Chapter 2: Valentina

“I asked you not to get involved,” I remind my father, my voice severe. 

“Vale,” he sighs heavily, using my nickname. I picture him massaging his eyes, his long fingers sweeping across his brow. “I was only trying to help.”

I bite my tongue because I don’t doubt his honesty. It’s just that every time my family tries to help, they tend to make things worse. My world—academia—differs greatly from their world—fútbol. Or, soccer, here in America. My father is hailed as one of the greatest footballers of all time. 

Rueben Garcia. Five Ballon d’Or. Multiple La Liga Golden Boots. Two World Cup wins. FIFA Coach of the Year. He’s regaled as a football powerhouse and is also a household name, mainly in Europe. 

My brother, Alejandro, has followed in his footsteps and some speculate that Ale will surpass our father’s achievements. He already has in terms of his name recognition. As football gains popularity in the United States and Canada, Ale’s endorsements have him on magazine covers as well as billboards in Times Square in New York and Dundas Square in Toronto.

My sister, Carla, plays for the Chicago Tornadoes and has become a spokeswoman for girls in sports as well as a brand ambassador for popular global skincare products. 

My mother has celebrated all these victories, throwing herself into the world of football wholeheartedly. Now, it’s the only world she knows. 

And herein lies the problem. Save for my abuela, no one in my family understands me or my interests. As the quirky middle child, bookended by two elite athletes, my obsession with school, research, and all things pertaining to ornithology has largely gone overlooked by my family. And when they do take an interest, or try to lend a hand, it’s very rarely helpful.

Like right now. 

“Papá.” I take a fortifying breath and stare at my empty wine glass. “What exactly did the lawyer say?” I catch the bartender’s eye while I wait for my papá to fumble through his response. I indicate I’ll take another glass of wine—one glass more than I normally have. 

I already feel the effects of my first glass and drinking this quickly, on an empty stomach, is bound to end in disaster. But as the silence with Papá stretches, I know my future is headed that way too. 

“It’s damn bureaucracy,” Papá eventually offers. 

I close my eyes in resignation. “My visa was denied.”

“For the time being,” he reluctantly admits. 

“Papá,” I murmur. My stomach twists into knots and the blood drains from my face. “I moved here, to Tennessee, for this mentorship opportunity. If I cannot work alongside and potentially publish with Dr. Mendoza, then—” 

“I know, I know,” Papá cuts me off. Shame colors his tone and I know he regrets meddling in my visa process. It’s like him to assume that his name, his clout, would hold sway. But those kinds of bulldozing tactics don’t work with the American Immigration System. “You’ll find another way. You’re very resourceful, Valentina.” 

I hiccup a snort. Alongside my family’s inability to understand the career path I’d like to pursue—a PhD in Ecology and Evolutionary Biology, academia and teaching, a tenure track with publishing opportunities—their blind faith in my ability to sort it out is as amusing as it is disappointing. One doesn’t just figure out other ways to stay in a country when their visa application hasn’t processed. “Vale,” I whisper. Okay. 

“I’m coming to America next month for Carla’s game,” Papá continues. 

Of course he is. Papá understands football, and he and Mamá, alongside my grandparents, attend as many of Ale’s and Carla’s games as possible. 

“Try to come up to Chicago,” he says. 

I clear my throat, washing away the disappointment that he doesn’t offer to come here. To see my life in Knoxville. Or learn more about the research I’m conducting. “I will,” I reply instead. If they won’t come here, I’ll make the trip to Chicago to see them. It’s what’s expected of me—and I always do what’s expected. 

“Keep your head up, Vale. It will all work out,” Papá tacks on before saying good night. 

I disconnect the call and toss my phone on the bar. Wrapping my fingers around the stem of the wine glass, I take two large gulps, hoping the alcohol will banish the spiraling thoughts from my mind. 

If I lose this mentorship, what will that mean for my career? 

If I don’t complete this research, will someone else pick up the thread? Or will everything I’ve been working on be for nothing? 

How will I be a contender for an assistant professor position if I lose my references? 

Why did Papá meddle when I asked him not to? 

Trust the process were my exact words. 

I’ll make a phone call were his. 

I place the glass, nearly empty, down on the bar and let out a sigh. 

