Kulti(35)

“Oh, whatever, liar,” I laughed. We gave each other a big hug as he gave me some commentary on the scissor kicks I’d done during the practice. It was a move that required you to throw yourself in the air and kick the ball over your head or to the side, whatever worked.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, still hugging me. “You get better every time I see you.”

“I think your vision might be getting worse.”

He shook his head and finally pulled away, keeping his hands on my shoulders. He wasn’t very tall, only about five-nine according to his license, though I thought he was more five-seven. “Alomejor.”

There was a tapping at the side of my leg and when I looked down, I found a little girl and boy standing there with my player profile photograph from last season in their hands.

I talked to them for a little while, signed their pictures and then posed for a few with them when their mom asked. Immediately following them, another three sets of families—most of the time it was little girls with their moms—came over and we did the same. Between the photographs, I asked them questions and passed out hugs because they were the world’s cheapest and most effective currency. I hated talking to the press because it made me nervous and uncomfortable, these strangers, these people made me incredibly happy, especially when the kids were excited. I lost track of my parents but didn’t worry about it too much; they knew how these types of things worked.

What must have been thirty minutes later, once I was done signing a teenage girl’s ball and telling her she wasn’t too old if she wanted to play professionally one day, I looked around, trying to find my family. Off by one of the goals we’d used during practice, I spotted my dad and mom speaking to Gardner and Grace, the veteran. They’d met both repeatedly throughout the years.

By the time I made it over to them, I flung an arm around my dad’s side and smiled up at him. But what faced me was a borderline grim faintly sad smile that tried its best to not look that way. It immediately put me on alert. “Que tienes?” I whispered.

“Estoy bien,” he whispered back, kissing my cheek. He didn’t seem fine to me. “Coach was telling us how good you’ve all been playing together.”

I watched his face really carefully, taking in the sun and age lines from years of working outside, most of the time with a hat and sometimes without it, and I knew that there was something bothering him. He was just being stubborn, which was where I’d gotten it from—him. But if he didn’t want to say anything in that instant I wasn’t going to force him to. I cleared my throat and tried to catch my mom’s eye, but she seemed fine. “I hope we do. I don’t see why not, right, Grace?”

The slightly older woman, turning thirty-five this year, smiled cheerfully back. Completely unlike the look on her face when she’d said who-knew-what to Kulti. “Definitely.”

When Gardner and Grace were gone and it was just the three of us—Ceci was over talking to Harlow about God knows what—I elbowed my dad in the arm and asked, “What’s wrong? Really.”

He shook his head like I knew he would. “I’m okay, Sal. What’s wrong with you?”

Deflection was a talent in the Casillas family. “What happened?” I insisted, because that was another Casillas family trait.

“Nada.”

This man. I could shake him sometimes. “Will you tell me later? Please?”

With two pats to the top of my head, he shook his head once more. “Everything is okay. I’m happy to see you, and I’m happy we’ll get to see the season opener in a couple of weeks.”

He was so full of shit, but I knew it was pointless to argue with him, so I let it go.

A few minutes later, my family left and promised to see me in the evening. My mom and Ceci wanted to go shopping while they were in town, and we made plans to meet up once I was done working. There were still a few fans around; all the players were still on the field getting their stuff together if they weren’t busy. I had just grabbed my water bottle to take a swig when Harlow came over and gave me a grave look. Two looks like that in one day were way too much.

“What’s going on?” I asked her, stuffing the bottle under my armpit.

Her lower jaw moved a little. “I didn’t say anything because I know you would want to do the honors.”

I blinked. “Of doing what?”

Harlow planted her hands behind her back, the faintest trait of irritation crossing the plains in her cheeks. This was a facial feature of hers I was familiar with. She was trying to rein in that explosive temper. “Mr. Casillas didn’t say anything to you?”