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“It was really awesome hearing Andrès’ testimony last night,” I tell Mateo. “It’s amazing that you’ve been able to be there for him since his transition here last year.”
Mateo swallows a bite of his sandwich, and his face goes soft with emotion. “Yeah, he’s an incredible guy. He had a tough past, but I know he’s going to go forward to do great things, not just in soccer, but for his life, his family. I’m so proud of him.”
“Speaking of family, you said your parents are immigrants from Guatemala—does that mean you speak fluent Spanish?” I ask.
“That depends on your definition of fluent,” Mateo says with a chuckle. “If you asked my parents, they’d tell you I have a funny accent when I’m speaking Spanish. And I definitely don’t know all the correct grammar, so no writing papers in Spanish for me. But I can carry on conversations with all the native Spanish-speaking players on the team without much effort, so that works to my benefit.”
He dips a chip in the addict dip and motions it toward me, “Do you speak any Spanish or other languages?”
“That depends on your definition of speak,” I say with a smile, drawing a deep laugh from Mateo. “I actually spent the first ten years of my life in El Paso, so as a kid I knew a little bit of conversational Spanish from friends at school.”
“No way! I didn’t know you grew up in El Paso,” Mateo exclaims. “That’s so awesome.”
“See, there are things about me you still don’t know,” I tease, and Mateo winks at me. I’m surprised by the mini flip my heart does in response to that wink.
“I lost most of what I knew once we moved to Kansas City, but I took Spanish one year in high school and then my first semester here. It brought a little bit of it back, but I still can’t really have more than a basic conversation.”
Mateo asks me about my time in D.C. over the summer, so I fill him in on everything I did with my mom as well as the advocacy group I worked with in D.C. He’s tracking with the conversation and the lingo, asking all the right follow-up questions. It’s incredibly refreshing to discuss something I’m so passionate about with someone my age who also seems to care and understand the situation.
We continue chatting as we eat, sip our drinks, and listen to the music lightly surrounding us (he seriously nailed it with this playlist). Our conversation is easy, both of us equally listening and talking, with the occasional pause of silence that feels entirely normal.
We’ve finished the food and are both leaning back on our hands, watching as the sun starts to slip below the hills. The Kansas sky is really putting on a show tonight, pinks and purples dancing together to create a masterpiece. There are just enough clouds to add dimension to the colors and cast bright beams of light through the gaps. We take in the scene in comfortable silence.
Taylor has just started strumming her guitar in the next song on the playlist when Mateo hops down from the tailgate and holds his hand out to me. “Would you care to dance?”
I feel my cheeks flush with color as I look at his sweet smile, his hopeful eyes, his outstretched hand. I nod and put my hand in his, totally not prepared for the pleasant hum of energy that shoots through me when our fingers touch.
I ease off the truck as Mateo steadies me, then he moves his right hand to my shoulder blade and holds out his left. Placing my hand in his, I feel the warmth of the energy moving through my arm and down my back. When Aaron and I danced together in the homecoming exhibition, I remember being so excited to have a reason to touch him, but I can’t recall if I felt this same heady buzz. I can’t recollect anything about Aaron in this moment as Mateo’s sure touch leads me to the music.
Mateo guides me into a twirl out to the side. He spins me back in with a flourish, his hand settling on my waist. “Wow, so suave,” I teasingly compliment. “Did you take dance lessons along with all that soccer practice?”
Mateo laughs quietly. “No lessons, just a mom who loved to dance. When my dad or older brother weren’t available, I was stuck being her partner.” He’s smiling softly at the memory, which melts my heart a little. “She says dance is in our DNA, so I guess I’m genetically hardwired for it.”
He pulls me the tiniest bit closer, our clasped hands now just inches away from his chest. Without even inhaling deeply, I can detect his distinctly masculine smell, what seems to be a mixture of cedarwood, pine, and maybe a hint of clove? That doesn’t mean I don’t inhale deeply. Multiple times.
“But I have to admit I never dreamed I’d actually get to dance with you,” he says seriously, even though he’s smiling to lighten the words. I focus on the sensation of his thumb lightly rubbing the back of my hand, staring at his forearm above his rolled-up sleeve.
My throat has gone dry, so I swallow hard before speaking. “Well, of the two of us, I never even knew it was possible to dream of dancing with you, so I guess I’m still the more surprised one,” I say softly, shifting my eyes to his.
Mateo’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes are locked on mine with a spark of intensity, and I hold his gaze as my ears tune in to the lyrics of “Timeless.”
My mind races even as we sway slowly. Were we supposed to find this? All along I’ve been thinking I already found Aaron, but what if I was wrong?
Heart suddenly pounding, I wonder if Mateo can feel my pulse picking up. We’ve slowed to barely swaying when Mateo’s gaze flickers to my lips for a split second before he closes his eyes. He takes a step back, breathing deeply, and moves to hold both of my hands in front of us.
“Well, I’m going to suggest that we sit back down and enjoy the dessert course of our dinner, because if we keep dancing, I’m going to kiss you, and kissing you is not in my plan for our first date,” Mateo says with total honesty.
My face floods with heat, but it’s getting dark enough outside that I hope he can’t tell.
Mateo clicks a button, and a strand of battery-powered string lights brighten the back of the truck. He helps me back up onto the tailgate and opens the cooler, handing me a small takeout box.
I open it and go still, staring at the contents.
“Tiramisu,” I say quietly. I look at Mateo looking at me. “Tiramisu—that’s a ‘Lana’s Favorites’ deep cut.”
Mateo smiles as he hands me a plastic fork. “I told you. Paying attention.”
He pulls a second box from the cooler and adds with a grin, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you share. That one’s all for you.”
