Love Heals

With just two minutes remaining, Cameron rose from the couch and in triumph, clapped his hands together.

“And that’s how it’s done in America, folks!”

*****

He didn’t really want to be there. It was not like he was going to win. Leo had been sublime. He was sublime, most of the time. Little bas*ard.

His people had convinced him that it would look really bad if he failed to show up. He’d look childish, unprofessional, like a sore loser. So he put on a bad ass suit, slicked back his hair, put on some diamond studs and strutted in there.

If he was honest with himself, he was looking forward to meeting Leo Messi. They never really got a chance to talk much, since they were supposed to be engaged in some tiresome intercontinental rivalry. But every time Emilio met Leo, he liked him. He really was so shockingly shy and awkward, for someone who was so famous and who had achieved so much so publicly. Emilio clapped and smiled through the stupid ceremony and he kept thinking of how he was going to talk to Leo properly this time. It was something to look forward to, at least.

So when his assistant informed him that Messi couldn’t join him for a drink at the after party because Messi had already left for his hotel, Emilio was more than pissed.

His assistant nervously conferred with someone – most likely one of Leo’s people. Then that person spoke on his phone quietly for a few moments, before approaching Emilio.

“Umm Mr. Da Costa. I’m sorry, but could you take this call?”

Emilio frowned.

“Who is it?” He tried not to snap but it was all getting tedious.

“Oh it’s Leo. He wants to speak to you.”

Emilio raised his eyebrows in surprise and took the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi…Emilio?”

“Yes, what’s up Leo?”

“I wonder if…well David told me you wanted to have a drink with me and… Actually, maybe you want to come over and we can…”

He trailed off.

“You want me to come to your hotel room?”

“Well it’s a…suite. And I have drinks here and I’m already…”

He sounded so uncertain and nervous that Emilio had to smile.

“Yeah that would be great actually. So I’ll come now?”

“Well if you’re ready to leave the party? David can bring you?”

This was very strange. It was one thing to have a drink together at a gala that they were both attending, but to go to Leo’s hotel room? That was an extra step. Still, Leo obviously didn’t like parties and socializing, so the fact that he invited him over was very nice of him.

David took him to the living room section of the suite. He poured him a drink, poured a second one and left. Moments later, Leo emerged from the inner room. He was dressed in comfortable jeans and a T-shirt and Emilio felt overdressed. He smiled and took off his jacket, and dropped it casually on one of the chairs.

“Emilio hi!” Leo came forward with a smile, as if to shake his hand and then awkwardly stopped short.

“Do…do you want me to hang up your jacket?”

“No,” Emilio said, smiling.

He picked up his glass and raised it.

“Let’s make a toast to you, best player in Europe.”

Leo actually blushed and looked down, and it was adorable. He shook his head, gingerly picking up his glass.

“I don’t…individual awards are…” he stuttered.

Emilio watched him closely, marveling at this beast of a soccer player who was just so shy and seemed so young and unsure outside the pitch.

“Come on Leo, I’m not a reporter. You don’t have to give me the line about teamwork and all that crap.”

Leo looked up at him, something flashing in his eyes.

“I’m not just saying it. I mean that.”

Emilio smiled.

“Even so. You have to admit you are extraordinary. That you’re amazing. You know, right? That you’re better than the others? That it’s all about the team but you add some…magic, for want of a better word? Of course, you’ve heard all this before.”

But Leo looked at him like it was the first time anyone praised him. His mouth was slightly parted and he shyly met Emilio’s eyes. He smiled and raised his glass.

“To you Leo Messi, to the best player in Europe.”

The Americas though, are mine. Emilio thought smugly.

*****

Emilio knew, logically, that missing the penalty didn’t really mean anything. He knew that San Jose was already up 5-0 from the first leg, and that losing to New York City FC the way they did didn’t really mean much. Rationally, sensibly, Emilio knew this.

But Emilio hadn’t gotten to where he is—to two Golden Boots, to the American national team, to starting at StubHub Center all the time, every time—by accepting loss, by accepting anything less than his best. And missed penalties were not Emilio’s best. Emilio knew—in his heart, in his bones—that missing the penalty against New York City FC was just as meaningful as missing a penalty in the World Cup, in the CONCACAF Champions League, in the Olympics.

It didn’t matter where he missed it; what matters was that he did.

When he got to the locker room after the match, he sat down on the wooden bench in front of his things, unlaced his boots and strips off his sweaty shirt, and then he just sat there. He thought. Thought about what he did do and what he didn’t and how he could have fixed it and how he would.

“Hey,” Stevie said, and Emilio looked up. He had a towel around his waist and one around his neck, and he was wearing flip-flops. Emilio liked Stevie, really liked Stevie, and respected him through and through—on the pitch, in the locker room, out in the world where soccer didn’t matter at all to some people.

“You played well,” Emilio said, and he meant it. Stevie did what he did and he always did it well.

“Not really,” Stevie said, and he shrugged. “Couldn’t have, if we lost. But we have to look forward, can’t dwell on it.”

Stevie always got like this when they lost; he spoke and thought only logically, didn’t hold onto loss the way Emilio did. Sometimes Emilio got jealous of that fact, of how Stevie could still be the best of the best and not be so weighed down by the pressure, not be fazed at all.

“Yeah,” Emilio said. “At least we won on aggregate. That’s what matters.” He told it to himself as much as he did to Stevie. And maybe Stevie was right, maybe he should focus on the next match rather than the one he just played, but he couldn’t; the next match wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t iron out the wrinkles from the one before it.

De Jong walked by then, and maybe he could tell by the way Stevie was standing, with his hands on his hips, or maybe by Emilio’s face, his eyebrows pinched together and his lower lip caught between his teeth, or maybe it was neither of these things, maybe De Jong just knew in the same way that he always just knew on the pitch. Either way, he stopped and said, “Stevie’s right,” as if he was there for any part of the conversation. “You can’t beat yourself up over it; the pitch was terrible to play on, and people slip, it happens.”

“Exactly,” Stevie said. “Us losing was not your fault; it was ours, the team’s.”

And maybe that was true; maybe even if Emilio had made that one penalty, they’d still have lost 3-2. Maybe. But Emilio knew what the pitch was like, had been playing on it for fifty-four minutes at that point, and so he couldn’t say that he was surprised by the loose grass, that he was surprised that there was mud and upturned sod.

And he knew Saunders, too—not personally, but as a player, as a keeper. He knew that Saunders usually guessed that the penalty would be taken low, and he knew that shooting high was his best bet to score. But shooting over the crossbar never put a point on the board, never, not in any situation, and Emilio knew that. Knew that.

Emilio looked at Stevie and De Jong, and they were telling him to keep his chin up, telling him that everyone has off days and that just because he had cojones de oro didn’t mean he was any different. And then they looked at each other and laughed, laughed like that was the funniest joke they’d ever heard, like it was even a new joke, and Emilio thought that MLS was lucky, so lucky to have them.