The Footballer I Met Smoking in the Park

In my family, we were always fans of teams that never won anything. It was almost a tradition: every branch of the family tree had its modest neighborhood club, an eternal resident of the second division, and everyone defended it with a pride that had nothing to do with the number of cups in the trophy cabinet. My grandfather instilled that devotion in my father, and my father tried to instill it in me. He only partly succeeded. I went to the stadium, yes, but more for the family ritual than out of any genuine passion. That changed the day he joined the club.

My name is Renata. From my great-grandparents from northern Italy, I inherited light eyes and hair that, depending on the light, looks blonde or very light brown. I study at university, although my father, the owner of a bakery quite well known in the neighborhood, would have preferred me to take over my mother's beauty salon. That was our constant conflict: he thought university was a whim, while I saw it as my only real way out. And there was something else that kept us apart. At university I breathed new air, with more open-minded ideas, while between the counter and the stands my father carried prejudices that made me grit my teeth.

One ordinary Sunday, I went to the stadium with my younger brother. That was when we saw him for the first time. He wore number forty-eight, which was unusual, but what really impressed us was his size. Almost two meters tall, with broad shoulders and a presence that looked as if it belonged to another sport. He was a wall. Whenever an opponent collided with him, he bounced away as if he had charged into one.

“There’s the big guy. Let’s hope he’s any good,” my father said, making a contemptuous comment that I’d rather not repeat in full.

I didn’t answer. I just rolled my eyes and kept quiet, my way of showing my disagreement without starting a fight in the middle of the stands.

“They say a big European club wanted to pay a fortune for him years ago,” a fan from the row behind us remarked.

“Let’s hope that’s true and he doesn’t turn out to be another bust,” my father replied.

The match began, and I discovered that I was watching that defender more than the ball. I had never had a particular type of man, and I’d never imagined that someone like him could seem so attractive to me. During one play, an opposing forward crashed into his chest and fell to the ground, and the referee awarded a nonexistent penalty. The stands erupted in insults, and my father was among the fiercest.

“Come on, Dad, can’t you see it wasn’t a penalty? Stop yelling at him,” I scolded him, and for once he fell silent.

We won two to one, with the opponents’ only goal coming from that penalty. We went home singing, in high spirits.

“You’re really defending that African guy,” my father teased me.

“Call him by his name, not ‘the African,’” I replied, laughing.

“And do you remember his name?” he shot back.

I had no idea. I only knew that he was the new defender and that he had come from very far away.

“His name is Amadou,” my little brother said, proud of his memory.

I would never forget it again. From that moment on, without admitting it, I became Amadou’s number-one fan.

***

That week I had midterms, so I spent my afternoons shut away studying. Thursday’s dinner ended in an argument: my father complained that I wasn’t helping my mother at the salon.

“I’m in the middle of exam season. It’s not as if I spend all my time sleeping,” I defended myself.

“That was in high school. Now your priority is the family and the business. University is an extra,” he said, raising his voice.

“It may be an extra to you. To me, it’s the most important thing I have,” I replied, dropping my cutlery and getting up from the table.

I grabbed my notes, a pack of cigarettes, and the lighter, then stormed out, slamming the door. I walked to a nearby park. There were still children playing and some retirees chatting on the benches. I sat down, lit a cigarette, and began to read. Just as I was about to light a second one, a deep voice interrupted me.

“Hi. Could I borrow a light, please?” His Spanish was perfect, though with a very pronounced accent.

“Sure, here,” I said, handing him the lighter.

I recognized the size of his hand first, then the enormous silhouette beneath the hood, and finally his face.

“Wait… aren’t you Amadou, the new defender for…” I began, without finishing the sentence.

“Yes, that’s me,” he said with a shy smile.

“I can’t believe it. My family are huge fans of the club,” I replied, disguising my excitement as best I could.

“That’s great. It’s the first time anyone has recognized me without my jersey on,” he remarked.

“If you want, you can sit down,” I offered, moving over on the bench.

