Tackle (4 page)

"What we want," Ken said, looking at Frank for approval, "is for you to keep your mouth shut from now on, got it?"

"How am I supposed to do my job like that?" I asked, the stress hormones my brain was pumping into my bloodstream making me feel hot under my clothes.

"We don't care," Frank continued, picking up where Ken had left off. It was like they were twins, able to finish each other's sentences – when in reality they were nothing more than two-bit thugs dressed up as journalists. "But the whole of that room has a job to do, and when you come in like a wrecking ball, it hurts all of us."

"Yeah, little girl," Ken said, jabbing his finger into my chest. I felt he was taking just a little bit too much pleasure in the contact, and the salacious grin on his face confirmed it. "Why don't you act your age, and your—"

"Ken!" Frank warned, silencing his colleague with a word, his eyes flicking towards an oncoming Spanish journalist. Ken pulled me to the side, smiling graciously until the oncoming man's curious eyes had passed us, and he disappeared through to the other side of the door.

"Like I was saying," Ken whispered into my ear, his foul breath wrinkling my nose, "it's bad enough that these Spanish papers have women running around playing at being journalists. I never thought I'd see the day when an American network would join in."

"Get away from me, you creep!" I said, my brain finally deciding to stop prevaricating. This was beginning to cross the line – hell, it had crossed the line minutes ago.

My cry drew a few curious eyes from the working journalists, and Ken and Frank smiled and waved at them obsequiously until their curiosity was satisfied. I'd spoken in English, and it didn't seem like many in the room spoke it, or at least not well enough to know there was something wrong.

"I'm warning you," I said breathlessly, "I'll make a scene."

"Typical," Frank scoffed. "A little girl like you relying on some brave prince coming in and saving her instead of having a little bit of professional pride."

Despite the fact that what he was saying was patently ridiculous, I flushed red with embarrassment. I was embarrassed because even though I'd never in a million years treat anyone the way these two men had treated me, when it came down to it, I understood why they were doing what they were doing.

I was embarrassed by the way I had acted – not because I had harmed these two odious men's chances of filing their stories, but because I'd sacrificed my own journalistic integrity for the sake of one lousy story which, most likely, no one would remember in a week's time.

"Have it your way," I mumbled. I wasn't giving in so much as
compromising.
Frank and Ken were so hopped up on their own self-importance, and so invested in the idea of their superiority over me – a mere woman, that there would be no reasoning with them.

Ken smirked, clearly ecstatic that he'd managed to impose his will upon a defenseless young cub reporter like me. "Good, that's all we wanted," he said smugly, now all smiles.

I felt dirty, perhaps even violated by the way he was looking at me. His eyes were raking my skin like he was undressing me in his head, and a tiny but nevertheless noticeable bulge in his light linen trousers told me that he liked what he saw.

"We done?" I asked, feeling sick to my stomach at the pair of them. I didn't wait for an answer, just put my shoulder down and barged my way through, tears once more prickling my eyes.

I'd hoped that this was going to be my Spanish dream – the start of a long and famous career in sports casting. Instead, it was quickly becoming a nightmare.

M
y blood was still boiling
as I left the stadium, a plain blue baseball cap pulled down low over my face completing a non-descript outfit – a favorite old, battered leather jacket I'd picked up at a yard sale in college for ten bucks over a plain white tee and blue jeans. I could be any one of the thousands of native Catalans roaming the area around the ground even now, hours after the game, fueled by alcohol and chanting and singing the names of their favorite players late into the night.

That was exactly how I wanted it. I flung my arm skywards to hail a taxi, and within seconds one of the many black and yellow cabs roaming the streets hoping to pick up a fare flashed its lights at me and swerved dangerously towards the curb.

I was just weighing up whether to take a cautious hop backwards when the old car chugged to a stumbling, choking halt in front of me.

"
On vas
?" The cab driver, a man in his fifties with hair that had long ago turned grey asked me in his native Catalan, the local dialect. It was close enough to the Latin American Spanish that I'd been brought up with that it didn't pose a problem. I climbed into the back of the cab.

"I need a drink," I said in Spanish, knowing he'd speak it. The Catalans were a proud race of people, and every single person in the city would rather speak their native tongue than the language of the hated Madrid, who they saw as having pillaged the hard-working city for years, increasing taxes and taking as much money out of the region as possible, only for it to be spent in the capital.

"You want to go to a bar, my friend?" my driver asked, switching to Spanish. He could probably tell I wasn't a Madridista from my accent and didn't seem to harbor any resentment.

"You bet," I agreed. "Tough day."

"My friend, you must be new here; there are no tough days when Barcelona wins!" He smiled, laughing gruffly.

"Did you watch the game?" I inquired curiously. There was absolutely no chance he'd recognized me – I'd taken enough precautions, and I was hardly a household name in the city, even if I hoped that would change soon enough.

"No, no, my friend – but I listened on the radio," he said, indicating the old radio set in the dashboard of his taxi. Rapid, quiet Spanish was still emanating from the speakers, and at a speed that even I – almost a native speaker – had to pay attention to in order to understand.

