That got a small smile. “They better have chocolate.”
“Obviously. And peanut butter. Unless your school has a ban on joy.”
“We can handle nuts,” he said, dry. “Six thirty on Wednesday. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be there.”
The gym was already loud when she walked in. Sneakers on wood, balls hitting glass, boys shouting each other’s names like battle cries.
Bea stayed near the door, scanning for Nico. She spotted him in the far lane, running a full-court drill, sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his back.
He turned just enough to see her. Grinned without missing a step, and kept running the play.
She made her way to the bleachers. Chose a spot a couple of meters away from where the coach was yelling. Pulled out a banana, peeled it, and sat.
Practice moved fast. High-energy, locked-in, no wasted motion.
And then someone turned up the voltage. A player snapped, “Jefe’s in.”
Rafael stepped onto the court. Black athletic shirt and basketball shorts to his knees, outlining thighs and calves that didn’t skip leg day. No clipboard or whistle.
He wasn’t introduced. He didn’t announce himself.
One of the seniors passed him the ball without being asked. Rafael caught it, turned, and drove—fast, low, all muscle and concentration. When the boy guarding him tried to get fancy,Rafael spun through the contact, letting the boy ricochet off his side like he’d hit a wall.
“Balance first. Swagger later,” he said, tossing the ball to the next line.
He moved like someone who knew exactly how much give the court would allow. The boys fell into rhythm behind him, like formation came naturally once a commander showed up.
Someone missed a screen angle. Rafael didn’t stop the play; he repeated it.
“Again. Cleaner,” he said. “With your feet under you this time.”
The coach, an older man with a buzz cut, had his hands behind his back. He didn’t interfere. Seemed to accept that the rhythm now belonged to Rafael.
“Is he always here?” Bea asked him.
“Not every week. But for games like Friday? He shows.”
Rafael didn’t bark. He corrected, fast, sharp, and in motion. It was the first time she’d heard the boyscallhim El Jefe. No irony, just respect. They weren’t afraid of him, but they listened. Accepted his clipped instructions like truth. They wanted his eyes on them, and glowed at a single word of praise.
One of the younger boys flinched after a bad pass. Rafael caught it one-handed and fired it back with a snap of the wrist. “Again. Don’t shrink.”
The boy straightened his shoulders, and did it better.
A couple of hours later, Nico jogged over to where Bea sat, sweat-soaked and electric.
“You brought the snacks?” he asked, already unzipping her tote before she could answer.
“Excuse you. That’s theft.”
Ignoring her, he pulled the box out. “Legit.” He took a massive bite of one protein bar. “Youmadethese?”
“Of course,” Bea said. “Twenty grams of protein, or so says the recipe.”
Nico turned to the court, mouth still full, hands framing his mouth like a megaphone. “Yo! Guys, El Jefe—she brought snacks.”
That got their attention.
