Love Heals

Maybe—maybe—individually, Emilio was better than they were. But together, as a team, they were more important to MLS than Emilio was, more skillful than Emilio could ever dream to be. The way they moved on the pitch, the way they didn’t need to talk at all in order to understand each other, was just so beautiful to Emilio, and he couldn’t believe that he got to play with them on a regular basis.

Emilio had heard before that he was considered to be the face of MLS. Emilio didn’t know about that, not at all, but if he was the face of the club, Stevie and De Jong were the heart, their tiki taka the beat to which the entire team moves.

When they were gone, off to the showers still laughing and joking, Emilio took off his boots and his shin guards. He didn’t get up though, not just yet, and from seven lockers down, Diop threw one of his balled-up socks at Emilio’s face.

“Hey,” Diop yelled, and his voice bounced off of the walls and sounded louder than it should. “Were you moping about the penalty?”

“No,” Emilio said, and he smiled lightly, forced. When Diop asked if he was moping, Emilio had learned through experience, the correct answer was always no. He shoved his feet into his flip-flops and got up, headed to take a shower.

As he passed Diop, he snapped a towel at the back of his legs, and Emilio jumped as if someone was shooting at his feet.

“Que viva la noche,” Diop started singing quietly when Emilio looked back, “viva el amor.”

“No,” Emilio said, and he held his hand out as if that would actually do anything, as if that would actually stop Diop when he had his mind set on something.

“Su nombre me sabe,” Diop continued, only this time he was standing up and shaking his hips slightly, his voice getting louder and louder with each word, “a besos de pasión.”

It was something stupid that they used to do, him and Diop, something that they did back in the early stages of The Academy, back when they were kids. Dos Santos would get frustrated and cry when he played poorly—and he did, he played poorly from time to time, just like any other soccer player, just like Emilio and just like Diop—and so they would sing Dos Santos’s favorite songs and force him to dance in a conga line, with him in the middle so he couldn’t escape. It would always end with him laughing, collapsed on the floor and fighting for air, his face split in half by his smile.

Emilio didn’t work like that, didn’t work like Dos Santos, and over the years people have learned that when Emilio was upset, it’s best to just let him stew and then sleep it off. Diop didn’t learn, never learned.

“Que viva la noche, viva el amor,” he was singing, and he was right behind Emilio, his hands on Emilio’s sides and his fingers digging into Emilio’s skin. He forced Emilio to shake his hips as he herded him to the showers. “Hay magia de luna en mi corazón. Sing it with me, Emilio! Que viva la noche, viva el amor!”

“Su nombre me sabe,” Emilio deadpanned, and he rolled his eyes. “Now let me shower.”

“Fine, fine,” Diop said, and then he walked away, yelling, “Sing it with me, A.J! Viva la noche, viva el amor!”

Emilio turned on the shower as Clement hollered, “Su nombre me sabe a besos de pasión!” and as Emilio let the hot water beat down on his shoulders, he thought, The pitch was in bad shape everywhere, and, Should’ve known, should’ve known.

MLS did not lose that day because Emilio missed the penalty; Emilio knew this, was neither stupid enough nor egotistical enough to think that the performance of the team rested solely upon his shoulders. But had Emilio made the penalty, maybe things would have turned around. Maybe the momentum would have shifted and they would have scored to equalize in the remaining thirty-six minutes. It’s not that outrageous of a maybe.

By the time Emilio stepped out of the shower, the locker room was dead silent. The clock on the wall told him that bus call wasn’t for another ten minutes, but the guys have never liked to just stand around once they were ready, and they didn’t have time to joke around with the New York City FC squad before the match.

Emilio walked back to the lockers with a towel slung low around his waist and water from his hair dripping down the back of his neck. He learned that he wasn’t alone; Husidic was there, standing half a locker room away at the number twenty spot and pulling his pants up over his hips.

Emilio liked him, liked Husidic as much as he could like someone that’s more or less a stranger. He would fit in well, Emilio thought; would be a good addition to the squad. He was hungry to play, Emilio could tell by the look in his eyes.

They dress in silence for the most part, because Husidic didn’t really speak English and because Emilio didn’t really know what to say. The silence was comfortable, though, and so Emilio didn’t mind.

But then Husidic cleared his throat, and it made Emilio look up and at him because it didn’t sound like he was clearing his throat just for something to do; he was clearing it to speak.

“Don’t be sad,” he said, and his voice was thick, his English slow, as if his tongue was too big for his mouth, “because you—because you didn’t—”

He waved his hands as if to make up for his lack of vocabulary with gestures, and Emilio smiled. He didn’t have an ear for languages and could only imagine what Husidic was going through, playing for a team that he cannot understand and that cannot understand him.

“The penalty,” Husidic said, and he smiled as if remembering the word was a victory for him.

“You need to score to win,” Emilio said, and he said it slowly so that Husidic could understand, could take the words and sort them out in his head. “I am sad.”

Husidic nodded and shrugged on his jacket, but he didn’t say anything, and Emilio thought, This is not what Husidic needs. Husidic wants to not be alone. He doesn’t speak English, can barely understand.

They were silent for a minute longer, and when Husidic spoke, he didn’t look at Emilio.

“This match,” he said. “It was my first time to start.”

And Emilio—Emilio didn’t even realize. Not everything was about him, he knew, even though he forgot from time to time. And while he’d been sitting there, upset about a penalty missed while playing for a club that loves him and has loved him since the beginning, Husidic has been weighed down by not playing well himself for a team that he could barely even call his own. It made Emilio feel worse to know that no one knew because Husidic was new, unfamiliar, Bosnian.

“Hey,” Emilio said, and he caught Husidic by the wrist as he walked past Emilio to the door. Husidic looked at him and it was still there, the look in his eyes, and Emilio thought, He’ll do. “Next match is your match.”

“Maybe,” Husidic said, and he said it with a smile and the shrug of one shoulder. Emilio realized that he hadn’t let go of Husidic’s wrist.

“I know,” Emilio said. “Next match is yours.”

“Next match is ours,” Husidic said, and he smiled then, really smiled, wide and unrestrained. Husidic ducked his head down a little as he readjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and then headed out the door. He left Emilio sitting there on the bench, half dressed and stunned, and Emilio suddenly couldn’t wait. Next match.