“Funny seeing you here,” a man says next to me. 

I twirl on my barstool and come face to face with Avery Callaway, the star quarterback for the Knoxville Coyotes football—American football—team. 

I arch an eyebrow. “Is it?” I murmur. The guy lives in the same building as me. The fact that we would frequent the same neighborhood haunts is hardly surprising. 

“Yep,” he continues, resting his elbows on the bar, a fresh pint of beer in between his hands. “I’ve been seeing you around a lot lately. At the field, in the lobby of my building, in cafés, and now, here.” He stares at me expectantly. 

What does he want me to say? 

I stare back, waiting for him to continue. 

After several beats of silence, he sighs. “Listen, I’m sure you’re a nice girl, so I’m going to say this as gently as I can. Your crush is flattering. Truly. If you want an autograph or picture, I’m happy to sign whatever you want”—he points to a bar napkin—“or smile for a selfie.” He glances at my cell phone. “But to keep appearing at the same places as me…this has to stop.” 

My mouth drops open. I can’t help it. 

Is he serious right now? A bubble of laughter wrapped in an irrational edge of frustration rises inside me. “You think I’m…stalking you?” I spit out, more hostile than I intend.

He jerks back by the venom in my tone, uncertainty crossing his expression. 

“That’s so typical of you,” I continue. 

His eyebrows fly into his hairline. “Typical of me?” 

“Yes, you.” I wave a hand in his direction. “Athletes in general,” I continue, unable to stop. With my conversation with Papá fresh in my mind, I continue, “You all think the world revolves around you. That you’re at the center of everyone else’s story. Well, guess what? Sometimes, you’re not.”

Avery frowns, regarding me strangely. “What—” He shakes his head. “What are you doing here?” 

“Having a glass of wine and blowing off steam after a very frustrating conversation with my papá,” I bite out. “And you’ve seen me in the lobby of your building because, surprise, I live there too!” 

He rears back in surprise. “But the stadium—” 

“I’m not at your football field because I’m a fan. I was there, twice, because Raia and Carla dragged me along. Our sisters are friends,” I say slowly. 

“I know that,” he snaps back. 

“Raia, who, by the way, I really like, wanted to support Cohen. And, I guess, you.” I toss a hand in his direction, trying to soften the sneer that curls my lip as I glare at the cocky quarterback. “I’m not stalking you. I don’t want you to sign anything or say cheese for some stupid selfie. I’m just…God, I’m trying to live my life. Same as you.” 

“Fuck,” he mutters, looking truly horrified. 

At the bewilderment mixed with humiliation in his expression, my anger lessens. 

“I…” Avery closes his eyes. “I’m an asshole.”

At his omission, I laugh. “Honestly, I get it.” 

His eyes pop open. “You do?”

“Sure. I’m related to many elite athletes. You are all very self-centered.” 

He chuckles at my assessment, not at all offended. “That’s true.”

I nod in agreement. 

He turns to me fully. “I’m sorry for being an ass and making such a terrible assumption.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“It’s not.” He shakes his head, holding out a hand. “Can we start over? I’m Avery.”

Sighing, I place my hand in his, surprised by the warmth of his fingers as they wrap around my palm. “Valentina.” 

Avery grips the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “Look, Valentina, I’m sorry.” He rolls his lips together, uncertain. “I…I’ve had stalkers in the past and…” He slides onto the barstool. Looks me directly in the eyes. I draw in a breath, taken aback by the apology that swims in the depths of his dark irises. Charcoal gray. “I shouldn’t have come at you like that.” 

“Thank you,” I murmur, polishing off my wine. 

“At least let me buy you a drink,” Avery says, flagging down the bartender. He gestures for a refill and tacks on an order of shots. 

My head swims and while I’m mostly certain it’s from the alcohol, part of me wonders if it’s from his proximity. I’d have to be dead—something Carla has accused me of several times—not to notice how attractive Avery is. 

Tall, muscular, and imposing. His light brown hair is neatly trimmed but is still long enough for him to run a hand through. His eyes are piercing and intense. The kind of eyes that pin you in place and see below the surface. 

His body hums with a restless energy, coursing just below his skin. It’s one I’ve recognized in Ale. And, at times, Papá.

