The Younger Man: A Novel

by Halle, Karina

  But the last thing I want is for anyone at Real Madrid, especially Alejo, thinking that Stew and I are back together. Even if Alejo couldn’t give a shit about me anymore, I don’t want that impression to be out there in the world.

  So I hang back a little, with Stewart looking over his shoulder at me, curious.

  Then he nods.

  I think he might just get it.

  He walks onto the pitch after the players to watch them warm-up.

  I walk out a few seconds later.

  I don’t know where to look first, it’s just so much,

  But my eyes are brought to the famous “white wall” at the south stand of the stadium, where the die-hard fans have taken over. All you see is a sea of white with one hundred foot long banners. In fact, on this game, even though it’s just the warm-up, it feels like everyone in Madrid is here and the wall of white stretches all around the stadium. It’s like being in a snow globe.

  And the singing. It’s not just “Hala Madrid” being chanted over and over, but this song that I’ve heard a few times before.

  “Real Madrid te quiero

  Siempre te animaré

  El alma yo me dejo

  Cuando te vengo a ver

  No importa lo que pase

  Contigo yo estaré

  En los buenos momentos

  En los malos también

  Tenía 4 años

  Mi padre me llevó

  A ver al Bernabéu

  A ver al campeón

  El día que yo muera

  Quiero ver mi cajón

  Pinta’o de blanco entero

  Como mi corazón.”

  Or in other words:

  "Real Madrid, I love you,

  I'll always support you.

  The soul is leaving me,

  When I come to see you.

  No matter, how much time passes by,

  I'll be here,

  In the good moments, or even in the bad!

  I was 4 years old...

  My father took me along...

  To look at the Bernabeu, to see the Champions!

  For the day of my death, I want my grave to be coloured in white, just like my own heart!"

  It’s definitely overly dramatic, but hearing it now especially, I’m getting fucking chills throughout my body, with nearly one hundred thousand people signing it, filling the stadium with so much devotion and so much hope.

  I stand there, dazed, in awe, and then snap out of it when I realize I need to get to my side of the technical area.

  Don’t look down the pitch, I tell myself.

  But I do.

  My eyes are drawn there and I’m powerless to stop it.

  I see the boys practicing.

  My boys.

  Real Madrid.

  Mateo is watching them, his back to me.

  Beyond him is Luciano and Rene and the rest of them.

  I see a glimpse of who I think is Alejo but Mateo is blocking most of the view.

  It’s probably for the best.

  I look away before my heart swells.

  I keep my head down, take out my phone and try to immerse myself in another world, when really I’m dying to be a part of this one, the world I gave up.

  I keep my eyes down until the warm-up is over and the players go back inside, and only then do I steal another glance at the stadium, wowed by the crowd once again.

  There’s something in the air tonight, something that’s not just in my head. There’s just so much energy and passion that it almost makes the space crackle, like right before a thunderstorm.

  And then…

  The teams come back out, Los Blancos on one side, Man United on the other, each player holding the hand of one of the child team mascots as they walk out onto the pitch.

  Stewart comes to our area.

  Mateo goes to his.

  Right beside us.

  And that’s when Mateo sees me, maybe not for the first time tonight, but it’s the first time our eyes have met.

  He holds my gaze and though his look is intense, he’s completely unreadable.

  I stare right back and give him a faint smile, to show him I’m not the enemy.

  I’m not sure he knows that.

  I’m pretty sure he thinks I am an enemy, a traitor to have quit and then come right back to the team before.

  He looks away, his attention going back to the team.

  I do the same, but not the team I’m supposed to.

  The national anthems are sung – Spain’s is a deafening roar with passion you can feel in your bones – and then the coin is tossed.

  The game begins.

  Somehow, it feels like the most important game of my life.

  My eyes are glued to number twenty-eight, I can’t look anywhere else.

  Looking at Alejo is a lot like looking at the sun. He’s radiant, glorious, burning with this incomparable energy. It feels dicey to keep watching him, like I might get burned, but I can’t help it. He moves with beautiful synergy, his legs moving at a breakneck pace, all his muscles in his calves, his thighs, reacting like a well-oiled machine.

  I marvel at him. He’s breathtaking.

  He’s the man you love.

  He’s the man who owns your heart.

  I can’t even feel the sadness right now, or the loss of him. How can I when he’s right in front of me, living the life that God put him on this earth to do? Making the fans cheer and the opposition cower, handling the ball like it’s physically attached to his cleats, doing it all with that intensity in his eyes that shows just how committed to the game he is. I know he has tunnel vision right now, he only sees the ball and nothing else.

  And I can only see him.

  As if the stakes of the game aren’t high enough, both teams are playing at their absolute best. It’s thrilling to watch and nearly flawless as Real Madrid takes control of the ball and Man United takes it back. The ball goes back and forth, down one end, down the other, the crowd’s chants and calls rising and falling with the movement. It’s like watching a very fast and brutal ballet.

  At one point Luciano runs past me and catches my eyes.

  He raises both eyebrows in response as if to say, this is weird, right?

  I give him a nod in response.