"But you enjoyed it?" I asked. I’d been so wrapped up in my head before the coach sent me on that I'd barely paid attention to the game – only glancing up from time to time to observe where the defender stood, on the off chance that I'd be needed.

"I enjoy every game," he said, "because Barcelona wins every game."

I laughed.

"This game," he turned to face me, swerving through the traffic without paying attention, "it was not so good. My friend, you didn't tell me – where do you want to drink?"

"What's your name, my friend?" I asked.

"Adria," he said, luckily turning back to face the road. "It's Catalan, you like it?"

"Very much." I chuckled. "Tell me, Adria, where do you drink?" I wanted somewhere dirty, somewhere seedy – and somewhere authentic. I didn't want to spend the evening cavorting in some international hotel drinking overpriced cocktails and mingling with the rich and famous. I'd done enough of that since coming to Barcelona. No, I wanted to live the life the locals lived and rub elbows with normal people. Hell, I felt out of place mixing with anyone else.

"You want to drink where I do?" The old man sitting in front of me chuckled. "Are you sure you can handle it, boy?"

I lifted my chin and looked at him in the mirror. "Trust me," I said, "I can".

"It will be a loud night," he said, switching lanes, "after a last-minute winner like today. Nothing gets people worked up here like a tense game."

"Perfect, that's just what I'm hoping for," I said. I had every intention of getting absolutely wasted – no matter the fact that it was strongly discouraged in my contract. I didn't drink often, preferring to sip water instead of a beer most evenings in order to stay at peak fitness, but when I did, I went out to have fun.

"What's your name, kid?" Adria asked, thankfully paying full attention to the busy road in front of us.

"Alex," I replied. At least this guy would call me by my real name, I thought.

"You speak Spanish well," he said. "Where are you from my friend? I can't work it out."

"Not many can." I laughed. "I'm a bit of a mix – half Colombian and half American, but raised by Mexican foster parents in California. Who knows where my accent's from?"

Adria didn't reply; instead, he slammed his foot on the brake so hard that if it wasn't for the seatbelt I'd luckily clipped into, I'd have been catapulted through the windshield. He swerved into a parking space to the side of the road and sat – quite literally shivering – with his hands gripped to the steering wheel so hard his knuckles began to turn white.

"Are…" I said hesitantly, "you okay?" I tentatively leaned forward, hoping that he wasn't having a medical episode – because it certainly seemed like it. It would be a shame, too, because he'd been a fun driver.

"
És el nom d’ Alejandro
?" he asked, his voice quivering like he was talking to God himself.

Rumbled
.

"You've got me," I said, hoping that the nice old man didn't have a heart attack in response to the confirmation of my real identity.

"It cannot be," he whispered, turning his head to stare at me. I began to feel quite uncomfortable – I was no stranger to adoration, plenty of women had chased after me in college, and every guy I ever met wanted to be my friend, but this seemed different. Adria was looking at me with messianic zeal shining from his eyes.

"Stay there," he said gruffly. I was beyond confused by the turn this evening had taken, but I did as he asked. He seemed entirely unthreatening – in fact, the only danger I sensed was the danger of being suffocated by his adoration.

He climbed out of the passenger door, apologizing to me for the scene – "It's broken, it's broken, don't worry – I'm not crazy." I wasn't worrying – if anything, I was biting my lip to avoid bursting out in laughter. He finally freed himself from the clutches of the front seat and sprinted to my side of the car, opened the door and enveloped me in a big bear hug.

"My friend, what are you doing in my taxi?" he asked, his head buried in my shoulder. Apparently, I'd made a friend.

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.

"Didn't you drive?" he asked, pulling away from the hug and placing his hands on my face before planting two big, traditional European kisses on my face – one on either cheek. "All of the players drive – those big sports cars you see driving around the streets."

"Oh, yeah." I laughed as Adria regretfully returned to his seat, this time doing the sideways shuffle feet first. "I left my car at the ground – you reckon it'll be safe?"

He turned to look at me, his face comically sideways and red with exertion as he forced his ageing, bulging frame back into the seat. "Of course," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "it'll be safe – everyone knows it's a player's car. In this city, no one will touch it."

"Good to know," I said easily. "I didn't want to drink and drive – you know?"

"Good," Adria said. He rejoined the traffic, but this time took a hard right – heading for the center of town.

"Whoa," I protested, "where are we going? I thought we were heading to your bar?"

"Alejandro," Adria replied, turning to face me once more. I really wished he wouldn't do that – the idea that the guy driving didn't have his eyes on the road kind of bothered the regimented, American side of me. "How can I take you to my bar? The people there – they are not good enough for you. I would be ashamed."

"Adria," I reassured him, "it's what I want. The last place I want to go to is some downtown bar."

He glanced back at the road briefly before looking at me doubtfully. "Are you sure? It's where the rest of the team celebrate."

"I couldn't be more certain," I said. "Who wants to drink with rich people?" I asked.

Adria guffawed, hitting the steering wheel with two big, heavy paws. "My friend – you are why Barcelona is
més qué un club
!"

