Page 69 of Futbolista
“Are youcrushingonmy dad?”
I hear him laugh and feel his lips press on the top of my head. “No. I’m very okay with his son. And I’m thinking about how you’re going to age incredibly well. I already knew that seeing how serious you are about sunscreen and that facial care routine you got in your bathroom, plus you’re athletic,andwith the genetics? Anyway, that’s not what we’re talking about. But you don’t have to answer it if you’re feeling uncomfortable. We don’t have to get into this right now.”
“No, I … yeah, they’re great. But they’re also really traditional. My mom’s the ‘a woman should serve her man his plate first; he shouldn’t even be near the plates’ kind of mexicana. Even when I’m at home, she won’t let me get my own food. My Pops is a construction worker. And I know that stereotyping based on a job doesn’t mean it’s universal, but it’s a stereotype for a reason. When México fans got in trouble for yellingculero, he was there with them, cussing out FIFA, even knowing exactly what the context was.”
“But they love you. I’ve been here for less than half an hour and I can clearly see that. Every home game I see it too, the way they cheer for you and go find you after matches.”
“They love the me they’ve always known. And I … I don’t know what happens if there was ever a day they couldn’t love me.”
One more kiss and I can feel him nod. “I get it. I promise, I do. I just … this you isn’t really so drastically different. And maybe they’ll see how, if anything, he’s so much better.”
“Maybe they won’t though. I don’t want to have to see them disappointed in me because I’m bi.”
“It kind of feels like you’re disappointing yourself instead, though.”
I breathe into his shirt, staring at my closed door, wondering what it might look like if we walked out with my hand in his. How nice that might feel.
And then I breathe out, and with it, come back to the harsh reality—
“I am.”
“Chinga’o,”Pops says, standing next to me, watching my teammates take turns as keeper, trying to stop Kat’s goal attempts. So far, out of nine of my players? None have stopped them. “They’re incredible.”
My eyes go to him, half surprised and half impressed at hearing thetheycome out of his mouth. At how, at some point while I was inside with Vale, he and Kat started this handshake they had to have made up on the spot, all fist bump, wiggly fingers, and shit. I smile at him, letting a breath out through closed lips, and throw an arm around his shoulder.
“¿Quépasó, mi’jo?”
“Nada.” I bump my shoulder into his, and he takes the opportunity to hold me close to him. “Te adoro, Pops.”
“Igualmente, Gabi.” He brings a hand to my head, tilting me down to kiss it. “My boy.”
Never have I doubted whether or not he loves me. And I know that’shugefor our culture. That not a lot of sons get that from their dads (at least, not while they’re sober). Same with Mom. And I don’t think they’re bad people. Never in my life have I had reason to believe they are. I also didn’t bring Kat or Valeto my house with any belief that either of them would be disrespected by my family.
I can see where Vale would askwhat if. But it’s also easier for my parents to just look past him or Kat. Whether Vale likes boys (including their son) or Kat is nonbinary, that doesn’t affect them. Or, at least, as far as they know, none of that affects them.
What if they found out their own son was bi?
If they couldn’t handle having a bisexual son, it would break me.
A hand smacking my stomach once, and then again clears my head. Pops’s hand goes one more time as he laughs. “You have enough to eat, boy? Y’all took out all the asada, but there’s a couple salchichas left. Some jalapeño poppers.”
“Yeah, Pops. I’m good.”
“’Ueno. Well, if you get hungry again, you know where to find food.” He pulls away from me and heads over to Mom sitting in her rocking chair on the patio. Actually, his beer cooler first, and then to Mom. Not too far from them are Pérez and Vale, and a part of me is feeling a need to go over there and make sure my teammate isn’t being weird, but then I catch Vale laughing—a genuine laugh, not a fake,you’re so weirdlaugh—and I let my shoulders relax. He’s good. As stressful as it’s been at some points tonight, and how it really hurts to have to pretend, there were also good times. And seeing those two hanging out, knowing that Pérez has our backs, is a relief.
Thankfully, Barrera has been keeping his space, never saying as much ashito Vale. He and all the other guys (Kat included) have moved from trying keeper to making a big circle and passing the ball around without letting it hit the ground. One of our juniors messes up first, and then Ahmed, both of them leaving the circle as it gets smaller each time until there’s only one King of the Ball. Ahmed spots me and jogs over, bumping his shoulder into mine.
“Feel like I haven’t seen a lot of you.”
“I had to make my rounds, bro. Talk to my parents—”
“Yeah, I get that.” His arms cross when a chilly breeze comes through the backyard, and he bounces a few times on the balls of his feet. “I mean, like, in general. Probably just how things happen, though, right? When we all first moved in, we had nothing else to do but practice, training, and come home and play grab ass.”
“We literally have practice and training every day. I see you all the time. And if you want me to grab your ass right now, just ask, bro.”
“Maybe later,” he says, giving me a quick wink. “But that’s my point. Feels like it’s been weeks now since the last time we just sat around playing FIFA. In the few hours we’ve got where we aren’t at practice, in class, or sleeping, we’ve all got our own things going on.”
“You getting sentimental on me, Ahmed?”