  But it’s not weird, not right now while the game is going.

  Maybe because I know who I’m cheering for. It feels like I’m back in the past and I pull the nostalgia around me like a cloak.

  Now Rene has the ball and he’s running toward the goal with Alejo just up ahead of him, Mark York coming right behind him, trying to get in Alejo’s way, but Alejo sidesteps him and then Rene passes to Alejo, which Alejo receives with ease.

  He’s about to shoot and then York gets in front, deflecting it.

  But the ball bounces right back to Alejo, even though there’s no way through to the goal and he manages to do a sliding kick which punts the ball up over York, snagging the goal with inches to spare.

  “GOOOOOOOOOALLLLLL!”

  “Yessssss!!” I shriek out loud, clapping my hands together softly.

  The stadium erupts like a white volcano and Alejo is screaming and showboating, running around the end of the pitch with his arms in the air, kissing his badge.

  I’m bouncing in my seat with excitement and the therapist next to me, Jim, gives me a derisive look. “Whose team are you on?” he hisses.

  “His,” I tell him.

  It’s his.

  I’ve always been on Alejo’s team.

  And Alejo is still joyous and beaming with exhilaration and pride, now running to get back into the game.

  He runs past me and it’s like he moves in slow motion.

  He’s beaming at the crowd as he passes them, his smile bright and beautiful, and I can’t help but smile back, tears in my eyes. Tears of joy, for him, for this moment, tears of grief because I’m staring at the man I’ve lost.

  And then his eyes meet mine.

  He doesn’t stop but it feels
like time does.

  Time comes to a standstill and it’s just his gorgeous, soul-sweeping eyes held captive with mine.

  I’m still smiling.

  I can’t stop.

  Alejo looks like he’s seen a ghost.

  He keeps running and I watch him go and I wonder if that moment really happened.

  The game plays on.

  It seems to grow even more intense, United doubling down and trying even harder to keep the ball down at Madrid’s end. There are a few shots on goal that go too high or bounce off the top of the posts. Too close for comfort, but they stay out.

  The pressure is building.

  Real Madrid score again, this time Benzema.

  Everyone goes crazy.

  I don’t even bother to keep my clapping quiet. I cheer too.

  Hala Madrid.

  It’s at that moment that I know I’m going to get in shit for this. Stewart is out there yelling at the players but the medical team and assistant coaches are definitely noticing my behaviour.

  It’s not that I’m purposely sabotaging myself.

  It’s just that I can’t help myself.

  All the roads lead to this moment, to this place.

  All the roads lead to Alejo.

  Back to the game, Luciano now has the ball.

  Alejo is in position.

  Man United is coming down hard.

  Alejo is surrounded, there’s no way for the ball to get through to him.

  But he’s tall.

  And he knows how to use his head.

  Luciano punts the ball up high and the ball arcs through the air like it’s a heat-seeking missile right on target.

  Alejo leaps straight up, a magnificent feat of power.

  And then it all happens so fast, it’s almost a blur.

  Half a second later after Alejo leaps and makes contact with the ball, Mark York does the same, vying for control, his shoulder slamming up into Alejo.

  The impact causes the ball to head off in another direction.

  And just as Alejo comes back down, York is still going up.

  His shoulder slams into Alejo’s head with brute force.

  Alejo crumbles before my eyes and falls face first on the ground, knocked out cold.

  He’s unconscious.

  He’s not moving.

  I stand up, my hand at my mouth, gasping for air.

  People in the crowd scream and whistle for York to have penalty and there are hushed murmurs around me and people are starting to freak out and all I know, all I can see, is Alejo lying there motionless, face down on the turf, the players standing over him, trying to talk to him, their faces pale and scared.

  Someone tries to move him.

  I don’t even think.

  I just run.

  I leap off of my seat and I’m running across the pitch as fast as I can, running all the way across it, navigating between players. I know that the commentators must be going crazy with this, the sight of Manchester United’s physical therapist running over through the middle of the game. And I’m not going to check on York, who is standing off to the side and holding his shoulder, the ref talking to him along with our goalie, and some other players, arguing the play.

  No, I’m running right to Alejo.

  “Don’t move him!” I yell at the players who are starting to crowd around him, not just Real Madrid but a few Manchester United players too. At times like this, people put the game aside and tend to unite. “He might have a broken neck!”

  I stop in front of Alejo and stare down at him, trying not to panic.

  I’m not a doctor, I’m not a medic, I’m not trained to be cool and collected in these types of emergencies, but he’s unconscious, his eyes are shut, and I don’t even know if he’s breathing.

  Oh my god, what if he’s not breathing?

  “Stay back,” I tell everyone, dropping to my knees beside him.

  I feel for his pulse and thank god it’s still there. I pull back his eyelids, trying to check if his pupils are dilating but I don’t have a flashlight and it’s hard to tell from the stadium lights.

  My beautiful boy, my magnificent man. The light has been knocked out of him, a light that might not come back.

  Then I feel hands grabbing my arms from behind, pulling me up and away from him as I see David and Dr. Costa and the rest of the team arrive to take care of their situation.

