Luciano gives us all a few words of encouragement and then Mateo stands in the middle of the room, dressed to the nines in his suit, his black hair slicked back.
“I’ll make this short but sweet,” Mateo says, clasping his hands around his back as he starts to pace. “Last year was good. Almost our best year ever. It wasn’t easy, though. It took a lot of trial and tribulation to get to where we got. As a team we all had to dig deeper than we’ve ever gone before, and it paid off. But also, it doesn’t matter what happened last year. It doesn’t exist. Poof.” He snaps his fingers and looks at each of us. “Just like that. Football holds no memory. It moves forward for us all, and it moves quickly so all that we have is the here and now. This game is a tabula rasa, a blank slate. We have to treat it like it’s the first game we have ever played and we have to go out there knowing we’ll do whatever it takes to win.”
He clears his throat, a grave expression coming over his face. “This team is the best of the best and we are all honored to be a part of it. It was founded by the King of Spain. The name Real means royal. And each and every one of you are the kings and princes of Madrid, of Spain, of Europe, of the whole world. And we’re going to go out there and rise to our titles. We are going to put on our crowns and we are going to win! Hala Madrid!”
“Hala Madrid!” we all bellow in unison, the adrenaline pumping so hard through me it’s making me breathless. Goosebumps erupt all over, my hair standing on end.
This is the best part of the game to me.
The moments right before.
When we’re all ready to prove ourselves to the world, to be worthy of the titles we hold.
The energy is electric, like lighting coming out of our souls, illuminating the way forward, the way to win.
Luciano comes over, and we do our funny handshake and end with a high five.
I slap Rene on the back.
We all cheer each other on and then we’re going up the stairs and out onto the pitch as Los Blancos, the warriors in white, while Sevilla steps out beside us and we walk side by side to the battleground.
The sound around us is deafening. The stadium is packed with 81,000 people, all of them cheering, either for us or for Sevilla, it doesn’t matter. Unless you’ve been on this pitch, looking up at the stands around you, hearing this impossible, almost supernatural sound, it’s hard to imagine and even harder to explain.
All I know is that it gives me faith.
I belong here.
We run out to the middle of the field and take our places while the refs go to the center circle with the ball.
Luciano and the opposing team captain, Jesús Navas, pick their sides and then the coin is tossed.
It goes in favor of Sevilla, but that’s okay. They choose the goal. We get first kick.
I keep my eyes bored into Felipe Gual, a defender who goes out of his way to try and stop men like me. I stare at him until he knows that I won’t be fucked with, that whatever he’s going to do to me isn’t going to work.
The ref makes the signal; the ball is kicked.
I’m immediately running as the ball ends up with our midfielder Toni Kroos and then it’s coming at me. I’m in no place to go at the moment with Gual right there, always there, so I dribble for a bit until I pass it to Rene just before Gual slams into my side. I’m nearly knocked down, but I manage to spin on a dime and keep running to see the ball get intercepted just before Rene has it on lockdown.
I’m trying to calculate the goal in my head as I run down the side, going as fast as I can to get ahead of the play. Turf is being ground up in my cleats, there’s warm wind in my hair, and my shirt is already soaked from exertion, nerves, and humidity. I run like lightning and I feel like lightning.
I know Gual and the other defenders are on me or watching me, so I need to do something to gain freedom. They know I’m running for the goal, so they’re marking me and setting up an offside trap.
I suddenly turn, narrowly eating shit on the turf, and make a run toward the ball which Rene now possesses.
I can see in his eyes that he knows what I’m doing, throwing them off.
I run left.
Spin off of Gual.
Then run towards the corner flag.
Rene makes his way to the goal, and just before it looks like he’s about to take a shot, he’s blocked and I’m running like mad to make it there in time for me to get hold of the ball.
It’s under my foot for half a second before I take the shot at the goal.
I have no idea if it’s going to go in. I often have no idea. You just have to take all the shots you can and score by any means necessary.
The speed of this shot means I’m barely on one leg and falling as it soars through the air. My shins slide along the grass and I can’t take my eyes off the ball as their goalie makes a leap for it.
The ball just squeezes past him and tucks into the back of the net.
“Gooooooaaaaaaaaaal!”
“Goooal!
“Gooooal!”
“Hala Madrid!”
The stadium explodes with cheers, and I’m getting to my feet as Rene comes over to me, giving me a rambunctious hug, jumping up and down.
I can’t stop smiling.
I did it.
Every goal feels like a dream, like the best feeling in the world, but the first goal is something really special.
This is the moment I live for and will continue to live for.
My purpose and my calling.
I make the sign of the cross and kiss the RMCF badge on my shirt and then I’m back into the game, the goal pushed to the back of my mind while the adrenaline is still surging through me, looking for a place to go.
I’m running, watching the ball as it goes down to the other end.
I’m trying to catch up, to help get it away from their possession.
Luciano steals the ball but he’s in a tough spot.
It comes toward me but I’m in a tough spot too.
I’m running for it but so is Gual.
I almost have it.
Almost there.
I block out the thundering sound of cleats and the heavy breathing and the roars of the crowd.
I only see the ball.
