I grab a towel, wiping the sweat off my face. I want to say something, but what’s the point?
Jameia steps into the locker room with her hand over her eyes. “Everybody dressed?” she calls out.
A chorus of “Yes,” greets her.
She lowers her hand, a somber smile tugging at her lips as her dark brown eyes sweep across the room. She wore her box braids up today, twisting them into a complicated knot atop her head. She makes her way over to Julio, who’s slouched and shirtless on the bench like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders.
His body is a canvas of ink, giving our assistant coach her first look at his heavily decorated skin. Jameia’s eyes take each of his designs in, and I watch her gaze travel from the lotería cards that climb down and around his neck to the intricate Aztec necklace that stretches across his collarbone and the top of his chest.
The centerpiece is a stylized eagle head encircled in geometric patterns and Aztec glyphs, forming an almost armor-like shape across his chest. That piece took fifty-five hours to complete, and I was with him for every single one of them.
But J’s ink doesn’t stop there. He’s got a skull on top of one hand, flanked by dark red roses with a thick coil of thorn-tipped vines that twist a tangled path across his forearm. On his other hand is a catholic rosary—a piece I witnessed him get inked into his skin our senior year of high school. It’s that one that he’s staring at right now. Almost like he’s sending up a prayer to Mother Mary.
I don’t believe in all of that higher power and praying to the saints bullshit anymore. I stopped long before Carlos died. But if it gives him peace—I roll my shoulders—then who am I to judge?
Jameia stops in front of him, her expression reluctant. But everyone in this room knows why she’s here. May as well get it over with.
“Julio,” she says softly, "Coach wants to see you."
Julio’s jaw tightens, his fingers flexing against his knees as he takes a deep breath. But he doesn’t argue. He just nods, disappointment settling in his features as he pushes off the bench and rises to his feet.
Jameia steps back, giving him space to move around her as he heads for Coach’s office. Without another word, she falls into step behind him.
“I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that conversation,” Felix says, sliding onto the bench beside me.
I grimace. “None of us would.” Julio failed to lead the team today. But with any luck, Coach won’t be too hard on him. He’ll get a dressing down for sure, but it doesn’t need to be some big thing.
Atticus and Deacon make their way over to us, Deacon’s eyes following Julio and Jameia’s retreating forms. “You guys ready to head out?” he asks.
I open my mouth to tell him to go ahead without me when Felix chimes in, “I’ve got it. You three get out of here. I’ll stick around and make sure everything’s good with J.”
My brows pull together, and I’m about to argue when Felix adds, “Your girl is waiting for you, and if I’m not mistaken, there were a couple of other familiar faces in the stands today. Go. I’ve got it.”
gabriel
. . .
The secondI step out of the locker room, I’m surrounded by people. First to approach is Cecilia, her arms wrapping around my waist like a lifeline, her cheek pressing against my chest.
“I’m sorry you lost,” she whispers, her voice soft but steady.
I tighten my arms around her, holding on just a little longer than I need to. “All good,” I reply, though the words feel hollow. What I don’t say—what I can’t say out loud—is how we just threw away our shot at the NCAA selection committee even glancing our way. We would’ve needed a perfect record for that, and today’s loss? It shattered that possibility. I force out a breath, reminding myself to let it go. Shit happens. Today just wasn’t our day.
Pulling back, my hands find Cecilia’s waist as I look down at her. Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to read me, but I’m too tired, too disappointed, to let her in right now. I kiss the top of her head and glance up, spotting my dad standing a few feet away.
He told me he’d come, but I hadn’t been sure if he’d actually show. Didn’t want to get my hopes up. But there he is, looking alittle out of place amongst the college crowd in his dark blue Levi jeans and button-down shirt, but he’s here all the same.
His eyes light up when they meet mine, and he strides over, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“Gabriel,” he starts, his accent more pronounced than usual as a grin stretches across his face. “Your speed out there? Maldita sea, hijo.” —Damn, son.— “Como una bala.” —Like a bullet.— “And that goal …” He pauses, shaking his head in awe. “I haven’t felt this alive in years, watching you play like that.”
I nod, trying to let his praise sink in, but it feels like it’s floating just out of reach. “Thanks, Pops. I appreciate you coming.” It’s too bad I couldn’t have shown him a win.
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he says, his chest puffing out a little. “Can’t wait to see you on the field again.”
He gives me a quick pat on the back before stepping away, and as soon as he does, I see Asher and Adam lingering nearby. They approach with the same awkward energy they always carry, especially Adam, who looks unsure if he should even be here.
“We didn’t know if we should stick around after the game,” Adam starts, his voice a little hesitant. “But, uh, I just wanted to say—you were great out there, man. This was my first soccer match, and, damn …” He rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t realize how savage you guys could get.”
