Hold Me Close

good, bad, both

Two days prior.

My keys click in the lock of María's front door, and I creep my way inside. It is late; far later than I intended to stay out until. The warm flicker of the lamp left on in the hallway illuminates her house enough for me to slink my way up the stairs, and I think I have gotten away with another nighttime drive. María has threatened to report me for them now, because it's unhealthy to avoid sleep as much as I do.

Andries did not ask me to come to the national team camp this time round. He told me that my place on the World Cup squad is undisputed, and he would like to evaluate younger players. He wants me to rest. I have a feeling that I am not hiding my mental disarray well enough, but I cannot find it in myself to care.

It is not my fault that I am plagued with nightmares, or that lying in bed in silence gives my mind the freedom to explore emotions that I'd rather keep locked away. Nothing is truly as complex as I make it, has been my most recent revelation. Opinions can be black and white. I can hate Alexia, and that is enough. I will not allow myself the time to second-guess my initial emotions to her because of one drunken kiss that the arrogant bitch doesn't even remember. I suppose I've been evading the entire team's attention since we beat Alhama two days ago.

"Fleur," a voice says, sounding like María but an exhausted version of the woman I am starting to love like she is my own mother. I freeze, halfway up the stairs. "Mija, I know it is you."

"Soy Carlos," I try, attempting to make my voice as deep as it can go. She is not convinced for a single moment, and laughs breathily from her position at the dining table.

She wordlessly instructs me to go to her, and so I tiptoe down the stairs, avoiding the creaky floorboards in order to not wake the snoring Carlos I can just about hear. I carefully place my keys on the plate by the door, and they join the mix of silver and rusted gold of the other sets.

María is sitting at the head of the dining table, eyes framed by black reading glasses. On her lap, Oli purrs away, content with the occasional hand she runs down his spine, or finger stroking the top of his head. This blends with the whirring of her laptop. I wonder what she is doing up so late. She asks me my question before I can ask her.

"I couldn't sleep. I'm sorry, I will try better." I lean against the doorway, blocking the light from the hallway so that the only thing keeping the dining room bright enough for us to see each other is the slightly blue glow of her laptop screen. She motions for me to switch on the light. We both blink to adjust to the newfound brightness.

"I really think you should see the psychologist." I shake my head at her, almost pleading for her to drop the topic; María sighs. "Come, sit. I need your opinion on something." Her foot pushes a chair out for me. I obey.

There is a moment where she scans over the documents laid out in front of her, and then types a few sentences out on her laptop keyboard. I wait patiently for her to finish, the soft clack of the keys oddly soothing. I relax on the chair, spreading out, resting my feet on the table.

She raises her eyebrows and I quickly remove them.

"There is a new player arriving four days from now," she says, closing her laptop. It thuds shut, and squeaks as she slides it out of the way. "She is very young, but very talented. I am not usually given the Spanish players to look after, but she is only twenty-years-old and seemed terrified in her meeting with Jonatan a few days ago."

"Should you be telling me this?" I ask. The club has not announced a new signing, and I do not think they can even get new players at this time of the season. She must have signed a loan contract in the transfer window, and postponed the date. It's a cumbersome time to come, but we all have our reasons.