Jerry turned to Mateo and patted his shoulder. “Spaniards won the game. Don’t worry Mateo, you’ll get your dinner.”

Mateo did not give two shits. He was glaring at Jerry and grinding his teeth in pain, every so often muttering another curse word.

“What happened?” I asked Jerry, not wanting to put the pressure on Mateo to talk. The blonde-haired nurse had gone, presumably to get first aid supplies.

“He had a bad tear to his ACL when he was with Atletico,” Jerry said. “I suppose it’s the same thing. Too much strain reaggravated it. Same leg too, if I remember correctly. I just hope it’s not severe.” He looked at Mateo, who had his eyes closed. “Even with a small tear, the pain can be bad.”

“You know a lot about his injury,” I noted.

He smiled goofily. “I’m Irish,” he said, as if that explained it. “We love football, though I cheer for Liverpool. I played pick-up games on the weekends and followed the leagues very closely. Mateo was one of the best on his team. I guess I was so enraptured with watching him play, I wasn’t being a very good ref. He was playing hard, a little too hard.”

“Vete a la mierda,” Mateo swore at him, glaring again. “I was playing like I should have, like I do.” He practically spat the words out. He closed his eyes and growled then started yelling again.

“What is he saying?” I said to Jerry.

A wash of pity came over his eyes. “He’s angry. And he hates himself. The rest is very creative swearing.”

It felt like ages but eventually the nurse came back, bringing with her another man, maybe a gym teacher. They got down beside him and I had to get out of the way. Mateo looked at me with pleading eyes but I just nodded to let him know that I wasn’t going anywhere. I stood beside Jerry and watched as they made Mateo sit up and started asking him questions and doing things to his knee, giving him some pills to swallow with water. This went on for some time until they wrapped his knee, which was slowly starting to look darker and swollen, with a compression bandage and got out the ice packs. Then, with Jerry’s help, they lifted Mateo up to his feet. He wasn’t able to stand on his left leg for more than a few seconds before he winced, so they ushered him over to the parking lot where Peter had come back with the van.

There seemed to be a bit of confusion or disagreement about what would happen next. The blonde-haired woman kept saying something and Mateo kept saying, “No, no, no” and shaking his head, waving her away with his hand. Finally, she pushed a vial of pills into Jerry’s hand and rolled her eyes. Then she and the other man went back to pack up their supplies.

“What’s going on?” I asked Jerry as Peter helped Mateo into the backseat.

Jerry glanced at them over his shoulder. “He says he refuses to go to the hospital in Salamanca. He said he’d call his physician in Madrid and get a referral for a private appointment sometime this week.”

“An appointment in Madrid?” I asked, my heart dropping like an elevator. Was he leaving?

He shook his head. “No, in Salamanca. It isn’t too far. I told him Peter or I will take him. Athletes can be picky about getting a diagnosis or treatment of their injuries. Also, he’s Mateo Casalles. If he went to the emergency room, I guess that could become public news. Kind of humiliating for him, injuring it the way he did…with us.”

I frowned. I guessed he was right. Getting injured again, while playing with Anglos on a kid’s soccer field probably wasn’t doing wonders for his ego, at least not in the right way. Still, as long as he wasn’t leaving. How funny it was that I had gone from wanting him to leave to not being able to fathom it. I was suddenly so grateful he had extended his stay here an extra week.

Jerry climbed in the back with Mateo and I got in the passenger seat, though I really wanted to be back there, cradling his head in my lap. Luckily it was only a mile or two back to the resort, and soon we were helping him out of the van in front of a crowd of worried Anglos and Spaniards.

“Can you and Peter take him to his room? I’ve got to get some structure back to the day,” Jerry said to me under his breath amid the concerned mumblings. “The minions need their leader.”

Man, he was such a dork.

But of course I told him I would, especially since I was planning on it anyway. Mateo wanted me to stay and I was going to stay until he told me to go.

Jerry put the pills in my hand, and then turned to deal with his “minions” while I acted like a crutch under Mateo’s right arm and Peter went under his left. I’d never been so physically close to him before, right under his arm like that. Even after half a soccer match, he still smelled really good, that ocean scent but muskier, like his own sweat was intoxicating. Too bad it couldn’t have been under better circumstances.

Mateo’s apartment was on the first floor, which made it easy for us to get him there. Every so often he would try to walk on his left leg. He was able to do it for a few steps, which I think was a good sign, but then the pain came on too much and he started shaking.

Peter and I took him over to his couch and got him to lie down on it. Peter then grabbed a bunch of pillows and put it under his knee, telling us that the instructions from the school nurse were to keep it elevated above the heart, to not move around much, to apply ice packs and take the painkillers. He said he had to go help with dinner for the Anglos but he would be back later.

And just like that, Peter left, closing the door behind him. Mateo and I were alone, and I realized I’d never been in his apartment before, his space. Though he shared it with some Anglo from California called Mark or Marty or something and didn’t seem to be home, you could feel Mateo’s presence here, this sophisticated calm. As I stood above the couch, I let my eyes drink in all the things I thought could be attributed to him: a pair of silver cufflinks on the coffee table beside a National Geographic magazine, a monogrammed white robe I could see hanging just inside the bathroom, a fancy half-empty bottle of Scotch on the kitchen counter.

“Are you going to be my nurse, Estrella?” Mateo asked, looking up at me. His smile was a little lopsided but it was good to see him feeling better, at least with his spirits.

“Every male’s fantasy, of course,” I said, taking a seat in the armchair across from him.

“You are, yes,” he said, still smiling.

My stomach flipped a few times at that, warm and fluttery, even though I wasn’t sure if he knew what he was saying. I pulled the pills out of my pocket. “Oxycodone and acetaminophen,” I read out loud. “I used to take these in high school for fun. My mom takes Percocet for her migraines.” I grinned at him. Mateo was slowly getting high.

“The school nurse is a drug dealer, yes,” he said in mock seriousness. “Those poor children.”

With him acting this way, it was easy to forget he’d been in horrible, humiliating pain until a few moments ago. I leaned forward in my chair. “Can I get you anything? Water? Something to read? Do you need to call…someone?” Your doctor, perhaps your wife…

“No,” he said softly, licking his lips. “I just want you to stay here with me.”

I nodded, my heart feeling a bit tenderized at the tone of his voice, the sincerity of his words. It kind of ached. “I can stay.”

“You’ll miss dinner.”

“I can get it to go, I’m sure they’ll let me bring it here. You’ll miss your dinner,” I told him, feeling a bout of shame for him. “You guys won the game. Jerry said he is taking the Spaniards out tonight.”

His brows furrowed as he stared at me, eyes narrowing slightly at the corners. “Don’t look at me this way.”

I jerked my chin back into my neck. “In what way?”

“Like you are right now. With pity.”

I swallowed uneasily. “I’m sorry. I just…obviously I feel bad.”