When Words Are Not Enough

Submitted into Contest #151 in response to: Write about somebody breaking a cycle.... view prompt

27 comments

Romance Contemporary Happy

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

My first question has an answer when Conejo arrives in the same beat-up Mazda we once kissed in. Fame has not changed him. 


The second question lasts until we lock eyes for the first time in two years. He still looks at me as if we’re alone in a crowded stadium.


If there is a third, it floats away with my heart in the humid Barranquilla breeze.


We are not talkers, me and Conejo. Even in childhood, we spoke little. There is only fútbol - a dance, a duel, and a heart-to-heart all in one. Words could not have brought us close enough.


Once when we were eight, the night after las bacrim murdered his brother, I found him sitting alone in the middle of the training pitch. I’d brought my football, a cratered moon his brother had called El Golazo for all the times he’d scored with it. Conejo leaned back with it in his hands, arms outstretched, as if to put it back amongst the heavenly bodies. 


He pointed at the stars - none in particular, or perhaps them all - and said nothing, because I knew what he meant. To break free of poverty and violence, to provide for our families, we must become one of them. Fútbol is the only way out. 


He sees the same ball in my hand now, and he grins with teeth whiter than I remember. I toss it to him, and, catlike, he traps it beneath his instep. He passes it back to me, firm and precise.


¿Qué más?


A greeting. Confident, but safe. 


My return falters before it reaches him. The ball spins on close-cut grass, pivoting in a dozen directions like my thoughts and emotions. 


I missed you.


If words did it justice, this is what I would say. Instead, from one abject mis-kick, he knows how I feel. Two whole years of watching him lift trophies and live our dream in Spain, while my team - our team - loses game after game and the gang violence worsens. Two years of tabloid gossip linking him with this model and that music star. Too long without his arms around me; his lips on mine.


He is watching me, expression inscrutable. He takes the ball into his stride and runs past with a tap on my backside.


Did you? Then come and get me.


I stand motionless, a sunburned goalpost, taking in the sight of him dribbling. Faster, faster, Conejito! Coach Reyes used to bark. Fast as a rabbit and twice as agile. White shorts of Real Madrid C.F. flap against his thighs, above the hairy, shapely legs worth thirty million euros each. 


He checks over his shoulder, wondering why I’m not right behind, and the look on his face pulls my heart out of my chest.


I cover the distance in a few long strides, but only because he lets me. He shields the ball, twists away, and darts to my left in one smooth motion. A challenge.


Can you keep up, Dani? Madrid has changed me. 


I still know you best.


My leg sticks out and nicks the ball away. It rolls free and we scramble towards it, side-by-side, arms all over each other. 


It has been this way since our teens: he is the attacker; I am the defender. Whenever we stole fruit or sweets from a stall, pursued by angry men, it was Conejo who ran in front with the goods, while I covered his back. He would let me keep all the watermelon, since he now had no siblings, and I had six. We shared the cocadas, wiping sticky crumbs from our chins in between fits of laughter.


He puts himself between me and the ball, and I slam into his back, swinging a leg around him, then between his legs, trying to make contact with it. I feel the heat of his body against mine, and I know he feels me, too.


Did you forget how it feels to be close to me, Conejo?


We jostle each other - a small eternity - until I pull away, and he neatly pirouettes to face me. My breath is short, and not just from exertion. The Colombian summer pulls moisture from his black curls, and it drips like rain falling from forest leaves in the Amazon. He brushes it out of his eyes with a theatrical gesture.


How could I forget? 


The gesture takes me back to the night of our championship final. We lost the game, and afterwards, a gang of thugs from las bacrim ambushed Conejo and beat him bloody. They blamed him for missing chances that cost us the trophy. I found him lying senseless in an alleyway, and in my panic, I started CPR without the slightest idea of what I was doing. When he awoke, he brushed blood-encrusted hair out of his eyes as if nothing had happened. Then he hugged me close.


And still you left me.


Next thing I know, I’ve booted the ball to the other end of the pitch. He immediately sets after it, but at a leisurely pace, as if giving himself time to think. The rational corner of my brain chides me for being too harsh, but it is quickly drowned out by jealousy and fear. 


When he kicks it back, it is with laser precision and deliberately applied power. I cushion it down, but the force behind the pass knocks me off balance. Pain blooms where it landed on my chest. His meaning is clear:


It hurt me to leave. But you know I had no choice. 


It is hard for outsiders to understand, but fútbol is more than life in Barranquilla. From birth, we accept that there is no other way to sustain body and mind. It is a need as natural as food and drink. And fútbol is truly more than life when las bacrim threatens your family if you don’t perform. 


But sometimes, when a player is truly special, a scout will arrive from Real Madrid C.F. - the biggest, richest, and most supported club in the world - to watch him play. That scout will personally recommend him to the president.


A week later, Real Madrid will offer Barranquilla F.C. sixty million euros - the equivalent of a quarter of a trillion pesos, or enough to build four new fútbol stadiums - to buy him. More than this, they will offer fame, wealth, and an escape from poverty. All they ask, unwittingly, is to leave his childhood love behind.


I could never begrudge Conejo his choice, even if it broke me.


My next pass sails over his head. Wayward, distracted.


My life has never been the same.


With a move I’ve seen him do on TV, he plucks it out of the air with his leg extended backward like a scorpion. It loops back over his head and into his waiting hands. He spreads his arms wide, not in annoyance, but as if to say:


I came back, didn’t I?


Still overwhelmed, I don’t respond, so he charges at me with the ball at his feet, challenging me to take it back. His feet are a blur. His body slaloms left and right with the balance of a ballerina. I frown, unsure what he is trying to say.


