Page 55 of Guarding the Star

“I don't know, abuela. I think it might be too late to fix this,” I say.

“Nonsense. If you don't try, if you let her go out of fear, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. And I don't want a granddaughter who lives with regret. I want a brave one.”

She hangs up. Just like that. So I do what she says: I heat up leftovers from the fridge and eat them standing, staring at the wall, with no idea how to fix any of this.

***

Day thirteen, I get a text from Zoe.

“Iris is okay. She hasn't gone out partying… yet. She's training like a machine. She doesn't talk about you, which means she can't stop thinking about you. Wesley asks about Pola a lot. We told him you're traveling, but I don't think he bought it.”

The next day, Tessa writes.

“I'm not going to tell you what to do, but here's something: it took me seven years to stop running. If you can do it in less, you're ahead. Though I'll warn you, if you wait too long, it might not work. By the way, Iris went to see Jordan Hayes, the club psychologist. On her own. She told her, 'I don't know why I'm here' and stayed forty minutes. She seemed calmer when she came out. I don't know what they talked about. Do what you want with that.”

Iris went to therapy. Iris, who runs from introspection, who covers vulnerability with jokes and noise, sat down in front of a psychologist and said, “I don't know why I'm here.” She knows. We both do.

Day fifteen. I take the suit I wore to that game to the dry cleaner. It's been hanging in my closet, and I couldn't go near it until today.

I check the pockets out of habit. Sometimes there are coins, receipts.

In the inside left pocket, there's a crumpled piece of paper.

I pull it out. Unfold it. And I can't help smiling.

Lines of color. Lots of colors. Two stick figures that could be people or trees. A round ball between them. And underneath, in handwriting that someone wrote for him: Iris and Paula playing soccer.

I don't know when Wesley slipped it into my pocket. He has a habit of stuffing things in people's pockets: half-eaten cookies, rocks, loose socks.

I look at the drawing. The two figures. One beside the other. Not one behind, not standing in the star's shadow. Beside.

Partners don't protect from the shadows. They protect side by side.

***

Day sixteen, I show up at the Seattle Emeralds training facility. I don't know what I expect from this, but I have to try.

I stand on the sideline with Wesley's crumpled drawing in my pocket.

The players file out of the locker room. Lucía walks past me, locks eyes, says nothing. Tina is right behind her, opens her mouth, and stays quiet. Tessa comes out three minutes later with Wesley in the stroller.

“Pola!” the kid screams.

“Hey, buddy. I missed you. I'll see you in a bit, okay?” I hold my hand up for a high five, his new obsession. Or at least it was two weeks ago.

“Good luck,” Tessa murmurs before she goes.

One by one, they all file out, but none of them stop to talk to me. Team loyalty, I guess. It makes me feel like a piece of furniture. Hades gives me a quick nod from her office. Just a chin lift. I didn't expect a hug from her either.

Iris comes out last, talking to Jade about something. Wet hair, gym bag on her shoulder. She stops. Looks at me. Jade asks if she wants her to wait, but Iris sends her off.

She walks toward me. Slow.

“No,” she says. One word.

“Iris, can we just… can we talk?”

“No, Paula. You can't show up out of nowhere after two weeks and wait for me outside the locker room like you're in some kind of movie. That's not how this works.”