"What do you mean by," I asked, as my delirious taxi driver pulled a fast turn back across to the other side of town, "
més qué un club
? I've seen that before…"

"You'll learn, my boy," he said. "It means more than a club – it is Barcelona's motto. You know we're the richest sports club in the world?"

I nodded. Apparently, in Spain, you could talk to your driver without speaking, because they spent most of their time staring at you anyway.

"But did you know that we aren't owned by a company – we aren't a company. The only people who own this club, my club," he said, jabbing his finger into his chest proudly, "are the people themselves – the members: the
sócios
."

I had to admit, I didn't. Adria was still smiling proudly as he brought the taxi screeching to a halt next to a seedy-looking apartment block.

"You said you wanted to drink with the locals," he said with the avuncular smile of a proud uncle, "so here we are."

I stepped out of the black and yellow cab and pulled my baseball cap off my head and stuck it in my back pocket. I guessed I'd have less than ten seconds inside Adria's bar before he introduced me to every single one of his friends.

I looked around at the slightly run-down residential street in confusion. I hadn't expected that we'd head towards downtown Barcelona, but as I looked around, I couldn't see anything that even resembled a drinking hole. "I thought you said we were going for a drink?" I asked.

"Oh, but we are." He smiled mysteriously. "Follow me."

I did as he asked, but couldn't help but notice that he hadn't remembered to lock his taxi up. "Hey, Adria, slow down – you forgot to lock up!"

He turned back to me with a furrowed brow. "Huh?"

"Your car – don't you want to lock it?"

He chuckled. "In this neighborhood? There's no point – there's no crime around here."

I took a couple of quick strides to catch up with him, still eyeing his car doubtfully. Where I was brought up, in the projects of South LA, people didn't bother locking up their cars because there was no point – better to leave the car unlocked and empty so some crack addict would just rifle through it and go on their way empty-handed than have the windows smashed in. As I looked around at this neighborhood, though, I saw none of the signs of the poverty that had been an ever-present companion growing up.

Back home, windows were often covered with iron bars, or in the most desperate cases, with two by fours. Here, they had shutters as well, but they were pulled back against the walls of the beautiful yellow sandstone buildings, only used for protection against storms and shielding the intense afternoon sun.

And while the area was certainly faded, with none of the cars that were sitting by the sides of the potholed cobbled roads any younger than a decade old, the residents clearly had pride in their surroundings. The tell-tale whiteness of new wood gave away where fencing had been neatly mended, and walls were freshly painted. It felt warm and inviting, rather than oppressive – a place that he'd happily come to visit, rather than drive through at speed.

"Hector!" My grey-haired taxi driver hailed an equally aged man further down the street. "How do you do?"

I grinned at his archaic word choice. I had a feeling that this was going to turn out to be a night unlike any I'd ever experienced. At twenty-one, I could now legally drink back home – though, of course, the law had rarely prevented me from partying in the past, other than on the occasions where I'd needed to outpace chasing cops after a bust. Here in Europe, though, teenagers customarily drank with their parents from an early age. I'd even seen kids as young as thirteen or fourteen sharing a watered-down glass of red wine at dinner! I might legally be an adult, but compared to Adria and his friends, I was still a boy!

Over here, alcohol was a way of life, rather than an escape from it. Wine and beer were enjoyed because the locals liked the taste, rather than the way I'd always experienced them in the past – just to get blind drunk as quickly as possible. Still, I grinned, I had every expectation that nobody would be holding back tonight…

"Hold up," Hector puffed, pumping his short arms against his fat belly to catch up, "are you heading to the pub?" He held up one hand to shield his eyes from the sun, but kept the other pumping away to his side in a quite comical fashion. "Who's the boy – your nephew?"

Adria grinned broadly. "You'll never guess."

"Who is it then?"

"Alejandro Rodriguez," Adria grinned, "come for a drink."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hector puffed as he neared us. "What are you thinking, getting an old man's hopes up like that – you know how my heart is…"

He paused, stopped and blinked.

"He…does look like the kid."

I sure as hell wasn't a doctor, but to my untrained eyes, it kind of looked like Hector was about to have an aneurysm. I stepped forward and put out my hand. "Nice to meet you, sir," I said respectfully.

He shook it with his mouth open wide enough to catch flies. "
Dios mío
," he whispered, "it really is you." He dropped my hand like he'd entirely forgotten it was there, leaned forward and planted a wet kiss on my forehead. I steeled myself not to recoil from the unexpected, and intimate, contact.

"Shall we…go for a drink?" I suggested.

"Of course, of course, my boy," Adria agreed. I bit back a smile – I knew that I was making his day, maybe even his year, by doing this for him. "Follow me."

He turned down a shaded but neatly swept alleyway and pushed open a non-descript doorway. The only sign that this was a drinking establishment was a small red plastic sign with
Estella
written on it – the name of Barcelona's local beer.

A gentle buzz of sound escaped as the door swung open, along with a faint smell of cigarette smoke. The bar was dark and had space for maybe thirty – perhaps forty, but only if the customers were packed in like sardines. It was a local drinking haunt – unlike anywhere I’d ever been before. It felt real, visceral – like I'd been catapulted back to the seventies.