When You Started Writing Poems in Spanish

2. until friction made combustion

"I would prefer to do this interview in Spanish."

I nodded sitting back down and motioning for her to do the same. "Okay, okay, I have the questions all ready. Bare with me for a second."

I flipped through my notepad until I found a section of questions titled "Alexia." Reading through the page, I clicked record for the final time and took a breath.

"¿Qué significa para ti ser el máximo goleador del FC Barcelona?" I glanced up at Alexia from my notes. "Por cierto, enhorabuena."

"Es algo por lo que he trabajado muy duro durante mucho tiempo, me siento bien," Alexia said after a second. "Creo que, sobre todo después de mi lesión, demostrar que aún puedo jugar a mi mejor nivel es muy importante para mí."

I nodded, focusing on her words like they were winning lottery numbers. I could pick out a few words, so I decided to continue with my scripted questions. I grinned, "¿Cree que podrá llegar a los doscientos al final de la temporada?"

"No veo por qué no," Alexia said, nodding, "Your pronunciation is awful, by the way."

I blinked at her, wondering if she was upset by my ignorance. "Sorry or... lo siento. I'm learning... aprender...?"

Making a sound in the back of her throat, Alexa tried not to laugh but failed to cover up her smile. "Sorry, continuar."

Relief washed through me, she wasn't upset. I just needed to try to get my pronunciation right for the next questions. "Ganar el Mundial con España..." Alexia tried not to laugh, "...se suma a su creciente colección de trofeos," Alexia placed her hand over her mouth, "¿cuál consideraría su momento favorito de triunfo en el fútbol?"

She took a second this time to respond, physically wiping the grin off of her face. I started to get antsy, was my Spanish really that bad? Were my questions basic? Surely she hadn't heard them before, the season had just started.

"Consideraría que mi mayor triunfo personal en el fútbol son mis dos Balones de Oro, pero aprecio más el éxito que he tenido con mi club y con la selección nacional," Alexia spoke, expression turning somber. "Ganar el Mundial, aunque no tuve el papel que esperaba, fue uno de los mejores momentos de mi carrera y uno que nunca olvidaré."

I knew some of the words she said. Personal, Ballon d'Or, club and national team, World Cup; it seemed that Alexia was ever the diplomat when answering questions, putting the focus not on herself, but on her team. I jotted down what I roughly guessed her answer to be about, glancing back up at her for a moment to meet a face scrunched up in thought.

"I have seen you here before, you cover games, why haven't you learned yet?" Alexia asked, throwing her hands up in an exasperated motion.

My throat went dry at her question. "I don't know, it's hard. Never could find a good teacher, all that stuff. Why does it matter?"

"That is not a real answer," Alexia paused, resting on one of her hands, "I want to know why."

"This feels unprofessional." I flipped through my notebook, back to the questions.

Alexia scoffed, "You are unprofessional, the best BBC has to offer is a writer who does not even speak Spanish?"

I ran my hands over my face. Getting into an argument with the Queen of Spanish football was a quick way to lose my job, so I decided to try to dampen the flames a bit. "We are both being unprofessional, then. And because you brought it up, I will ask you: do you have anyone in mind that would teach me Spanish?"

The room went quiet for a moment, the only noise to be heard was an analog clock high on the wall. I watched Alexia expectantly, waiting for an answer. Her shirt fit her just right in the shoulders, highlighting how broad they were.