There was no answer.
“Joan, I’m back...” he tried again.
Water trickled from the faucet, but the bathroom was empty.
“Joan?” he called out, his voice rising. He bolted through the suite, into all sections, but Joan wasn’t there, nor were any of her things. He scanned for a note. Nothing.
Guilt and anxiety washed over Antonio like a wave from an ocean made of acid rain. It ate away the high from winning that had sustained him since walking out of that poker game with a bag full of money, the high that had kept him in blissful ignorance of the consequences of his actions.
But the consequences were hitting him hard now: Joan was gone.
He’d blown it, again.
He kicked the bedpost and shouted, stomped around the room and punched the wall, but it didn’t help.
He grabbed his head in his hands and tried to get a grip on the situation. She shouldn’t have been angry. He’d told the night manager to give her a note to explain his abrupt departure.
Yes. That’s all it was. She’s gone, simply because it was too boring to wait around for him in his hotel suite. Or, maybe she decided to go back home so she could get an early start on her work day – she did after all have a job as a nanny to three boys.
Antonio tried to reassure himself, that things would be fine once he had a chance to connect with her later in the day.
Feeling somewhat better about everything, Antonio blew out a breath and realized that he was bone tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. And the pain in his ribs was becoming intolerable.
He found the ibuprofen and dry swallowed three.
The poker game had been full of smokers, so he stripped and stood in the shower, trying to rinse the stench away. He got out, dried his hair, and crawled into bed naked.
He set his alarm for six o’clock. That would give him time to get to Joan’s house before she started her shift as the nanny at eight. If he knocked on the door at 7:15 or so, surely, she’d be up and he could make sure that things were still cool between them, maybe make plans for taking her out again after she got off work.
As he lay on the bed, his damp hair against the pillow, a mixture of emotions raced through his brain. He tried to push away negative thoughts and focus, instead, on the spicy sweet scent of Joan that still lingered on his sheets.
Everything was good, he told himself.
His luck was back. He’d won enough money to save his legs from being broken and his source of income from being removed.
Best of all, he had another shot at winning the biggest prize of all.
The heart of the woman he’d never stopped loving, the one he’d stupidly let get away once before. With that thought filling his mind and soul, Antonio’s breathing slowed, his eyelids grew heavy and he fell into deep, much needed sleep.
ANTONIO’S HEAD SWIVELS as he searches the pitch for a member of his team. He’s been running with the ball for a while. Shouldn’t he pass it on?
But no one else on the pitch is wearing his uniform, the only color he sees is the opponents.
He keeps going, dribbling the ball. Two at a time the other team sends up defenders who try to take the ball away, but his opponents are slow and thick-legged. Antonio has no trouble keeping the ball away from them. It’s too easy.
Then he recognizes the faces; the same two thugs that beat him up in the empty lot. As soon as he takes the ball past one pair of defenders, another set storms out of the mist. His lungs are burning, it feels as if he’s been running for miles, yet the goal never seems to get any closer.
“You’re a loser. You can’t win. Give up.”
He hears the shouts, the taunts, and suddenly he’s unable to fend them off.
The thug that never speaks takes the ball away and
Antonio must use all his skill to regain possession, even as every muscle in his body burns from the effort.
With the ball back he lunges forward towards the goal but it’s still too far away for a good shot, and now his legs and feet feel like they’re running through water.
He can’t seem to get any closer.
Behind him, heavy footsteps fall and the jeers are louder. They’re closing in. He looks at the goal.
Take the shot.
A shrill whistle blows before he can take the kick.
It’s so loud and painful that he covers his ears with his hand and squeezes his eyes shut.
The whistle stops, and when Antonio opens his eyes again, the mist has cleared, and bright sunlight fills the pitch.
He’s closer to the goal now, and his opponents are lined up for a penalty kick.
The referee drops the ball in front of him, then backs away.
Antonio looks down at the ball, but it’s not a soccer ball, it’s a duffle bag. He can see money poking out of it. It’s his winnings. Antonio’s heart is racing. He looks at the goal, then at the bag, and knows that he must kick the bag of money into the goal, or else.
His opponents jostle against each other to try and close any gaps that would allow him to score. They scowl and try to look mean, but Antonio can see the fear on their faces as they anxiously cup their jewels.
The urge to laugh bubbles up as Antonio gets his first proper view of these thugs in short shorts, but Antonio knows there is nothing to laugh about.
Antonio knows that he must make the shot, or he will surely die.
He braces himself, waiting for the signal from the ref.
Sounds of cheering draw his attention to the stands. The stadium is full, and every fan is the same person, Joan.
The Joans are cheering him on, believing in him, willing him to make his shot.
The support of the Joans gives him new hope. His throat is dry, but, he forces his mind to concentrate, to shut everything out but the goal and the ball.
The whistle blows.
Antonio takes three steps then kicks the bag with all his might, taking the most important shot of his life.
It launches off the ground towards the defenders. The thugs jump high as they can and try and block the shot with their heads. But it soars over their angry, twisting and leaping bodies.
“Yes!” Antonio’s shouts as the bag clears the first hurdle. He needs it to curve down now, towards the goal. But the bag isn’t curving down.
He watches helplessly as the bag spins in the air, and flies over the goal, and then the stands. “Nooooooooooo,” he shouts, and the voices of a thousand Joans join him. He missed. The game is over. They’ve lost.
Devastated utterly by his failure, Antonio collapses to his knees as his teammates finally catch up to him. Antonio hides his head in his hands, unwilling to face his team. He’s let them down, he’s let everyone down.
“How could you do that? How could you miss?”
His fellow players are very upset, and Antonio can’t face them. But, when he finally lifts his mournful, sorrowful face, he gasps. Each teammate is his Godfather, Julio Torres. Each of the Julios is shaking their heads, with the same looks on their unhappy faces. Each one projecting the same sentiments; utter disappointment, eternal rejection, and undisguised disgust.
It’s too painful.
Antonio turns away, searching in the stands for an understanding face.
Surely the Joans will stand with him in his hour of need and forgive this unfortunate mistake?
The Joans are not there. No one is there, the stands aren’t even there anymore. He’s no longer on a soccer pitch – he’s on a desolate, empty hillside. He’s all alone.
He walks through the gloom as leaves and dust blow around his feet. After a while he notices a cross in the ground, then his chest tightens as he notices more grave markers.
He’s in a cemetery.
From behind him, a soccer ball bounces past him, propelled by the wind. He watches for a moment, then decides to follow the ball. Defying gravity, it rolls up hill and turns down a path. When it comes to rest against a shiny, new headstone fear clutches at Antonio’s soul. He
knows who the grave must belong to, without having to read it.
He tries to turn away from it, but he can’t move. His feet are encased in the ground as if buried in concrete. He squeezes his eyes shut, but fingers of fate pull at his eyes, prying is eyelids open.
Invisible hands shove his face forward, forcing him to look.
Here lies Antonio Ferraro, Who Died a Pathetic Gambler, with Nothing to Show for Himself, and No One who Cared.
Antonio opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
Antonio sat bolt upright in bed, panting and gasping. His body was drenched in sweat and his hands shook as he grasped his knees, clutching them to his chest as he tried to shake away the terrifying dream.