  Mateo is holding me back.

  “Thalia,” he says gruffly, trying to remove me.

  “No!” I cry out. “He’s got to be okay, he’s got to be okay!”

  “I know,” he says and he pulls me back a couple of feet to let the team work on him. He doesn’t let go of me, his fingers a tight hold on my biceps.

  I know he doesn’t want me to get involved, that I have no business in being here, but he doesn’t make me leave either. We both watch as Dr. Costa starts examining him, trying to talk to Alejo, but there’s no response.

  The doctor glances up at Mateo, his expression grim.

  “We need to get him out of here,” Dr. Costa says and I’m so grateful I’ve kept up with my Spanish. “We need a stretcher.”

  “Oh fuck,” I whimper. I look over at Luciano who is standing across from me, he’s looking down at Alejo, shaking his head.

  “It’s a concussion right? It’s just a concussion,” Luciano says, hand at his mouth.

  “That was a brutal hit,” Rene says, glaring at York and the ref over his shoulder. “Why doesn’t he have a red card yet?”

  I can only stare at Alejo, feeling my knees start to shake as the magnitude of what just happened breaks over me.

  What if he’s not okay?

  What if what we had is all we’ll ever have?

  I can’t bear to think of it.

  I can’t stand to see him like this, to not know.

  Tears start to run down my face. “I love him,” I say softly, to no one at all, no one except Alejo. “I love him.”

  Luciano and the others look at me, their faces even more heartbroken.

  The stretcher arrives. The medics lean over him, attempting to roll me on his back.

  “Come on,” Mateo says, pulling me back.

  And then Alejo moves, just a bit, his eyes flutter open and his jaw moves.

  “He’s awake!” Luciano cries out.

  Alejo’s eye rolls up to look at us, confused, in pain. I’m not sure he knows where he even is.

  His eye meets mine.

  Those beautiful, broken eyes.

  And instead of the way he looked at me earlier, like he saw a ghost, I swear I see recognition flood through his expression, a hint of a smile.

  He sees me.

  He sees me.

  Then his eyes close and he’s out again.

  My heart free falls in my chest, the connection between us severed.

  Mateo pulls me away and spins me around so that I’m looking at him.

  “You have to go back to your side,” he says to me, nodding at the Man United area. “We have to take care of him.”

  “That isn’t my side,” I tell him. I point to Alejo, feeling panic rip through me at the thought of letting Alejo go off to the hospital, the thought of me staying behind, forever closed off from him. “He’s my side.”

  Mateo gives me a steady look. “Do you even know what you’re saying? If you go with Alejo into our locker room, our examining room, do you know how that looks? You’re picking a side. You’re not going to be able to work for Man U. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I just want to be with him,” I plead. “I made a mistake.”

  Mateo sighs. “You do what you want Thalia, I really don’t care. The repercussions are up to you. I care about Alejo. That’s really all that matters right now.”

  “I care about him too. And he’s all that matters to me.”

  He winces, like he’s being shot with incredible pain and I realize how close Mateo really is to Alejo. I’m not the only one who is hurting right now, I’m not the only one laden with
hopes and prayers and drowning in fear.

  Then Mateo turns around and we watch as Alejo is lifted off the pitch, carried out on the stretcher.

  The ref calls a red card for York.

  The crowd whistles.

  The game is going to go on.

  Mateo has to stay.

  “Go with him,” Mateo says to me. “If you’ve made your choice, go with him. Please.”

  I nod, shooting a glance at Luciano, who looks equally distraught, and I wonder how the hell they can keep on playing like this when Alejo is a question mark.

  But that’s the game, I guess.

  There’s always too much at stake to stop.

  So I follow the stretcher, walking alongside David who gives me a tight but welcoming smile, and we head all the way back to the tunnels underneath the stadium.

  I pass right by Stewart and the team.

  Our eyes meet.

  I know I should say something to my ex-husband, but perhaps my running across the field already said enough.

  Stewart just gives me a nod.

  He knows my choice.

  I nod right back, more than grateful that he gave me another chance, because that chance led me to this road, right here.

  And from here, I’m taking another path.

  I follow Alejo.

  Chapter 31

  Alejo

  “How is my favorite player doing today?” Dr. Valdez asks me as he bustles into the room. “Hope you’re feeling better, it’s a beautiful day. How can you not feel better when it’s a beautiful day? Look at that sunshine, spring is already here. Summer will be here before you know it.”

  Short and robust, with John Lennon glasses, Dr. Valdez is a rolling ball of energy, always talking a mile a minute, which doesn’t help my brain, which struggles to keep up. He does tend to keep me awake for more than ten minutes, though.

  “I’m doing okay,” I tell him. My words come slow to me. “Just kind of hard to be in here when it does look like that outside. Would be a beautiful day on the pitch.”

  “Tut tut tut,” he says, bringing out my chart and peering it over. “We don’t talk about the things we can’t control. You can’t be on the pitch but it doesn’t mean it’s not a nice day, does it? Here, those blinds should be open more, you need some more sunshine to get your brainwaves going nicely.”