It emanates from him—both drawing me closer and keeping me at arm’s length. 

It calls to me as much as it warns me away. 

But it’s more than that. With Avery, there’s an edge that my brother and father don’t possess. 

The scent of his cologne washes over me—spicy and expensive. He’s dressed in navy dress pants and a white button-down shirt. The sleeves are rolled up on his forearms and I glance from his elbows to his fingertips, realizing that those arms are responsible for more than one Super Bowl win. 

Now that my frustration has ebbed, I’m overwhelmed by his presence. Not because he’s an athlete—God knows I’ve been around them—but because he’s a man who is looking at me like he sees me. 

Wants to know me. 

It’s confusing and heady and…I fan myself, feeling flushed and uncentered. 

“You okay?” Avery asks. The concern in his tone tugs something loose in the center of my chest. 

“I don’t usually drink this much.”

“Sorry.” He winces, gesturing to the bartender again. “Don’t drink the wine; I’ll get you a water.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s fine. I’m…wallowing tonight.”

Concern tugs his eyebrows into a V over the top of his nose. “Bad breakup?”

A breakup? I laugh. “No, nothing like that.”

“Then, what is it?” 

I look at him and shake my head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He smiles. “Because I’m a football player who thinks the world revolves around me?” 

I grin back, relieved he’s not holding my words against me. “Because you’re an American passport holder,” I clarify. 

He snorts. “You keep surprising me, Valentina. I feel like I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth.” 

I chuckle. “No one has ever said that about me. I’m the predictable Garcia.”

Avery shrugs. Grins. “That’s not my impression.” He uncaps the bottle of water the bartender sets down and passes it to me. 

I take a small sip before placing it down and wrapping my fingers around the stem of the wine glass. “I’m not having a great night,” I admit. 

“I gathered that.” He glances around the bar. “To be honest, I’m not either.” 

I clink my glass against his pint and take a sip. The dry white rolls down the back of my throat, further numbing my feelings of anger and replacing them with…a different kind of heat. One I rarely allow myself to indulge. 

I scrunch up my nose. “Bad date?”

“No,” he laughs. “Nothing like that. I’m just in a strange headspace. Tonight was Raia’s engagement party.”

“Oh! That’s right.” I nod. 

Avery shakes his head. “I didn’t see your sister there.” 

“Carla was super disappointed to miss it. But she’s hosting a baby shower for her former team captain in New York this weekend.”

“Ah.” Avery nods, but his expression is still stricken. 

I frown. “You’re not happy about the engagement? I thought Cohen was your best friend.”

Avery takes a pull of his beer. “He is. It’s not that. I’m really happy for Raia and Cohen. They’re perfect together.” He doesn’t say anything else, but sadness sweeps through his eyes, momentarily making him look older. 

The mood shifts and my understanding dawns. It’s strange that I can read what he’s not saying. Maybe I can attribute that to my tipsy state as well? 

“You want that with someone,” I murmur, filling in the blank. 

Avery lifts his eyes to mine. They’re lighter gray now, bleeding with a desire to be understood. It’s a look I know well since I often wear it. I always feel like an outcast. Apart. 

But it’s not a sentiment I’d ever attribute to the state’s star quarterback. 

“I’ll never have that,” he says, his tone certain. “I won’t ever deserve it.” 

I frown at his word choice. Why not? I want to ask but he continues before I get the chance. 

“But I’d like something,” he tacks on. 

“Yeah,” I murmur, nodding in agreement. I’d like something too. And while I do think I’m deserving of it, I doubt I’ll find it. “Men find me too quirky to date,” I blurt out. 

He laughs, grinning at me. Curiosity replaces the sadness in his eyes, and I like that I made him laugh. “I find that hard to believe.”

“You shouldn’t. You thought I was stalking you.”

His eyes glitter as he regards me. “True. Okay, Valentina.” He turns on his barstool, one of his knees dragging along mine until he shifts his position. Now, he faces me squarely, my knees bracketed by his. He takes a long pull of his beer before setting the glass down and looking right at me. “Your turn. What don’t I understand?” 

I sigh heavily and take another sip of my wine. “I might be deported.”