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Luis and I are screaming, hugging, jumping, high-fiving, dancing, and every other triumphant action you could think of. Several teammates surround Mateo, miming taking photos of him in celebration. He plays along briefly but is quick to wave them off and embrace all three of the other guys involved in the goal.
Play resumes, and as the clock ticks closer and closer to ninety minutes, the pace of the match is becoming frantic. Our defense breaks up an offensive run by the other team. One of our younger defenders, Alex, kicks the ball back to our goalkeeper, Marc, to give our guys the chance to reset on the field to keep control of the remainder of the time.
What Alex doesn’t see until after he’s kicked the ball is that Marc is up out of the box, shouting and pointing positions to our offensive players as he reads the defense. The ball rolls behind Marc, and although Chris sprints to save it, he can’t make it in time. The ball crosses the goal line.
There’s a collective groan among the Townsend fans, and the opposing team roars with excitement as the own goal ties the score. Luis is speaking rapid Spanish to himself, and my hands are clutched against my head. Marc is yelling at Alex, who looks positively miserable. Seconds later, I see Mateo wrap an arm around Alex’s shoulders and lean in to speak to him. I don’t have to be within earshot to know that Mateo is telling him to shake it off and keep playing hard.
I just want to run out onto the field and give Alex a big hug. And then I want to positively wrap myself around Mateo and kiss him till I can’t breathe.
Instead, I settle for a permanent increase in my blood pressure as I watch the final minutes of stoppage time tick off, the score still 1-1. Since the championship can’t end in a tie, that means they’ll head into penalty kicks to decide the winner.
I look around to see if there are hidden cameras somewhere, because this feels like a sports movie script.
Each team chooses their five players for the shootout, Mateo lining up first for Townsend. I tent my hands over my mouth, heart pounding. He steps back from the ball, then sprints forward to kick the ball into the top left corner of the net, perfectly aiming beyond the keeper’s reach. Luis and I cheer and hug each other, but then quickly turn solemn awaiting the other team’s first kick. We cheer even louder when Marc successfully blocks their first PK, putting us up one.
Both teams score on their next two PKs, making the score 3-2. My heart plummets when we miss our next shot but the opponents make theirs, evening the score. I feel sick when our fifth player misses as well, and I’m crossing my fingers and praying and holding my breath and closing my eyes hoping the final opponent misses as well to send us into sudden death.
My bubble of hope pops when I hear the loud cheers of opposing fans to my left, and feel Luis’ presence deflate next to me. I open my eyes to see the opponents dogpiling their final shooter and our team in varying poses of disappointment.
Mateo’s hands are on his hips, his eyes closed and head tilted back toward the sky. My vision blurs with tears as I take in Mateo’s defeated stance. This isn’t how the movie script goes, I think to myself. He’s supposed to win his final match. He’s worked so hard. He loves this sport so much. He’s the best man on the planet. He’s supposed to go out on a high.
I glance over at Luis, who also has tears in his eyes, and I reach out to give his hand a squeeze. We just stand there, not speaking, both lost in our own sad thoughts as we wait for the Townsend players to exit the field for the locker room.
Forty-five minutes later, we move down to the same place we met Mateo coming out of the match yesterday. The mood of the Townsend friends and family standing around is somber as we all process this unexpected disappointment.
One by one, players begin emerging from the locker room doors, met with the comforting sight of their loved ones waiting for them. Mateo makes his way over to us, moving more lethargically than I’ve ever seen before. My eyes well up with tears again as he leans in to give his dad a long hug. I hear Luis whispering, “Estoy orgulloso de ti, mijo, te amo mucho,” over and over into Mateo’s ear. They finally pull back from each other, and Luis pats Mateo’s arm firmly before glancing over at me.
Mateo steps toward me and locks his arms around my waist, burying his face in my neck. His fingers aren’t even tangling into my hair like they usually do on autopilot—just squeezing my torso like I’m his lifeline. I stand up on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck, wishing I could transfer every cell of positive energy from my body to his. My eyes fill again when I feel moisture from Mateo’s eyes slide down my collarbone.
I don’t know how long we stand there, but I don’t rush to let go. Mateo eventually gives my waist a firmer squeeze before releasing me to swipe the tears away from his eyes. “I’m so glad you’re both here,” he finally says, voice raw with emotion.
My heart is physically in pain as I watch Mateo’s subdued face as he talks with his dad about the team’s plans for the remainder of the night. They won’t drive back to Brooklyn until tomorrow—they had to leave enough time for press interviews and a celebration if they had won today.
Unfortunately, I have a flight leaving at 8:00 p.m. I wish I could stick around to be here for Mateo, but I need to Uber back to my hotel to pick up my luggage and head to the airport if I’m going to make it on time.
I share my plan, and as we wait for the car, Luis gives me a long hug, expressing how glad he is to get to know me. Mateo is still pensive, so I silently lace my fingers through his without trying to make conversation.
My Uber arrives, and Mateo checks the car against my app, still so thoughtful and protective despite his sadness. I wrap my arms around his waist and lay my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry it wasn’t the happy ending,” I whisper.
Mateo sighs, then runs his fingers through my hair as he says, “I’m sad about the match, sad for my team, but this isn’t an unhappy ending. I still have plenty to be happy about.” He presses his lips to my temple.
“I’ll see you back in Brooklyn,” I tell him quietly as I slip into the backseat of the car. He nods and closes the door behind me, turning back to his dad.
My parents must have watched the match online, because I have a bunch of messages from my mom about how sad they are for Mateo. What’s truly shocking, however, is that I have a text from Dean.
Dean
Sorry Lana. Tell Mateo that sucks
I can’t help but smile. A six-word text from Dean is quite the show of care.
Exhausted from all the emotion of the day, I fall asleep on the flight back to KC and still feel groggy on the drive home from the airport with my dad. He turns on some cello music, and we ride home in silence.
I fall into bed, but before closing my eyes, I pull out my phone to text Mateo. I know there are no good words to say that are going to make anything feel better, but I need to somehow communicate how much I care for him in the midst of his disappointment.
Made it home safely. Wish there was a way I could make this not a sad day for you. I’m glad I got to meet your dad and watch you play this weekend. I’ve always loved soccer, but watching you play these past few months has been…it’s just been the best. Not just because you’re amazing at it, but because you’re mine. So even though it wasn’t the ending we wanted, I’m still grateful to have been there with you
I hit send, not knowing if he’ll still be awake or already in bed, especially since he’s an hour ahead of me. Three dots start bouncing almost immediately though, making me smile.