The world fades away.
I go for it.
Then I’m hit.
Hard.
Gual has gone into a sliding tackle a step too early so it’s not his feet that knocks me off balance, it’s his shoulder slamming into my shin at full force.
I feel my leg bend inward and hear an inner pop as pain wallops me from the side.
I’m down.
My leg is on fire and I can’t move it.
I bite down on my tongue to keep from screaming.
Chapter 7
Thalia
At first I thought I was hallucinating. I had been so overjoyed when Alejo scored the first goal that my head and heart were in another place entirely.
And then it happened so fast.
Felipe Gual went into a sliding tackle and his shoulder slammed right into Alejo’s left knee just as he was running for the ball.
Alejo went down and immediately started trying to touch his knee.
I knew from the games that I had been watching on YouTube and the times I’d seen him play against Man United, in person, that he’s not the type to throw dramatics and cry. This was real pain, and this was a real, serious injury.
I wait for a moment, watching Mateo stalk off across the field while yelling at the ref, then I see Dr. Costa going for it, so I follow along with my medical bag.
Even with my focus one hundred percent on Alejo, there’s no feeling like walking out onto a football pitch in the middle of a game. I’d never had to do that here in this stadium, and the energy is quite indescribable, even if it’s only a fraction of what the players experience.
I go to his side and our eyes meet, and I realize how much pain he is in and how hard he is trying to hold it together.
Thankfully it’s easy t
o see the problem right away.
His left patella has been dislocated laterally, to the outside.
It’s visible to an untrained eye, let alone me.
And he’s in a tremendous amount of pain because until we get that kneecap back in place, his leg is locked.
Dr. Costa as well as another physician, Dr. Suez, are examining him, while I kneel beside Alejo’s head, just to let him know I’m here, to hold him because I know what we have to do. We have to gradually reposition the leg and get the patella back in place, and we’re going to have to do it now.
Dr. Costa gives the orders and Alejo grabs onto my hand.
He gazes up at me with such pain it nearly breaks my heart, but there’s something else in his eyes that I don’t expect to see. A humbleness. A gratefulness. For me.
I don’t think I’ve ever been looked at like that, not in this job, not in my marriage.
I let him hold on tight as they slowly stretch his leg out, inch by agonizing inch, until the patella slides back in with a click.
Alejo groans in relief, closing his eyes as his head rests into the grass.
“¿Necesitamos una camilla?” Mateo asks as he hovers above, Luciano beside him, and I believe he’s asking if he needs a stretcher.
“No. Podemos ayudarlo a caminar,” Dr. Costa says. “¿Listo, Alejo? Uno, dos, tres.”
Alejo nods and sits up, and they help him to his feet, Mateo under one arm, Dr. Costa under the other. Together they make their way across the field, Alejo limping but otherwise able to put pressure on his feet and move his legs with full mobility, which is a good sign.
“Take care of him, Thalia,” Luciano says with a nod.
“I will. You take care of the game. Make sure that wasn’t for nothing.”
“Hala Madrid!” he says and then turns around and jogs over to the ref.
I head down the stairs back under the stadium and over to the locker room. Alejo is sitting down and he already has ice on his knee. The doctors are talking about an MRI and getting him examined right away. Dr. Costa glances over his shoulder at me and practically sneers.
“What are you doing here? You should be ready to treat the other players. We can handle this.”
“I was just…” I start but Mateo gives me a nod.
“Come on,” Mateo says, putting his arm around my shoulder and leading me out of the locker room. “I need to get someone else in the game. Alejo will be fine.”
We go back up the stairs and onto the field and Mateo leans in close and says, “Sorry, it was easier if you weren’t there. I need the doctor to focus on Alejo, not his, how you say, pissing contest with you. It is a pissing contest, is it not?”
I sigh and run my hand over my brow. I can’t tell I’m sweating out of worry or because it’s a hot night. “Yes, it’s a pissing contest.”
“Funny how pissing can be used in so many different ways,” he muses. Then he slaps me on the shoulder and heads over to the bench to bring a player out onto the field.
I go beside David, and we sit down and try to watch the rest of the game.
Even without Alejo, Real Madrid ends up winning 3-1.
It’s bittersweet.
* * *
The next day I’m at work bright and early. Alejo is resting in his room upstairs while we (meaning the rest of the medical team, Mateo, and Jose, the club president), are gathered in the physiotherapy room.
Dr. Costa starts rattling something off in Spanish until Mateo clears his throat and shoots him a look. “Not everyone here speaks Spanish,” Mateo says.
Oh, if looks could fucking kill. The doctor glares at me like only a Spaniard can.
“The MRI results are promising,” Dr. Costa says bitterly, and I know that the bitterness in his voice is all because of me. “The depth of the groove, the way the patella scraped along the bone as it popped out, it’s something we can work with. That said, there are some things to consider, like the likelihood of it happening again now that there’s a groove. I might recommend surgery.”
“Surgery?” Both Mateo and I say at the same time. “Absolutely not,” Mateo adds. “That’s a worst-case scenario.”
“The boy is young and I’ve seen him play. He can be reckless. Who is to say this won’t keep happening? He doesn’t care about himself out there. In the moment, he just wants the goals.”
