ALEX
I lunge to my left, holding the thirty-pound disc to my chest.
“Más por abajo.” Papi grunts the command. “Bring your butt to your heel.”
I come back to standing. I drive down to the right.
“Again.” Papi leans against the tower of weights as he watches me. His muscled back is reflected in the mirror.
“Otro,” he tells me. I’m on set three of four. The door opens. Robi comes down and sits on the steps. He was at the dining table, cutting hearts out of red construction paper when I came. In elementary school, I had to bring valentines for the class too. Only, I got mine from a box. I was going to tell Robi how cool it was he was making them. How his friends and teachers were going to be impressed. Papi closed a hand on my shoulder, steered me toward the basement before I could. He yelled out to Yaritza, asked why his son was playing with paper hearts when he could be watching his papi’s old games.
Robi slides a valentine from behind his back. Loopy black letters spell out my name on white lace. I give Robi a nod. I try to smile but I’m gritting my teeth. I sink as low as I can. Papi rolls a medicine ball under his foot.
“Good.” Papi opens the small refrigerator and tosses me a protein drink. I take the towel Robi holds out and wipe sweat from my face.
“Looking good.” Robi always talks to me with a smile.
“Thanks.” I drape my towel over his head and ruffle his hair. I pick up my valentine. Robi’s drawn a picture of what could be a papi and an hijo holding hands. Only, the bigger figure’s wearing a jersey with a thirty-three on it. That’s my number, not Papi’s. “This is great. I love it.” I tip my drink to him, offering him some.
“Toma.” Papi tosses the medicine ball at me. I catch it, but just barely. The drink would have spilled over Yaritza’s carpet if Robi hadn’t taken it. My valentine drifts like a leaf in October. It settles on the bottom step.
“La jaqueta.” Papi shoves open the door before I can shrug my jacket on. I slide Robi’s card into my bag. Mami’s going to want it on the refrigerator.
“Can I come too?”
Papi’s already outside, walking toward Sunset Park. He doesn’t hear Robi.
“Go get your coat.” I’m rewarded with a mile-wide grin.
Doesn’t matter that it’s thirty degrees. As long as there’s no snow or ice, Papi will run me through drills. And Robi will try to join.
Papi’s waiting by the streetlight half a block away. I jog past him, my sneakers crunching grass that’s winter-brown. I squat, the medicine ball hanging between my knees. Cold air scrapes my throat. It ice-picks my chest from the inside. I clench my jaw, shoot up, and hurl the ball as far as I can. I sprint to it, pick it up, and do it again.
“Más rápido.”
I do as Papi says. My legs burn. I didn’t think I could go any faster. But Papi was right. If I push myself, I can.
Robi kicks around a rock. He stays on the other side of the walkway. Papi’s yelled at him for getting too close before. I don’t want Robi getting hit by the basketball-size weight. I don’t like him getting yelled at either.
Papi takes the medicine ball from me when I finish ten reps. He hands me a water bottle.
Robi’s hanging from a tree branch. His legs swing in the air. He sees me get down on the ground. He drops and sprints so he’s behind Papi. He gets into push-up position too. Papi’s marked off ten yards with a red ribbon.
“Go!” His stopwatch clicks.
I spring up and pump my legs until I’m past that ribbon. Papi frowns at the timer. I’ve got thirty seconds before the next one. I pace. I remember Papi’s words. I shut my mouth and force air through my nose, warming it before it hits my lungs.
On the other side of the green, Robi mirrors me, hands on hips, stomping down dead stalks of weeds.
At Papi’s nod, I get into position.
Robi does too.
Click.
“¡Pa’rriba! Knees to chest! Knees to chest!” Papi chants.
I barrel toward the ribbon. I pull my legs as high as they’ll go.
“¡Eso!” Papi’s not frowning anymore.
It’s hard to smile when you’re catching your breath.
Robi’s skipping sideways, arms pumping the sky. If I had my phone, I’d take a photo.
When Papi takes two gloves from his bag and a ball from his pocket, Robi bounds over to us.
“Can I throw too?” It’s impossible not to hear his hope.
“Más tarde.” It’s what Papi always says.
“But I want a chance to throw with Alex.” Robi shouldn’t whine. It just makes Papi dig in.
“I said later. ¡Vete pa’lla!” Papi points to a rock under a tree.
Robi hangs his head. A drop hangs from the tip of his nose. Instead of wiping it away, Robi snorts it back in.
“Come on, we can do a few tosses all together. There’s time, right?”
They both look at me, surprised I’ve spoken. Robi’s eyes light up. Thunder gathers in Papi’s.
“Time?” Papi says. “We have just four months until travel team starts. When you here, I train you. Es todo. ¿Me escuchas? This is not a game. This is your life.”
When we get back inside, Yaritza’s waiting. Mami called. She wants me home for dinner.
“Qué no.” Papi smacks the wood banister. “You said you’d spend the night. We still have game strategy to review. Y mañana tienes que practicar más.”
I haven’t seen Mami all week. When I get home, she’s already at work. She was supposed to work a double shift tonight, which is why I agreed to stay. But now . . .
“This is most important.” Papi shows me the baseball in his fist. “This is what makes you more. What do people see when they look at you, eh? Un moreno walking the streets.”
He stomps toward the display case in the living room. Behind him, Robi’s eyes are twin full moons. Papi swipes the key from the top ledge. He wrestles the glass open. With two hands, he takes out his cap, the one he wore when he played for the Yankees. He comes back to me, slips it on my head. I want to tell him to stop. My hair is a mess of sweat and dirt.
He pulls me to the mirror. “Now what do people see?”
I tip my chin up. The cap fits me. It fits me perfect.
“A baseball player.” I know what to say. I’ve said it before.
“Eso.” Papi grips my shoulders. “People don’t see color when you’re wearing this. And you, you’re better than I was.” He tugs the brim over my eyes. “This will be yours one day.”
In the mirror, Papi’s smiling at me. It makes everything worth it.
Behind us, Robi’s looking at the floor.
“Pero, mañana it will be en los teens. You said, less than twenty-five is too cold.” Yaritza sidles up to him. She knocks her hip against his.
“And why do we have the room with the weights and equipment?” Papi jabs his hand toward the floor.
“So you can look good.” She squeezes his thighs. “And all this doesn’t turn to fat.”
Papi’s hands find her butt. “Ah, sí? I look good, eh?”
Robi clomps up the stairs. He doesn’t give me a smile. I don’t know if it’s because I won’t be spending the night or because of what Papi said.
Yaritza’s whispering to Papi. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. She leans into him. She drags her hands down his arms.
“He’ll come back tomorrow, won’t you, Ále?” Yaritza looks over her shoulder at me. She waves me to the kitchen where I find a foil packet of what smells like tortas.
Papi’s eyes are still closed. They’re swaying together, dancing to music I can’t hear.
“Gracias.” I plant a quick kiss on Yaritza’s cheek. “Nine o’clock good for tomorrow?” I sling my bag onto my back. On the weekends, it takes a good hour and a half to get here.
“Eight,” Papi calls out as I shut the door.