Page 4 of Bound and Blitzed

“Vale,” he sighs heavily, using my nickname. I picture him massaging his eyes, his long fingers sweeping across his brow. “I was only trying to help.”

I bite my tongue because I don’t doubt his honesty. It’s just that every time my family tries to help, they tend to make things worse. My world—academia—differs greatly from their world—fútbol. Or, soccer, here in America. My father is hailed as one of the greatest footballers of all time.

Rueben Garcia. Five Ballon d’Or. Multiple La Liga Golden Boots. Two World Cup wins. FIFA Coach of the Year. He’s regaled as a football powerhouse and is also a household name, mainly in Europe.

My brother, Alejandro, has followed in his footsteps and some speculate that Ale will surpass our father’s achievements. He already has in terms of his name recognition. As football gains popularity in the United States and Canada, Ale’s endorsements have him on magazine covers as well as billboards in Times Square in New York and Dundas Square in Toronto.

My sister, Carla, plays for the Chicago Tornadoes and has become a spokeswoman for girls in sports as well as a brand ambassador for popular global skincare products.

My mother has celebrated all these victories, throwing herself into the world of football wholeheartedly. Now, it’s the only world she knows.

And herein lies the problem. Save for my abuela, no one in my family understands me or my interests. As the quirky middle child, bookended by two elite athletes, my obsession with school, research, and all things pertaining to ornithology has largely gone overlooked by my family. And when they do take an interest, or try to lend a hand, it’s very rarely helpful.

Like right now.

“Papá.” I take a fortifying breath and stare at my empty wine glass. “What exactly did the lawyer say?” I catch the bartender’s eye while I wait for my papá to fumble through his response. I indicate I’ll take another glass of wine—one glass more than I normally have.

I already feel the effects of my first glass and drinking this quickly, on an empty stomach, is bound to end in disaster. But as the silence with Papá stretches, I know my future is headed that way too.

“It’s damn bureaucracy,” Papá eventually offers.

I close my eyes in resignation. “My visa was denied.”

“For the time being,” he reluctantly admits.

“Papá,” I murmur. My stomach twists into knots and the blood drains from my face. “I moved here, to Tennessee, for this mentorship opportunity. If I cannot work alongside and potentially publish with Dr. Mendoza, then?—”

“I know, I know,” Papá cuts me off. Shame colors his tone and I know he regrets meddling in my visa process. It’s like him to assume that his name, his clout, would hold sway. But those kinds of bulldozing tactics don’t work with the American Immigration System. “You’ll find another way. You’re very resourceful, Valentina.”

I hiccup a snort. Alongside my family’s inability to understand the career path I’d like to pursue—a PhD in Ecology and Evolutionary Biology, academia and teaching, a tenure track with publishing opportunities—their blind faith in my ability to sort it out is as amusing as it is disappointing. One doesn’t just figure out other ways to stay in a country when their visa application hasn’t processed. “Vale,” I whisper.Okay.

“I’m coming to America next month for Carla’s game,” Papá continues.

Of course he is. Papá understands football, and he and Mamá, alongside my grandparents, attend as many of Ale’s and Carla’s games as possible.

“Try to come up to Chicago,” he says.

I clear my throat, washing away the disappointment that he doesn’t offer to come here. To see my life in Knoxville. Or learn more about the research I’m conducting. “I will,” I reply instead. If they won’t come here, I’ll make the trip to Chicago to see them. It’s what’s expected of me—and I always do what’s expected.

“Keep your head up, Vale. It will all work out,” Papá tacks on before saying good night.

I disconnect the call and toss my phone on the bar. Wrapping my fingers around the stem of the wine glass, I take two large gulps, hoping the alcohol will banish the spiraling thoughts from my mind.

If I lose this mentorship, what will that mean for my career?

If I don’t complete this research, will someone else pick up the thread? Or will everything I’ve been working on be for nothing?

How will I be a contender for an assistant professor position if I lose my references?

Why did Papá meddle when I asked him not to?

Trust the processwere my exact words.

I’ll make a phone callwere his.

I place the glass, nearly empty, down on the bar and let out a sigh.

“Funny seeing you here,” a man says next to me.

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