Minha Pequena Borboleta (My Little Butterfly)

Was this really happening? I heard the shouts from the Portuguese national team at Spain’s apparent goal. The Spanish were already chanting, and I fought the urge to yell a ‘f you’ to everyone in the crowd. The added stoppage / injury time had run out. We’d lost. To Spain. It was unbelievable. My team came back on our sideline after congratulating the Spanish players, and that’s when I realized it was getting annoying. And it’d only been a minute so far of
“Inesta, Inesta, vamos a la fiesta!” I wove my way through the crowd, searching for Cristiano. Eventually I found him, his normally playfully-but-still-serious-‘come-and-get-me’-game-face evidently crestfallen. But a slight smile still played on those lips, probably just for the sake of the cameras. I smiled gently back; I could feel a camera watching me as his arms wrapped around me. His ankle was actually holding up really well, I’d’ve thought by now he’d be at least wincing in pain. But he was an athlete. He was used to it. I stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and then whispered; “You did all you boys could. Your injury probably didn’t help that, though.” I added, laughing softly. Cristiano scowls at me gently; I can tell he’s irked by my bringing this up. About 50 minutes in, he’d twisted his ankle, and our coach tried to get him to sit and relax. But my Crissy wouldn’t have it. He insisted on playing the entire game. And maybe that’s what cost us the most important game of our lives…But I’d never directly say it. No way in hell.

“Love, are you alright?” Cristiano’s voice, laced with concern, manages to wake me, and I realize that although he sounds tired, he’s ready for whatever I’m about to say. Taking a deep breath, I realize it’s all a dream. The finale isn’t for another week. I moan and turn over, trying to find a comfortable position. It’s getting harder and harder to find one lately, mostly because Cristiano and I are going to be parents soon. I smile as his hands make their way around me to rest on my stomach, and I feel his lips against my neck. His palms are so warm against my skin, and his lips know right away I’m not in the mood, so he gently kisses my neck twice before saying, “You were fretting about something in your sleep. What’s wrong?” I adjust my current position so I’m curled up against him, avoiding his gaze, however loving it may be.

“I….I dreamt…we…um, we lost to Spain. In the final next week.” I stuttered, still not looking at him. Cristiano laughed, his fingers starting to run through my hair.

“Ah, minha pequena borboleta, do not worry. We will win, and I’m promising you this now just as I promised you meu coração (my heart) on that glorious day we were wed.” I smiled, remembering all that had happened that day. I turned my head toward him, and Cristiano’s lips met mine, and they weren’t as rough as those nights when we both needed something to do. So as he stopped kissing me and we lay back down, I knew that kiss was promise. We weren’t going to lose.

“We’re not going to lose. As long as I’m on that field, I will fight. For my flag, the cup, and your love.” I smiled, noticing he was exactly like the song I head stuck in my head. My Cristiano was a firework, waiting to explode with speed and talent on the field. I couldn’t wait. I knew the finale was going to be one of the greatest games I’d ever seen. In my entire life. And, like he said, if we did win, his pequena borboleta could soar through the skies of victory.