him staring at me as I talk, I’ll go in for a quick kiss and then continue.
Philosophy? Still not my thing.
Goalkeeping? Could give a whole course on it.
Another text from Pérez, and, luckily, a twin-size bed is small enough for Vale to be able to reach over, carefully, and grab my phone. Well, as carefully as he can while I take the opportunity to start kissing his clavicle and neck and the top of his chest and shoulders, my fingers that were on his back somehow ending up just under the waistband at the back of his underwear as he lets out a “I swear to God, Gabi.”
