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She leaves before I can ask what that pause was about.

***

My father calls at ten that night while I’m on the couch watching a documentary, my head in Jordan’s lap. Before he even says hello, he starts telling me about one of the girls on the reserve team.

“Everyone keeps saying she’s going to be a star, and she can’t even handle the pressure,” he grumbles, clicking his tongue in contempt.

He isn’t talking about me, but my pulse jumps anyway, and it has nothing to do with the hand Jordan has slipped under my bra. I’ve heard that same criticism from him too many times.

He spends another five minutes complaining about the poor girl, and I have to signal to Jordan that now isn’t a good time to play with my nipples.

“And how are you doing?” he finally asks. “Have you looked at the analysis I sent you of your last game? I don’t like your coach’s system at all. The whole team seems to be playing for that Iris Vance, just to get her more goals. You need to take risks and make yourself stand out. You’re a much better player than she is, and all you do is set her up. At this rate, you’re going to have the lowest-scoring season of your career.”

“I’m fine. All my teammates have made it really easy to settle in,” I say. I’d rather not explain that we’re a team, and what matters is the result, not who scores the most goals.

“By the way, I get in next Thursday,” he adds, leaving me speechless.

He hangs up abruptly, as always, before I can ask what the hell he’s coming for. For as long as I can remember, he’s seemed angry at the world. My brother says he still hasn’t gotten over never making it as a professional player, and he blames his coaches and the universe in general. Now he only sees what people do wrong, never what they get right.

Chapter 17

Jordan

On Saturday, I sit beside Mireya in the stands, three rows behind the bench. Down on the field, Noa jogs through her warm-up, lifting her knees high. She only looks up at the stands when she passes in front of me.

It doesn’t take me long to spot him.

A few minutes after kickoff, I notice a man sitting with his back a little too straight, a small notebook on his knee. He writes something down every time Noa touches the ball.

After that, I can’t enjoy the game. Whenever Noa gets involved, I watch her father’s reaction instead of the play. Mireya notices and asks if I know him. When I explain who he is, she shakes her head.

After the game, the stands slowly empty, families carrying rolled-up flags and children reluctant to leave. I head down to the exit the players use after showering, where I always wait for Noa. He’s already there, leaning against the railing as if he’s spent his whole life in that exact spot.

“You’re the psychologist,” he says as soon as he sees me, lifting his chin in my direction. “I need to know what’s going on with my daughter. Whether she’s fit to play. I don’t like what I’m seeing.”

“I don’t work for the team anymore,” I say, holding up my hands. “And I’d say she’s playing very well.”

“You clearly don’t know a damn thing about soccer,” he snaps.

I shrug. I have no desire to get into an argument right now.

“In any case, that information would be confidential,” I remind him. “Even if I still worked for the club, I couldn’t discuss it with you.”

“I’m her father,” he cuts in.

“And Noa is an adult.”

He doesn’t press the point.

He writes something in his notebook that I can’t make out from where I’m standing, then closes it with his index finger marking the page, as if he plans to add something else.

“That coach doesn’t have a fucking clue,” he mutters as he walks past me, leaving without even saying hello to his daughter.

Noa comes out ten minutes later, her hair still wet, her gym bag over her shoulder.

“What’s wrong? You look upset,” she asks, puzzled.

“I just had a brief conversation with your father.”