"Probably not," she said, shaking her head and patting my knee.
I sighed, wishing I'd done everything right so Mama didn't have to worry about me. She should be the focus when we were together. My mama and her health. "How are you feeling?"
She smiled. "Still coughing, but otherwise okay."
"Has the doctor's office called?"
She leaned back into the corner of the couch, tucking her thin legs beneath her and picking up her teacup to hold between her hands. "They said maybe tomorrow, or else early next week."
Frustration swirled inside me again, pressing darkness into corners that had previously been lit, and making me feel helpless and alone. "Okay," I said, though nothing felt okay at all. "You'll call me as soon as you hear anything, right?"
"Of course, Mijo."
I balled my hands into fists and pressed them into my eyes. "I should go home, shower. Try to forget today ever happened." The bad thing was that tomorrow might be even worse. If I couldn't get Erica to forgive me, I wouldn't be taking out the girl of my dreams tomorrow night. Instead, I'd be sitting on my couch alone, watching the media help Marissa tear me apart.
"Mijo," Mom's voice cut through my angst and I opened my eyes, turning my focus to where she was pointing. I recognized the location shown on the screen instantly. The field. And there was Hammer, pointing and yelling, as kids jumped around him and soccer balls flew in ninety directions at once.
I bit my tongue as we turned up the volume, and my own face flashed across the screen briefly. Then Coach Valenzuela appeared, and I heard Erica's voice.
"Can you tell me how long the team has been coming down here to help?"
"Since Fernando Fuerte joined the Sharks, really."
"Really? Fernando? Why is that?"
"This was his team when he was a kid. He's been coming to practice down here since he was eight. We used to play together, actually. Fernando is here almost every week. Sometimes he brings some of the other guys, like tonight. They help with the coaching, come to some of the games. These kids, you know, they don't have a lot at home. But this...they have something some of those other teams don't get, right? Those north county teams with all the money and the fancy uniforms. Those kids have it a little easier maybe. Their parents can afford more. But down here? We have Fernando Fuerte and the Sharks."
The footage cut back to the Sharks running drills with the kids, and zoomed in on me in the midst of the players all moving around me, dribbling as I stood there looking angry. The end of the piece showed the kids giving the guys high fives and crowding around Hammer, and had a voiceover—not Erica this time, someone else—saying what a benefit it was having such selfless professional athletes willing to give their time and energy to kids who needed it.
Shame flooded me. Erica had been right. She'd known exactly what she was doing. The piece was amazing, and it didn't focus on the kids, not really. It turned what we were doing down in Barrio Logan into a call to other people in places of privilege to use what they had to help others. It was brilliant. And my anger had almost ruined it. I could have helped, could have made it even better, but instead they’d had to film around me.
"Mijo, that was amazing. I'm proud of you." My mother moved over and put her arms around me, pulling my head onto her shoulder. "You're a good boy, Fernando. Don't let anyone tell you different." She held me for a moment, and even though I wasn't a little kid anymore, even though I should have stood up and been strong, manly—I let her. And I took every ounce of love and warmth and strength my mother offered.
A moment later, she released me, wracked by a coughing fit that had worry spiking in me, overtaking all my other concerns. "Mama?"
"I'm fine," she said when she could breathe again. "I'm fine."
I went home that night with more to think about than I could handle, and when the sun finally rose again, spilling orange and yellow splashes across the calm surface of the ocean outside, I had a plan.
Chapter 27
Worn Slap Out
Erica
Theo called me at home just after the piece aired, but I didn't answer it. He was either calling to tell me how completely inadequate it was or to tell me I'd done a good job. Since he'd never in my life told me I'd done a good job, I had a pretty solid feeling which one it would be. And I couldn't handle it tonight.
I kept replaying the scene with Fernando at the park. He'd been so angry, spitting his words at me between clenched teeth, treating me like I was the enemy. Why couldn't he see how much work I was doing to try to help him? Why couldn't he understand that?