“He’s in the prime years of his career. Right now. I’m not subjecting him to surgery,” Mateo says. “It will cost us the whole season.”
“Jose,” Dr. Costa says to the president imploringly. “I’m sorry to say but in my medical opinion, it’s a viable option. Operate on his knee now, when he is young and able to spring back, and you’ll have him for years down the road.”
“We need him now,” Mateo says to Jose. “And down the road. So why rush into something drastic?”
Jose is a short man, thin as a wisp, with gold-rimmed glasses, grey hair, and a black mustache. He doesn’t smile as far as I’ve seen, and he seems to take everything very seriously. Which I guess is a necessity if you’re the president of the richest football club in the world.
He nods, seeming to mull it over. Both Mateo and Dr. Costa are battling for dominance here, and honestly, I’m on Mateo’s side one hundred percent, and that’s got nothing to do with how I feel about Dr. Costa.
“How long is he expected to be out?” Jose asks eventually. “Let’s just play it by ear for now.”
Mateo exhales in relief.
Dr. Costa shrugs. “I don’t know. It will depend on his physical therapy. Normally I would say three weeks, but since he can’t wear a knee brace during the game, then I would double it. Don’t put him out until he’s one hundred percent. Six weeks. Maybe more.”
“Shit,” Mateo swears, making fists in his hair. “He might not be back for El Clásico.”
“Or he may be. Like I said, it depends on the therapy.” Doctor Costa looks over his shoulder at the team, completely avoiding me. “One of you will step up and take on Alejo, giving him specialized treatment.”
“Actually, I think Thalia will be the right person for the task,” Mateo speaks up.
My eyes widen but I don’t say anything. I just raise my chin and nod. “Claro.”
Jose peers at me. “Picking up some Spanish already?”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Costa asks Mateo, but Mateo gives him a smug smile.
“Absolutely. You can handle it, right, Thalia? You certainly handled the same with Wayne Rooney.”
Actually, it was me and another therapist in charge of him back at Man United, but I just nod. “It would be my pleasure.”
Now I’m not sure if Mateo is giving this to me because he believes I would be the best at it or because it pisses off Dr. Costa, but I’m not going to argue with him.
Even though, really, the idea of working so closely with Alejo for so long should have me a bit on edge. But, at the moment, none of that matters. In fact, it seems silly compared to the big picture. Alejo needs to get his body back into working order, so he can continue to help Real Madrid — and himself — succeed, and I’m going to go in to this with determination and resolve, doing whatever I can to help him achieve that.
“Okay, whoever,” Jose says with a wave of his hand. “Let’s just check in a few weeks from now and see how it’s going. If it’s slow or iffy, he’ll get the surgery.”
And I’m going to make damn sure that’s not going to happen.
“She’ll have to start right away,” Dr. Costa says, as if I’m not here.
“Yes,” Jose says, nodding at me. “Go upstairs to Alejo and get started on him.”
“Uh,” I say, and clear my throat. “With all due respect, sir, Alejo was just injured last night. He’s been through a lot of trauma, mentally and physically. He needs to rest today. He definitely needs to keep sleeping. Otherwise we’ll be starting with more work against us.”
“Fine, fine,” Jose says as he walks away and out the door.
The other therapists look at me. No
t in an envious way — after all, they all have people they look after, and we’re only going to get more injuries as the season goes on. But they’re looking at me differently, that’s for sure.
I’m remembering what my father told me once when I had been dumped by my boyfriend a week before my final exam for my Master of Science in Physical Therapy. He sat me down and let me cry and told me, “If you’re going to do big things, you can’t let the small things matter.”
He’s right. It doesn’t matter what the therapists, or Dr. Costa, or anyone thinks of me. I know what I have to do. I have a goal.
To heal.
“Mateo,” Dr. Costa growls. “Can I see you for a moment?” He then stalks off to his office.
Mateo runs his hand over his face in exasperation and then follows.
* * *
The most important thing right after an injury like this is to treat the inflammation at the spot. The doctors already have a knee brace on Alejo, and last night they treated it with plenty of ice and anti-inflammatories. He’s been resting all day.
My job as the first step of treatment is to help get that inflammation down.
Alejo makes his way to the physio room without any support.
He looks awful. Dark circles under his eyes, hair greasy, his leg puffy on either side of the heavy-duty knee brace he has on.
“What are you doing?” I say to him, rushing over to his side and putting his arm around my shoulder for support.
“I’m fine,” he says, smiling down at me, though he’s trying not to wince.
“You’re not fine. You should be using the crutches,” I tell him, pressing my hand into his very warm, firm chest.
“You’re my crutch then,” he says as I lead him over to the table.
I lower it down so it’s easy for him to get on and lie down, then I move down toward his leg, rolling his shorts up his thigh.
“Okay, I’m going to take off the brace,” I warn him. “It might feel weird without that pressure around it.”
I undo the brace and let it drop open.
I try not to gasp, but I want to because his knee looks like a mess. It’s back in the right spot, thank god, but it’s bruised and swollen and ugly.
The Younger Man: A Novel Page 9
