Furia: Chapters 1–7

My Andalusian grandmother, Elena, repeated it like a mantra until her memories and regrets called her to the next life.

I’d been having the time of my life...until he started bellowing at me in front of the whole barrio that he wasn’t raising a marimacho, that fútbol was for men.

By the time I made it to the bus stop, I couldn’t hear the music anymore, but the pam-pam beat still resonated inside me.

The shiny black leather was cracked with yellowish stuffing peeking out, but it was far enough from both the middle-aged couple making out in the back and the man leering at me on the right.

After a brief stop on Circunvalación, I felt something touch my leg—a card with a picture of La Difunta Correa, the patron saint of impossible things.

Heartbroken, she’d carried their infant son and followed her husband through the sierras and the desert until she died of thirst. When two drovers found her body, her child was still alive, suckling from her breast. Ever since, miracles have been attributed to her.

My conscience reminded me of all my lies, of the miracle my team would need to win the championship today.

When I arrived, a referee in antiquated black—a guy—was checking my team’s shin guards.

Every time Coach talked about some of us girls going pro, I wanted to believe her. But to hide my ridiculous dreams, I laughed dismissively.

Here, we were the Rosarina Ladies’ League champions, and the feeling was more intoxicating than a cup of forbidden beer on a hot summer night.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice reverberating, “the champions, Eva María Fútbol Club, led by Camila Hassan, sister of none other than the Stallion, Pablo Hassan.”

“Vamos, Furia!” someone yelled, invoking my braver self.
And just like that, the newly born part of me took over.

All of a sudden, I was raising the trophy as if it were the head of a vanquished enemy.

Carried by the euphoria, we sang our battle song and together lifted Coach Alicia in the air like the hero she was.

“Of course, but from what I saw today, you’re pretty amazing. You have a flair that’s uncommon, especially for a girl. What does your brother, the Stallion, Pablo Hassan”—she flashed a smile at the camera as if she was hoping to charm him with the sound of his name—“say about how good you are?”

Unnerved by my silence, the reporter pressed on.

Roxana didn’t like him. But then, she didn’t like any male fútbol players. She claimed they were all narcissistic jerks, and considering my father and brother, I couldn’t really disagree.

Chances were, he’d go to the bar right across the street from Roxana’s and wait to celebrate with the guys if Central won or commiserate if they lost.

The chants of the fans hanging from a bus that thundered down the avenue swallowed the rest of her words. But not the thoughts clamoring inside me.

With each step I took, I forced my face into a mask, obliterating the vestiges of my rebellious afternoon: the sunshine breaking through the clouds during my victory goal, us picking up Coach Alicia, Diego with his leather jacket and gelled hair.

No one in the barrio knew that I’d been reborn as Furia, and I held this luminous secret inside me like a talisman.

My brother whispered something in Marisol’s ear, and she smiled. This intimate gesture gave me goose bumps.

Last year, Pablo had given me the talk, a tirade about not being like the other girls and wanting a piece of Diego just because he was going to be famous.

Maybe it would infuse my sleep with strength and feed my hunger for more.

I still had the yellow lollipop in my trove of treasures under the mattress.

I scoured the internet, looking for signs that he’d made up with his ex-girlfriend, that he’d been playing with me, just like Pablo had warned.

But all I found were brief reports of a prodigious boy from Rosario who lived only for the ball and the white-and-black jersey of his new club.

She laughed like a young girl, and the sound spurred me into action.

“What have I told you, Camila? Those kids never get to keep their money. There’s always an adult exploiting them.”

I could only see Diego’s outline illuminated by the pale silver moonlight, unguarded and forlorn.

My eyes wandered over him, caressing his bashful face, which was so closely shaved I could almost feel the softness of his skin against my fingertips.

His eyes narrowed, and his mouth quirked. I’d thought I knew all his gestures and expressions, but this fancy new Diego was a mystery.

But I had lost him in the throngs of people dancing and the girls passing out lollipops for La Semana de la Dulzura.

I glanced down at his arm and noticed the tattoo on his wrist. It was kind of hidden by a humble red ribbon meant to ward off the evil eye and a fancy watch that looked nothing like the knockoffs the manteros sold in Plaza Sarmiento.

I tried to keep my face impassive. I couldn’t afford to lose my head. Not now.