Luciano could probably pass for some sort of Greek god with his bronze tan, green eyes and dark brown hair held in waves so effortless I can’t tell if they’re the product of a perm. He beams brightly, glancing around at all of us. ‘TheSeleçãocame calling.Finally. Scouts want to watch me play in the next round of try-outs.’
This incites whoops and cheers, hugs and back-thumping. I do join in the cheering – it’s obvious just what anenormousdeal it is to be in the running for a country’s national team. It’s the biggest step to the global stage: Copa America, Olympics, and, above all, the World Cup. This may not be such good news for me, though, as I’m about to attempt to play with or against a national-level footballer, and no one else in the group seems perturbed.
We go through a cycle of warm-ups before doing any playing, just a few stretches to loosen up the muscles and whatnot. When I sit down to join, though, I get a couple of looks of confusion from the new guys.
‘So, Shantal,’ Giovanni asks me with a hint of scepticism, ‘what brings you to Saturday football? Joining us to play?’
‘Sure.’ I reach out and touch my toe in a runner’s stretch. ‘It’s been a minute. I was on this small club team during uni, but you know how those things go.’
‘How do they go?’ Henri is predictably confused.
‘Well, it’s just that not all parents think it’s worth spending time and money on their daughter trying out for a big sports club. They always have other futures in mind for her.Betterfutures.’ I smile wryly. ‘Especially true for immigrant parents, perhaps.’
The memory is fleeting but strong. I remember my parents putting me and Sonia in Bharatanatyam lessons with a guru one of the local aunties had suggested to them. We were just kids – I was three, Sonia five. Sonia grew to become a graceful dancer, every move of her limbs like watching water flow, herabhinaya– her expressions – bringing grown adults to tears. That wasn’t my thing at all. I was all about football. My parents were content to drop a few grand on Sonia’sarangetram, her extravagant graduation ceremony constituting a four-hour solo recital, but to spend the same on sending me to play across Europe with my club was a completely different matter.
‘Well …’ Paulo clears his throat awkwardly. ‘Women’s football is a … rough terrain, is it not? Maybe a career with security is better.’
Luciano shoots Paulo a look before cutting in. ‘It’s never too late.’ He sneaks a wink my way, a wink complete with more than just friendly encouragement. ‘I see those boots, I think you’re gonna bring it. What do you play?’
I’m trying not to go pink in the face as I answer. ‘Winger, mostly the left.’
‘Winger?’ I can’t tell if Tomas is trying to hold back a laugh or not. ‘You suppose you’ll be able to keep up?’
Oh?The winger position is arguably the one that’s got to do the fastest running in a match. I’d rather not debate my abilities, even if I’m a little rusty, but it was bound to happen. I’ve met – and had to win over – enough male footballers in my career at Conquest that I know they value ‘show’ more than they do ‘tell’. ‘We’ll find out, then?’ I reply stonily.
‘We will,’ Luciano confirms, turning his warning glance to Tomas. ‘Let’s play, Shantal?’
I return the warm smile he reserves for me with one of my own. ‘Let’s.’
Darien seems to quietly take note of this entire exchange. He slowly approaches me with a slightly raised eyebrow when we gather on the field to sort out our teams.
‘What are you doing with your face?’ I crouch and give the laces of my right boot a good tug to get them tighter before wrapping them round my ankle. I’ve been told it’s bad for the feet, but I’ve done that since I was a kid.
‘You’re getting awfully close with Luce.’ He squints against the sun coming through the window panels on the ceiling to look at me. ‘You two are, like, footy-flirting. Your cleats, your position, all that.’
I almost choke out a laugh.What?This would be funny if it wasn’t causing my heart to stutter in retaliation, noting that little sting of something in Darien’s voice. Was that … jealousy?
I bite back a smile and reply, ‘Oh. I suppose I didn’t realize.’
‘What … but …’
I can’t hold it any longer. I snort, and the sound opens up a flood of my humiliating, hiccupping laughter. ‘Look at your face! Darien!’
He’s just barely managing a confused smile. ‘What thefuck?’
I shake my head, my ponytail bouncing. ‘Darien, what does it matter what I choose to do? I’m notfooty-flirting, and even if I am, I’m just messing about. Luciano isstunning. He’s a serious contender for the national team, for crying out loud.’
‘Yeah.’ He nods, almost resignedly. His studs still hang from his fingers where they swish, to and fro. ‘Yeah …’
He trails off as he sits down in the grass to lace up. I allow myself one glance before returning to tightening my own boot, tongue clamped in a vice. What was he going to say? And then … why the hell did I want to know so badly?
* * *
The moment the boys call kick-off, I’m at university again.
I remember playing like it was my oxygen. The first touch is instinctive; I catch the pass cleanly. From here, I decide the only way is through. I stop, feint to the left, and nudge the ball right past Tomas and to a waiting Paulo. He keeps it safe till we can connect once more, and that’s all we need. I blast it into the net, past Henri in defence.
‘GOAALLL!’ I bump knuckles with Paulo, whooping. ‘Show’ rather than ‘tell’. Works every time.
