“SAL, is that sexy-ass brother of yours coming to our opener?”
I stuck my tongue out and overexaggerated some retching, earning a laugh from a couple of girls who knew how much I hated that they imagined dirty things with my brother every time he dropped by. Desperate, slumming sluts. Finally, I grinned at the girl who asked and shook my head. “No, he’s not. My sexy-ass little sister is coming and so are my parents. They’re actually here today.”
“Aww, really?”
Joy and pleasure sparked through my chest. A lot of the players didn’t have family that lived close enough to occasionally come to games… or didn’t bother. My family, on the other hand, usually showed up to most home games, doing the three-hour drive and spending the day after to see me. I knew I was lucky, and I was grateful they were so supportive.
Even if my sister, Cecilia, spent the entire game on her phone sending text messages and browsing Instagram. But, whatever. She was there even after she called me ugly names and made up horrible ideas in her head of what I thought about her. It wasn’t like my mom would have chosen this life for me either, but she showed up and cheered anyway, even if it cost her. But that was love, wasn’t it?
Today was our open practice before the preseason games began against the local college teams. This practice was a gesture that the league did for season ticket holders, friends and family of players, and winners of various contests. After practice, we hung around and took pictures, and if there were little kids, we kicked the ball around with them for a while.
“Yup. I’m not sure if Eric will be able to come by this year since he’s still overseas.” Thankfully. I could easily picture him in the stands glowering at the bench, and by “the bench,” I meant Reiner Kulti.
“Let me know in advance so I can put some makeup on that day,” the girl laughed.
I snickered and waved her off, pulling my socks on over my shin guards since we were already finished warming up. Getting to my feet, I looked at the hundred or so people that were in the bleachers in a small, sectioned-off part of where we practiced. In the matter of just a couple of minutes, I spotted my dad’s receding hairline, my mom’s new bright red hair color, and Ceci’s big head covered by a cowboy hat. Throwing both hands into the air, I waved at my family and whoever else assumed I was waving at them; I smiled big. Instantly, Mom and Dad waved back, and so did a few other people I didn’t know.
“Come on, ladies. If everyone is ready, let’s get started,” Gardner called out.
The next two hours flew by without a trace of the awkwardness that had been blanketing the team since Kulti decided to take his bastardness to the next level. We all seemed to block that out of our heads for the time being at least. I snuck glances at the bleachersthroughout the exhibition. I had always been one of those kids that liked having her family around for games. There were people who didn’t, but I wasn’t one of them.
I played better when they were in the stands, or at least I took it even more seriously—if that was possible. My parents knew more than enough about soccer to catch everything and still make suggestions to me about things that could be worked on.
The sun seemed extra hot, and my ankle was only bothering me a little bit, but overall it went really well. Except every time I looked in my dad’s direction, he was busy staring at Kulti like a total creeper. I loved him even if he had horrible taste in men.
We wouldn’t even bring up that I’d been just like him many years before.
As soon as we’d cooled down and stretched, a few of the Houston’s men’s team employees—our team was owned by the same people—led the onlookers off the stands and onto the field. It’d been more than a month since the last time I’d seen my family, and I’d missed them. I watched my dad looking around the field for the only person that really mattered. I knew it wasn’t me, ha.
“Ma.” I held out my arm for my mom who quickly glanced at my sweaty training jersey, made a face, and hugged me anyway.
“Mija,” she replied, squeezing me tight.
Next, I grabbed my little sister by the brim of her cap and pulled her toward me as she squealed, “No, Sal! You’re all sweaty! Sal, I’m not kidding.Sal!Shit!”
Did I know she didn’t like sweaty hugs? Hell yeah. Did I care? Nope. I hadn’t forgotten she’d called me a bitch the last time we’d been in the same room together, even if she was going to act like no such words had come out of her mouth. I hugged her to me even harder, feeling her smacking me on the back pretty damn hard as my mom said, “Hijadetumadre, watch your mouth” to deaf ears.
“I’ve missed you, Ceci,” I said, peppering kisses all over my baby sister’s cheeks as she tried to pull away, saying something about her makeup getting smudged.
She was seventeen. She would get over it. We were both almost the same height, had brown hair, although mine was a bit lighter,taking after our Argentinian grandma, and the same light-brown eyes. But that was about it as far as our similarities went. Physically, I had about twenty pounds on her. Personality-wise, we were as different as could be. By the time she was fifteen, she had mastered wearing heels, while I thought putting on a real bra was fancy, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. But I loved the crap out of her, even when she was a little snobby and whiny… and sometimes she was a little bit mean.
When I finally let her go, I snorted in my dad’s direction. He had his back to us and was busy looking around the field. “Hey, Dad? Give me a hug before you never want to wash your hand again.”
With a startled jump, he turned around and flashed a toothy smile at me. He’d had a receding hairline for as long as I could remember, his facial hair cut short, and his green eyes— inherited from a Spanish grandmother—were bright. “I was looking for you!”
“Oh, whatever, liar.” I laughed. We gave each other a big hug as he shared with me some commentary on the scissor kicks I’d done during the practice. It was a move that required you to throw yourself in the air and kick the ball over your head or to the side, whatever worked.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said, still hugging me. “You get better every time I see you.”
“I think your vision might be getting worse.”
He shook his head and finally pulled away, keeping his hands on my shoulders. He wasn’t very tall, only about five nine according to his license, though I thought he was more five seven. “A lo mejor.”
There was a tapping at the side of my leg, and when I looked down, I found a little girl and boy standing there with my player profile photograph from last season in their hands.
I talked to them for a little while, signed their pictures, and then posed for a few with them when their mom asked. Immediately following them, another three sets of families—most of the time it was little girls with their moms—came over and we did the same. Between the photographs, I asked them questions and passed out hugs because they were the world’s cheapest and most effective currency. I hatedtalking to the press because it made me nervous and uncomfortable; these strangers, these people made me incredibly happy, especially when the kids were excited. I lost track of my parents but didn’t worry about it too much; they knew how these types of things worked.
What must have been thirty minutes later, once I was done signing a teenage girl’s ball and telling her she wasn’t too old if she wanted to play professionally one day, I looked around, trying to find my family. Off by one of the goals we’d used during practice, I spotted my dad and mom speaking to Gardner and Grace, the veteran. They’d met both repeatedly throughout the years.