I set my books aside, and we began to talk. He told me how he had arrived in the country, what he thought of the city, and how he had learned Spanish years earlier while playing for a club in southern Europe. He was a surprisingly down-to-earth person, nothing like the intimidating giant on the field. We talked for more than an hour without realizing it.

“I have to get back to the hotel. I have early training tomorrow,” he said at last, standing up. “Would you like to go out for breakfast sometime?”

I didn’t read any flirtation into the offer. I thought he was alone, far from home, and that perhaps I was his first friend in the city.

“I’d love to,” I said, smiling.

We exchanged numbers, and each of us went our separate way.

***

The following Sunday, he played again. This time my father and the neighbors who had come along had nothing but praise for him. We won one to nil, and Amadou was the star; he didn’t let a single attack through. I didn’t tell anyone that I had met him in person, partly to avoid my father’s comments and partly because I was still angry with him.

That night, I received a message: “Hi, I’m back in the city. Did you see the match?” I smiled like an idiot and replied that I had, and that he had been the best player on the field. What I thought would be a one-afternoon chat turned into a conversation that stretched over days, then weeks, then months. He was my footballer friend. We got along wonderfully. He told me that adapting was difficult, but having a friend made everything easier for him, and that made me happy. We went out for coffee once in a while, nothing more. Until one day, instead of an invitation to go out for a couple of hours, he suggested a trip.

We had advanced to the next round of the cup, and the next match was in the capital.

“I’d like you to come with me,” he wrote, catching me off guard.

“You know that’s difficult for me. I doubt my old man will pay for my hotel and ticket,” I replied.

“Don’t worry about the money. I’ll take care of everything. The excuse that lets you travel is up to you,” he answered, adding a couple of laughing emojis.

I wanted to go. I had always loved traveling, and even more so with a friend. I began inventing an excuse, and luck gave me a hand: there happened to be a hairdressing and beauty-products fair in the city on those very days. I used it as my hook.

“Dad, I know I told you university is my priority, but there’s this fair, and I could look at some new products for the salon,” I said during dinner.

My father’s eyes lit up. More than the idea itself, he was excited to see me interested in the family business. He gave me permission, handed me more than enough money for the flight, accommodation, and a few purchases, and even offered to come with me.

“No, I want to go alone. You’re all busy, and this is my way of helping out,” I replied.

Everything was set. I was going to take my trip to the capital.

***

Obviously, we didn’t travel on the same plane—he went with the team—but we arrived almost at the same time. The match was that night. I rented a room, walked around the city for a while, and got ready to go to the stadium. The opposing team was a first-division club, one of the most important in the interior, and almost all the crowd cheered for them. We lost four to nil, a thrashing that exposed the difference between the two squads. And yet I was still happy, because that night we were going to have dinner at a famous pasta restaurant.

We had dinner, drank a little wine, and then walked through a beautiful, well-lit, peaceful area. It was a strangely perfect night. I didn’t expect it, but when we sat down in a familiar park, he leaned in and kissed me. It took me completely by surprise, because he had never made the slightest suggestion.

I pulled away, bewildered.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I got carried away,” he said, his face clearly regretful.

“No, it’s okay. It’s my fault too for not making things clear,” I replied, trying to save the awkward moment.

We sat in silence without looking at each other for one or two endless minutes.

“Well, it’s late. We should go back to the hotel,” I said at last.

“Yes, I agree,” he murmured.

We arrived, and each of us went into our room without another word. Alone in my room, I began thinking about everything. He was my closest friend. If he had kissed me before we became so close, I probably would have kissed him back without hesitation. His shyness, so curious in a man his size, struck me as endearing. And then I told myself that maybe he deserved a chance, and that if I was going to take a step, it had to be that night.

I got up and went to knock on his door.

“Renata, did something happen? Is everything all right?” That was the first thing he said when he opened it.

I looked at him without knowing what to say. Before he could repeat the question, I rose onto my tiptoes and kissed him. He kissed me back immediately. He held me by the waist with both hands and pulled me inside while I closed the door behind me.

