I blew out a long breath and told him honestly, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t give the best years of your career to a league that doesn’t appreciate your talent. You should be playing on the national team—any national team—and you could do it. It isn’t complicated. Players do it all the time.”
He was right. Players did do it all the time. I wouldn’t be the first, and I definitely wouldn’t be the last to play for a different country. Fans didn’t think twice about it. They didn’t care as long as someone played well.
“Really put some thought into it, Salomé,” he said in a gentle encouraging voice.
I found myself nodding, feeling confused and the slightest bit overwhelmed by this new possibility. Play somewhere else, a different country. That sounded kind of scary. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”
“Good.” Franz smiled. “I’m here for three more days. Are you free tomorrow for round two?”
I WAS DRIVING HOME when my dad called. I let it go to voice mail and waited until I got to a red light to call him back.
“Hey, Daddy,” I said into the speakerphone once he answered.
“Salomé.”
Oh dear God. He went with my full name. I braced myself.
“You met Alejandro?” He enunciated each word slowly. The fact he went with the man’s first name said more than enough about how popular he was. It was like “Kulti,” everyone knew him by one name.
“I have a picture to send you!” I immediately shot back before he could give me too much shit.
Dad ignored me. “And Franz Koch?”
I sighed. “Yes.”
He didn’t say anything after that, and I sighed again.
“I had no idea they were coming.” That sounded lame even to my ears. “Dad, I’m sorry. I should have called you right after and sent you pictures. Kulti brought them, and I was so surprised, I wasn’t thinking clearly. We had a game afterward and… don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad.”
He was disappointed. I knew he liked being in the know. He liked knowing gossip before everyone else did, and I had let him down and made him find out that two superstar players had volunteered at my soccer camp through someone else.
“Yourtíosent me the picture,” he said, which explained everything. Dad wasn’t a fan of my mom’s brother.
Bah. “Franz came to our game yesterday and asked to do some one-on-one coaching with me,” I offered him up. “We played for three hours. I thought I was going to die.”
“Only you two?” he asked in a soft voice that was probably still the same volume a normal person spoke in.
“Yeah.”
“He asked you to play with him?”
“Yes. He said my footwork was fantastic. Can you believe that?”
Dad chuffed. “Yes.”
I grinned into the phone. “Well, I couldn’t believe it. He asked if I was free tomorrow to play again.”
“You better have said yes,” he grumbled, still trying to hold on to his aggravation.
“Of course I said yes. I’m not that dumb.”
Dad made a noise. “Eh.”
“Yeah, yeah. Dad?”
