Snapshot of a Story

“Are you serious?!” I yelled, standing up, not being able to sit any longer. “This ref is letting them get away with everything! How much did Brazil pay them?!”

Shaki, though she was equally as outraged as I was, managed to control herself better than I could; she actually managed somehow to stay seated and only allow the slightest flare of her nostrils indicate she was infuriated. “It is ridiculous, but they will come back. They always do, we just have to have faith in them.”

Though I had played soccer too long to really have complete faith in her words, I allowed her to softly pull me back down to my seat. The noise of the stadium was deafening, and if she said anything else I wasn’t able to hear it. I was already reeling from the fact that the referee had allowed Fred to be practically laying on the ground and kicking at Iker, leading to a goal, then Neymar made another goal.

This goal, however, I had to give props to. It was such a beautiful left footed shot even I was in awe.
The game continued with the Brazilian side playing extremely aggressively and being clearly favored by the referee and with Spain seemingly not knowing what to do with themselves. It seemed like a whole different team, I had no idea what was going on. We were given a small bit of hope as Marcelo clumsily fouled Jesus Navas and the referee awarded Spain a penalty kick. I clutched Shakira’s arm as we tried to make out who was going to take it. To my surprise, Sergio stepped forwarded with the ball in his hands. Of course I had no doubt of his abilities, it was just a shock that he was taking it over Andres or Xavi. I held my breath and held on to Shaki’s hand so tightly I was surely cutting off circulation.

I didn’t release the breath I had been holding until I saw the ball roll just wide of the goal, not even hitting the goal post. My heart sank into my stomach for Sergio; I knew he wanted to die right now and would never forgive himself. The screams of the Brazilian fans were deafening and I knew they were only making him feel worse. I fell back into my seat and watched the rest of the game in mostly silence as Spain, quite frankly, laid down and took it.

Before too long, the referee blew the final whistle signaling the end of the game. The awards were handed out to the players who received them; we were all happy that Fernando received the award for the most goals in the tournament, but they were all bittersweet emotions. The Brazilian fans unified for a final hurrah that they had beaten the reigning world champions of soccer while the Spanish ones tried to exit the stadium as quickly as possible. Shakira, the other WAGs, and I knew that the guys wouldn’t be out for at least a few minutes so we slowly headed down to the tunnels below the stands where they would exit. Few words were exchanged between all of us, as we all knew we were experiencing the same emotions and thoughts.

They emerged after a shorter talk than usual, and none of them speaking. Sergio was one of the last out through the door, only looking up from the ground just in time to meet my gaze. The expression he had on his face nearly made me bust out crying on the spot; he looked so defeated. I knew better than to try to say something to make him feel better - I knew it wouldn’t; and simply hugged him instead. He dropped his duffel on the ground and wrapped his arms around me and we stayed that way for what seemed like only a few seconds but when he pulled away I realized we were the only ones left standing there. He picked his bag up off the floor and took my hand before leading me out of the tunnel and out into the cool night air, where we saw the bus waiting for him. I could also see a taxi with Shakira and Olalla in it waiting for me. I turned to Sergio and told him I’d see him at the hotel before giving him a kiss and parting ways for the few minutes it’d take to get to our destination.

I got in the taxi where Olalla and Shakira had been talking quietly. Upon my entrance they turned to me and asked, “Is he okay?”

I just shrugged and turned my gaze from the bus outside to my friends. “He will be.”

I was sitting on the bed in the hotel room, mindlessly flipping through channels when Sergio walked in. I immediately flipped the television off and turned to face him. I was silent as he dropped his bag on the ground by the wall, tossing his shoes in the corner. “Do you wanna talk about it?” I asked.

“No, I don’t want to talk about it,” he snapped.

I was initially hurt my his snide tone, but quickly realized it wasn’t honestly directed at me - that he was just upset with himself. He had thrown himself face down on the bed and I got off the bed to go walk around to the other side. He must’ve noticed the shift in the weight on the bed, because he started to sit up almost immediately and began apologizing.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t -”

I cut him off by softly pushing him back down onto the bed, “It’s okay, I understand.” I began massaging his back and tracing random patterns around the muscles. I did this for who knows how long before he quickly turned over and kept rolling, taking me with him so that I was laying next to him. I rested my head on his shoulder after we’d gotten under the covers, and laid there with the lights off until I thought I could hear his breaths slowing. “You know that nobody blames you right? That nobody on your team resents you, and that it happens to everyone. Your team, your fans, and I always have and always will fully support you no matter what. Don’t forget that.”

He just responded by holding me even more tightly to him before we both drifted off to sleep.