And then he'd cancelled our date without a second thought. The ease and speed with which he'd done it made me almost certain I was just another girl in the long line of broken hearts Fernando Fuerte left behind. I'd known he was a player in the first place. I should have listened to my gut, not to stupid Mr. Match and my buffoon brother.
The piece went on during the late news, and even though it was perfect—better than I could have imagined it would be—I knew Fernando wouldn't see it that way.
When Friday morning dawned bright and beautiful, I texted Annette at the office and went back to bed.
Me: I’m not going to make it in today. Not feeling well.
Annette: Don’t you worry, darlin. I know you’re worn slap out.
I wasn’t sure what Annette meant, but “worn slap out” sounded about right.
Whatever would be would be, it wouldn't matter if I was in the office or not. I'd lie in my cozy bed where I couldn't be hurt or disappointed any more, and wait for the HOT-LA segment to be over. Then I could get up and write off this entire episode in my sad little life.
* * *
"Sis, you sick?" Trace filled my doorway later as consciousness retook me. I picked up my phone to check the time. It was noon. Morning practice must be over.
"Kind of," I moaned.
He stepped into my darkened room, and I pushed myself up against the pillows so I could see him. Concern made his eyes wide in the dusky light. "You okay? Need anything?"
I blew out a sigh. "I just need today to be over."
"Anything I can help with?"
I shook my head, but felt my resolve to stay in bed all day slipping. "What are you doing today?"
"No real plans. Might make sweet sweet love to my Playstation and a bag of popcorn."
"Wanna go see a movie or something?" I needed to be somewhere away from the real world, and a movie sounded perfect.
"Sure. But you have to take a shower. Or like, a whore’s bath at least.”
“Whore’s bath?” I almost didn’t have the energy to ask.
“Pits and p—” Trace stopped talking abruptly and his mouth pulled into a horrified “o” as he realized that he’d almost discussed female genitalia with his sister. “You know. The other.”
“Very nice,” I said.
“Get some Axe bodyspray going on or hose down with some Febreeze or something. Your room smells like sadness and I don't want it on me."
"Thanks." I probably did smell like sadness. And self-loathing, and a million other things I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, let alone my brother.
"Meet you in twenty."
I sighed again and forced my feet to the plush carpet, shuffling to the bathroom to wash the stink of sadness from my skin. And my other parts.
I spent the day with my twin, laughing hysterically at the latest Will Ferrell movie and shoveling popcorn into my mouth. I forced myself not to check my phone. When I had woken up that morning and still had no apology from Fernando, I realized he was serious. Whatever had been between us was over. The sooner I accepted it, the better.
Trace and I were at a little restaurant near home when the HOT-LA piece came on the television over the bar. It felt like everyone in the place hushed to listen as Marissa's face filled the screen, and she looked beautiful and sad, and just a little bit like a department store mannequin as she began to talk.
But the words she said were not the ones I had expected
to hear.
"Theo Molton is a cheater and a liar," she said, squaring her shoulders toward the woman who sat across from her. Then she proceeded to throw out a list of the times he'd cheated in their marriage, and reveal that he had money in offshore accounts and hadn't been honest on his taxes in years.
Trace and I gaped at each other, our mouths hanging open.
This. Was not what I expected. Like, at all. I stood up, mostly because a sudden bolt of energy flashed through me and I didn’t know what to do with it. Marissa had just ruined her ex-husband and probably started a string of events that would definitely involve a tax fraud investigation and could end up with him in prison.
I wanted to call Fernando, but I knew I couldn’t. Instead I just put a hand on my brother’s arm and squeezed until he poked me and said, “Ow, quit it.”
Marissa ended her flaming bash of the Sharks owner by telling the world that he had a proclivity for sleeping in her nighties but she'd ignored it because he said it just made him feel closer to her. The interviewer's face revealed clearly that she did not for one second believe that was the reason.
Finally, the interviewer asked about Fernando, and Marissa's face softened. "He's a good man. He was a friend when I needed one, and he does more for this community than Theo ever will."
