And so, I panic. As the photographer, holding his nose and swearing his head off, stoops down to gather up his shattered camera, I get in the car and quickly start the engine. I peel backward out of the parking lot—Chloe Ann sniffling in the backseat—and onto the road.
I leave the incident behind, but I know it won’t leave me.
When I get home, Vera has left a note that she has gone out for a short walk. Chloe Ann has calmed down, and I try to explain to her why daddy did what he did. It’s difficult because what I want to instill in my daughter is the ability to shoulder what life throws at her without getting physical or losing composure. I don’t want her to believe that it’s okay to hurt someone just because they hurt you.
I think I’ve gotten through to her; she seems to understand, nodding her small head and staring down at her little hands.
When Vera comes back, she immediately sees something is wrong. Thankfully, Chloe Ann is smiling now and doesn’t seem to harbor any resentment toward her.
“I messed up,” I tell Vera, and I realize how stricken my voice sounds.
Her face crumples and she grabs my hand, leading me over to the couch.
“Tell me,” she implores, sitting down and pulling me down beside her.
Knowing that Chloe Ann is preoccupied with a coloring book and can’t understand English at any rate, I launch into it from the start, from arriving at the day camp and having to deal with those horrible women, to driving away from the scene of the crime, Chloe Anne crying in the back.
I place my face in my hands, lean over my knees, and try and hide myself from the world. Vera rubs her hand slowly up and down my back but doesn’t say anything. There is no “it’s going to be okay” because how on earth is everything going to be okay? How could it? Things were bad before, and I just drove that last nail in. It doesn’t matter that I may have had the right to lash out, but I know this photographer and the parasite that he is, and he won’t take this lying down.
“He’s going to press charges,” I mumble into my hands.
Her rubbing pauses. “He said that?”
“I just know.”
And I’m right. The next morning I receive a phone call from the police department informing me to get a lawyer because Mr. Carlos Cruz wants to charge me for assault. I end up taking a sick day from work just to get everything all sorted—the last thing I want is for Pedro to know about this, and I need to do all that I can in order to keep it under the covers.
I knew it won’t be easy. My lawyer, whom I had seen far too much of over the past year, tells me there is a good chance this won’t go to court and that it can be settled otherwise with large sums of dough. Apparently I am good at paying people off. But he isn’t too optimistic about it staying out of the papers, not in the meantime anyway.
When I drop off Chloe Ann at her mother’s house, I am tempted to just tell her everything right there. That way it won’t be a surprise when she reads about it. But somehow I can’t bring myself to do it. There is this tiny little hope inside me, shining dimly, that perhaps Mr. Cruz will be so ashamed or embarrassed about the incident that it won’t make the tabloids at all.
It is only later that I realize I should have said something. Even if the photographer doesn’t speak, there is a chance Chloe Ann might if Isabel asks her about her stay. To say I spent the rest of Thursday a nervous wreck is an understatement.
Now it’s Friday. It’s ten a.m. and I’m back at my desk, absently watching old plays and winning goals on my computer in an attempt to better understand the team. I can barely concentrate. I am pretty much useless. My knuckles hurt, but I bet his face hurts even more.
There is a knock at my door. I turn around in my seat to see Pedro on the other side of the glass, motioning for me to open it. I don’t know why he doesn’t just come in since it’s not locked, but he is the type of guy to engage in minor power struggles throughout the day.
I slowly ease myself out of the chair and stride over to the door. “Yes, sir?” I ask as I open it, eyeing him inquisitively. He looks the same as ever—a slack smile with hardened eyes—so I can’t read what this is about.
“Mateo.” He says my name like he’s not sure if it’s mine. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” I tell him. “Stomach bug.”
There is an almost imperceptible raise of his brow. “Good. Glad to hear you’re better. Listen . . . can I come in?”
I try not to swallow the brick in my throat. “Of course,” I tell him, stepping aside.
He folds his arms and looks around the office. “Where is Warren?”
“With Diego,” I tell him. “Downstairs.”
“Good,” he says again. “Mateo,” he says, and then pauses as if he’s holding his breath. I wait for the worst. He already knows. I’m fired.
“I think we might move you into Warren’s position first before you take over Diego’s. We’ll be looking to do this in October. Is that okay with you?”
I blink a few times. “I’m sorry?”
His grey brows furrow together as if I should know this already. “We think you’re ready. I do, anyway. It’s better to get rid of Warren now.”
“Uh, but sir, I thought Warren would stay assistant coach to me?”
He smiles cautiously. “Ah, Mateo. Such naïve thoughts. Warren knows now that he’s not going anywhere. You took the ceiling from him. He’s better off with another team. He’ll have no problem finding one, preferably in England.”
It seems like all the English speakers are getting fired these days. I don’t know what to say, only that I personally don’t think I’m ready to be Atlético’s assistant coach. We haven’t even had our first official game of the season yet—that starts next week.
“Why are you waiting until October when the league is in full swing?”
He shrugs. “Gives you some time to see the team in real action.”
“And who are you hiring for his position?”
Another shrug and he turns for the door. “We shall see.” From the tone of his voice, it sounds like it’s just shooting fish in a barrel for him.
He leaves, shutting the door behind him, and all at once I feel like the walls are caving in on me. I should be elated about moving into Warren’s role so soon, but it’s hard to feel anything but overwhelmed, especially when I can’t seem to get a handle on anything and my personal life is on the verge of exploding into something I may not recover from.