“Your favorite Brazillian defender, Lucca Cruuuuz,” the speakers boom with a sing-song voice, with my name. And man, do they love me. That crowd is roaring.
I start my jog, but it’s like I have no control as my gaze flicks over to Margaret McCrae who watches me with a deadpan expression. Honey and vinegar. That’s what Roman said. Does he really think I give her vinegar?
I am all honey, all the time.
I wink at the woman just to prove it. Of the two of us, I’m not vinegar.
But honey doesn’t work on McCrae—never has. Her brows lower, and before I can reach center field, she’s scowling at me indisgust.
We beat the Rhinos two-to-one,and somehow I go the entire game with only a few glares from McCrae.
“If she carded me every game, the league would notice,” I tell Callum. “They’d fire her.”
“Wow,” Zev says. “Just when I thought you couldn’t be any more full of yourself.”
Roman snickers. “You played a clean game.” He shrugs as if that’s all there is to it. “You sure you don’t want to go out with us tonight?”
“And leave his girl stranded? Lucca Cruz would never do that,” Callum says.
“So true,” I say, pointing his way. “We’ll hang out next time.”
I’m one of the first Red Tails back to our Lakeview apartment complex. I take the elevator up to my second-floor apartment—anyone who faults me never ran for ninety minutes straight. It’s been a week, and my body is feeling it. Tomorrow is an off day, and I’m more than ready.
Besides, I’ve got work to do tonight. I’m saving some energy.
Back in my apartment, I open up my laptop and type in PlayZone.tv. I hit play on the video with highlights of our game. Then I grab my black beans, long grain rice, and eggs.
I listen to the voice of the announcer as he gives a play-by-play of the game that I lived just moments ago.
My beans cook in one pot while I sauté the rice with garlic and onion in another. Vovó’s favorite dish—rice and beans topped with a fried egg. My grandmother was a simple woman. Simple and intentional. She raised me when my parents could not. She loved me. She made sure I never wanted for anything.
She’s gone now. Has been for three years. But I’ve never missed her birthday.
I stir my rice concoction. Rich, savory steam rises from the sautéed veggies and spices. I breathe them in, my senses taking me to a time long past, back to a little village in Brazil.
I’ve lived in this country for almost nine years. But I grew up in Brazil, speaking Portuguese, learning English at a young age, and playing ball every chance I got. My mom left before I could walk, and Dad died before I could talk. So, Vovó raised me. She took care of me as if I were her own boy. And when I told her my dream of playing in the States, professionally, she made sure I knew I could do it. Somehow, she made sure I got the best coaching—I still don’t know how she arranged it. She worked as alavadeira, a laundress, until her hands cracked and bled from the bleach and hot water. When she had enough money, she sent me to the U.S., to Skyline FC in Chicago. I’ve been working and playing in the States ever since.
I glance up from my dish, eyes on the screen, as the sports announcer describes the lead-up to Callum’s goal, pulling me from my trance. Callum’s in the shot—but so is McCrae. She stands there, tall and thin, bright yellow shirt and black shorts—her official uniform, checkered flag at her side. Maybe Callum did put her in a good mood—she only called in three fouls to the center official today. And “yellow” never left her lips.
I grunt, then shut the laptop. I don’t want to think about McCrae. It’ll only sour my mood. And I can’t be grumpy today. Not on Vovó’s birthday.
I fry up two eggs, then pull two plates from the cupboard. I dish for myself and for Vovó. I set my small kitchen table for two. Dinner dishes, glasses with a shared ginger ale—just like when I was a kid. And one cupcake between our plates—lemon, because that’s what my grandmother would have chosen. I light the candle in the center of the little cake andsnatch a framed photo from my living room mantel. Sitting, I reach across the table and set the picture of Vovó from her eightieth birthday right next to her dinner plate, making sure she faces me.
It's silly. But this meal, this cake, that photo, it brings her back to me, even if only partially, even if only for a moment.
I humParabéns a Você, the traditional Brazilian birthday song, and blow out Grandma’s birthday candle. “Feliz aniversário, Vovó.”
Five
“Why didI let you talk me into this, Belinda Marie?” I haven’t dated anyone in a few months, and this is how I’m getting back out there.Ugh.
“It’s going to be fine,” my sister says. “You wouldn’t let me go on a date with Brent all by myself… so this is your punishment.”
A double date. Ablinddate. Oh, yuck.
“You’re twenty-five years old, I can’t tell you what you can and can’t do.” However, we both know I try to—for Lindy’s own good! I fold my arms, my gaze wandering over to the bar at this restaurant. I skirt my eyes away before Lindy thinks I’m freaking out. Then I make a mental note tonotfreak out. I peer down at my watch, choosing frustration over a freak-out. “They’re late.”
“It’s 6:59. We’re early.”