She'd clearly seen the news the night before. My chest swelled.
I stared at Trace, and my phone chimed.
My stupid heart actually jumped, hoping it would be Fernando, but I had two texts coming in at once. And neither was Fernando:
Theo: In case you didn't get the message this morning: You're fired. And after this, if I could fire you twice, I would.
Wonderful. I hadn't listened to his message earlier. I didn't think I was strong enough for whatever he had been planning to tell me. I was glad I hadn’t, but the knowledge that my PR career with the Sharks had come to a sudden end wasn’t something I could process right that moment.
Marissa: Just wanted to make sure you saw HOT-LA. You were right. Fernando is a good person. Sorry for all the trouble.
I didn't want to tell Marissa I had more trouble now than I had before, thanks to her ex firing me. I did appreciate her change of heart, though. Even if Fernando and I weren't going to be together, I didn't want to see him dealing with dirty lies about his character. Especially when his mom was sick.
Trace had seen both texts, and he wrapped a big arm around my shoulders, squeezing me tight. "It's okay, sis. You don't need that job. You're a rock star. We'll find you something better. Or you can be my personal valet if you want."
"Because that's my dream in life." I’d already spent most of my life in my brother’s shadow. Maybe it was time I stepped a little farther away. Maybe I needed to get into the light.
My phone dinged once more, and Trace picked it up as I reached for it, turning to me with a frown. "Fuerte's at our place looking for you."
I couldn't help the way my heart lifted, the way my limbs suddenly felt fueled with something hot and energizing, the way my smile crept across my face.
But I was hurt and angry. He wrote me off the day before, thinking the worst of me and never giving me a chance to explain. It was the same pattern I’d started when I’d first found out about Marissa’s allegations. Would we ever be able to get to a place where we trusted the other person first?
I wanted to stay mad, to prove a point. But my heart wanted Fernando. I dropped my head into my hands.
"He called me yesterday," Trace said, lifting an eyebrow. "Is our bet still on, sis?"
"Did you talk to him when he called? What did he say?"
Trace shook his head. “I didn’t answer. I was in the shower. Fuerte’s not my first choice in shower-times companionship.” He wiggled his eyebrows and I hit him in the shoulder.
"I don't know about the bet," I told him. "But I think Mr. Match might have been right about Fuerte and me."
"Seriously?" Trace sighed. "So we have to go home now?" He looked longingly at the half-eaten plate of nachos on the bar in front of us.
"We'll need a box," I told the bartender as Trace stuffed about fifteen more into his face.
I texted Fuerte back, uncertain what I would say to him or how I felt about the way he'd dismissed me yesterday. If he had an apology for me, I could probably forgive him anything.
Me: On my way home.
Chapter 28
Roses for Trace
Fernando
I felt a little silly standing on Erica's front doorstep with the huge bouquet in my arms, waiting for her to get home. I didn't know exactly what I was going to say. I knew flowers didn't make up for much, but I did hope they'd at least earn me a conversation, a chance to apologize.
I heard their car pull into the garage, and nerves swirled in my gut, making me feel shakier than I ever had before a match. When Trace stepped out from around the corner, my heart stuttered in my chest, but then Erica stepped out behind him, and my vision tunneled to her beautiful face.
"Fuerte," Trace said, his voice mocking and high. "You brought me flowers! You shouldn't have..." He opened the door and motioned me in, taking the flowers from my hands and burying his face in the roses. "I'll just put these in some water and then we can go make out."
I punched him in the ribs.
"Hey," Erica said, her voice low, uncertain.
"Hey," I said, turning to face her. I had a lot to say, but with Trace standing right there, I wasn't sure I wanted to unload it all. "Can we talk somewhere?"
She nodded, but Trace stepped near again, having dumped the flowers into the sink.
"Wait a minute, what is this, exactly?" he asked. "Dude, are you trying to get with my sister? Didn't I warn you about that?"