He sat down on the bed, and I settled on top of him, wrapping my legs around him. We looked at each other for a second before joining in that kiss again, which gradually lost its tenderness and gained urgency. I began moving on top of him, slowly, still fully clothed, letting out sighs that the kiss itself muffled. At some point I felt his enormous hands enveloping me completely, pulling me toward him, and that sensation of feeling him was the best part of the night up to that point.

“I want you,” I whispered in his ear.

I discovered that his quiet nature wasn’t limited to everyday life: in intimacy, too, he remained that way, leaving me to take the reins. He merely nodded at me.

“Stand up,” I ordered.

He obeyed without a word. I unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down, and that first revelation was enough to confirm that everything about him was proportional to his size. For a moment I felt something like vertigo, but curiosity overcame my hesitation.

“If you’re not comfortable, we don’t have to do anything,” he said, lowering his eyes.

I didn’t answer him. I silenced my own doubts and let myself go. He barely moved, as if he were afraid of making me uncomfortable; I was the one setting every step, the one deciding the pace. When I felt the time was right, I gave my next order.

“Lie down.”

That two-meter-tall giant lay down obediently, as if his size and shyness were two sides of the same coin. I stripped off my clothes, positioned myself over him, and, after taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, slowly lowered myself onto him. I let out a moan, and he abruptly sat up, alarmed.

“Are you all right? Do you want to stop?” he asked.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I replied, gradually getting used to him.

I didn’t wait for an answer before beginning to move, at first barely at all, rocking my hips, then with greater confidence. Every movement drew sounds from me that bounced off the walls of the room, and I’m sure anyone passing in the hallway would have heard them. I whispered requests in his ear, set the rhythm, guided him with my hands, and he responded to everything in silence, attentive to my every signal.

At some point I felt something break inside me, a wave of heat that swept through my entire body and made me lose control. I dropped my face against his chest, hugged him, and remained trembling. When I came back to myself, he was already stroking my hair.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. Very much so,” I replied, without lifting my face from his chest.

“Was that an orgasm?” he asked, with an innocence that made me smile.

“Yes, I think so. And a very intense one,” I answered.

We stayed wrapped in each other’s arms for a long while, sharing comfortable silences and low-voiced conversations, giving each other more hugs than kisses. At some point I realized that he hadn’t finished.

“You didn’t come, did you?” I asked.

“No, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you did,” he said, stroking my cheek.

I wasn’t satisfied with that. Looser now, and laughing, I went after him again, kissing him until the kiss regained the intensity it had had before, and asked him what he wanted. For the first time he dared to ask for something, and his cheeks flushed as he did so, a blush that was difficult to notice on his skin and that filled me with tenderness.

I gave him a brief kiss and positioned myself as he wanted, with my back to him. When he looked at me over my shoulder, he seemed to be left speechless. He came closer slowly, held me by the waist, and, almost inaudibly, murmured, “I’m crazy about you,” before I could even process it. This time was different: he took the initiative, gently at first and then with growing intensity, and I accompanied him with my whole body and with words I didn’t even try to hold back.

Several minutes passed before I felt him tense, tremble, and collapse onto my back with a hoarse groan that finally escaped him. He said nothing, but he didn’t need to. He stayed still for a few seconds, catching his breath, and then moved to one side.

To this day, when I remember that night, I think the best proof of how good it was lies in how I felt afterward: with the strange sensation that something was missing, that I wanted that moment never to end. The rest of the night was pure calm. We slept wrapped in each other’s arms as if we were a couple. The next morning I could barely walk, like after an entire day at the gym.

The rest of the trip took on a different color. We walked hand in hand, embracing, without the tension from before. And yet, when we returned to our routine, everything remained a closer friendship that occasionally ended in a kiss or in bed. He never asked me to become something more. I don’t know whether it was his shyness or his fear of making things complicated, but he never took that step. The irony is that before the trip, I would have said no; afterward, my answer would have been yes a thousand times over.

He did so well on the field that an offer from abroad eventually came his way, one that anyone in his position would have accepted. He left, and with him went any possibility of our relationship becoming something else. We still talked occasionally, like two friends whom distance had made strangers.

That is my story with the footballer I met one night, smoking in a park, who taught me that desire understands neither prejudice nor labels.