I took a deep breath. Clearly, I'd need to handle Trace before I could say what I needed to say to Erica. "Trace, I'd like to take your sister out. And the way I see things, you don't play a role here. I'll ask her if she's willing, she'll answer, and what happens next is between us. Are we clear?" I pulled myself to my full height and got just a hair closer than was comfortable, hoping he'd read the subtle threat.
His next words were not quite what I'd expected. He laughed, and then turned to Erica. "I guess you win. I'll get your precious cheese when I go to the store tomorrow."
I raised an eyebrow at him, not understanding. "She wins?" I turned to Erica. "You win what? Cheese?"
"We had a bet, dude. Erica was trying to get you to ask her out so she could win some fancy cheese. I told her there was no chance since I don’t think she’s your type, but I guess I was wrong. Now I guess you two can hang out and eat cheese, and... yeah, I'm not thinking about what else you might do." He made a face and turned, disappearing down the hallway. I heard a door click shut a minute later.
My heart had stilled and I couldn't quite process what he'd just said. This had all been what? A bet? Did that mean nothing that had happened between us was real? Would she have gone to these lengths for … cheese? It was way too much to process. I turned to Erica, who looked stricken, her eyes wide, her mouth in a little circle of surprise. "This was all a bet?" I asked.
Her head was shaking slowly back and forth. "No," she said, her voice practically a whisper. "I mean, yes, but that's not all it was. It was just—"
I stepped back, confused. "No," I said, stopping her with my hands up, as if I could hold back the words that were tightening something in my chest like a vise. "I don't need to hear more." I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck, still trying to process the turmoil of emotions pinging around inside me.
"Fernando," she said, a plea in her voice.
I couldn't look at her, so I stared at the floor, tried to get the words out. "I came over here to apologize to you for being harsh at the park, for overreacting. I thought I'd come over and tell you I had feelings for you, that maybe we had a chance for something real. I thought what we'd shared might turn into something, might...I don't know," I trailed off. I forced myself to raise my eyes, to meet hers, which were wide and
shining a deep midnight blue. "But it didn't mean anything to you. It was all a bet to you? You were just trying to win...did he say cheese?"
She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, then opened them wide, pleading. Her voice was a whisper. "No, Fernando. I mean, yes, Wensleydale cheese. It's really good... It was just that I got the Mr. Match email, and Trace ate all my cheese and then— "
I turned away from her. Exhaustion was pulling me down, making me feel swamped and heavy. The last few weeks had been too much to bear with my mom and the scandal, and now, just when I thought maybe things were looking up, there was this insane bet to contend with. I didn't understand, but before I could ask another question or just give up altogether, my phone rang in my pocket. I pulled it out to see Mom's face on my screen. I swiped to answer and took another step away from Erica's pleading eyes.
"Mom?"
"Mijo, I don't want you to worry." She sounded weak, her voice too thin, too hoarse.
"Now I'm worried."
"I'm just going to the hospital for a bit," she said. "I had a bad cough and I guess maybe I passed out, hit my head..."
"Mom!" Panic spiked through me. "I'm coming over. I'll drive you."
"No, ‘Nando, it's okay. They're driving me."
I buried a hand in my hair, desperate and confused. "Who?"
"The ambulance."
"Ambulance? Okay Mom. I'm going to see you in just a minute. Can I talk to one of the EMTs, please?" I forced my voice to be calm, optimistic, but my heart was beginning to shred inside me, hanging in tatters in the blackened cavity of my chest.
Erica's hand landed on my back just as a new voice came over Mom's phone. "Mr. Fuerte? This is Susanna Harper, I'm riding with your mother to Scripps in La Jolla. She's fine, we've got her stable. We're just taking her in to get her scanned—she bumped her head pretty hard when she lost consciousness, but we've got the bleeding stopped. I can't say for sure, but they might admit her. She says she's had some tests recently?"
Scoring the Keeper’s Sister: Mr. Match Book 1 Page 13