Once he is within striking distance, my tackle is full-blooded and passionate. I want to leave a mark, make sure he never forgets me. This is how I tell him that once in two years is not enough. That he should have never come back if he won’t stay. That, despite it all, I want him to succeed in Spain and achieve everything his talent is worth.


At the last second, he swivels away, but my boot-tip catches his ankle and we tumble down together in a tangle of limbs. He lands on top of me, and now we are impossibly close; our breaths meld as intimately as our lives once did. Our eyes meet again, mere inches apart. I raise an eyebrow.


So, what now?


I am reminded of my third question, which came to life the day before he left for Madrid.


It was born in his battered Mazda, on a cliff by the sea, under a blanket of stars, in a life we left behind.


It swirled inside my mind exactly one second after his lips pulled away from mine, for the very first time, for much too short a time.


It arose in a single moment, yet has consumed all the moments since. 


“Come with me,” he whispers. “To Madrid.”


The answer to the third question makes my heart flutter in the breeze, and suddenly his words are all I ever want to hear. 

June 24, 2022 02:23

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27 comments

Zack Powell
07:27 Jun 25, 2022

For those who say that French is the language of love, I see that and I raise you fútbol. This piece was some straight up poetry, and I love your interpretation of the prompt. As soon as I saw the paragraph that started with "We are not talkers..." and I double checked to see which prompt you responded to, I was like "Please let someone speak at the end!" And you did. You did just that. That is how you end a story like that. And in so few words, too. (No pun intended) Speaking of, this story is so short but the backstory is so rich. Some g...

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00:19 Jun 26, 2022

Aw, thank you so much Zack. When submitting this, I thought it fit the prompt because Conejo "breaks the cycle of poverty", but somehow it never occurred to me that the speech aspect could also fit the prompt. Nice catch lol Honestly, I struggled with this story, so the economy of words probably reflects that. I always feel like my stories are undeveloped because I can't flesh them out enough. Maybe you and I have the opposite problem! Until next week. :)

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Kendall Defoe
13:39 Jun 30, 2022

You really understand the link that can exist between the physical and the emotional. And as someone whose father had him playing futbol for five years, I appreciate the love of the game. 👍🏽

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14:08 Jun 30, 2022

Thanks for your comment. I love the sport and I'm so glad it shone through. :)

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Seán McNicholl
14:36 Jun 27, 2022

Shuv, this was brilliant! Using football to communicate is genius, and you constructed a beautiful story around it. Some wonderful lines in there as well! Loved it!

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10:01 Jun 29, 2022

Thanks mate, you're too kind! :)

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Claire Lindsey
14:18 Jun 27, 2022

I can’t believe I missed this one… it was on my TBR list! Absolutely incredible, Shuv. The pacing, the prose, the gripping nuance. This is definitely one I’ll be coming back to when I need some inspiration 😊

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10:01 Jun 29, 2022

Aw thanks Claire, that's a big compliment coming from you!

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Suma Jayachandar
13:28 Jun 26, 2022

Shuvayon, This piece has sizzling chemistry. The complexity of life, poverty and relationship between these two futbol crossed lovers is so clearly conveyed through your brilliant, lyrical narrative. Giving them a happy ending felt so satisfying. This is one of the best stories under romance genre I've read here. Good luck !

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10:03 Jun 29, 2022

Thank you Suma, you're always so thoughtful and kind. I'm glad you enjoyed the romance. Unfortunately this piece didn't make the Recommended list this week, but it's all good, I've moved on to the next one. :)

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Rebecca Miles
10:12 Jun 26, 2022

I thought the relationship, which could have been hard to pull off as one is a celebrity and the other a mere mortal, absolutely cracking. You so skilfully and beautifully handled the backstory that the romantic ending filled with positive energy, seemed wholly fitting. Another thing I loved was the peppering of Spanish to really heighten character; I applaud the clever repetition of fútbol and the fact there night under the stars was a literary equivalent of this. I have read a few of your stories and this is my favorite so far. Well done.

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12:45 Jun 26, 2022

Rebecca, thank you for this heartfelt comment. I really appreciate it. Look out for my comment on your most recent story. :)

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Kelsey H
07:23 Jun 25, 2022

This was really a beautiful story. At first I wasn't sure how much I would enjoy it - I had to google the meaning of the non-English words, and I have never watched a whole game of football in my life because I find it incredibly boring (I am just not a team sport fan!). But, this was just so good. I really quickly got into it with the deep emotions of the characters, the past history between them and the loss and hardship and the hope of something better. I really loved the format of it, with the brief lines of the unspoken words in betwe...

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00:28 Jun 26, 2022

Thanks Kelsey, I always appreciate your kind words. So glad the football didn't get in the way of anything - I'm crazy about it, so I had to reel myself in lol. I see you've posted a story this week - look out for my comment. :)

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Shea West
03:48 Jun 25, 2022

Shuv, When I saw Conejo, a rabbit-- I was intrigued. The way you played with how these two said so much without saying hardly anything at all was well thought out and worked brilliantly! Using futbol as a language was clever and universal. I'm a sucker for happily ever after, and thank you for creating the build up and then giving us it anyway!

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06:02 Jun 25, 2022

Aw, thanks Shea. :) I was nervous about trying this concept but you made me feel better about how it went! Cheers. :D

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K. Antonio
22:30 Jun 24, 2022

Oh, Shuvayon, this was soooo swoooon. So delicate and I (as someone living in Brazil, one of the places where a professional football career is the dream of many) could imagine the scenes unraveling in my head quite easily. This line: "The Colombian summer pulls moisture from his black curls, and it drips like rain falling from forest leaves in the Amazon." - WHAT WAS THIS?? HUH, what were you trying to do to me?? And that ending, GOSH, what was that ending? I really enjoyed how you started and ended with the questions. It definitely ga...

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06:05 Jun 25, 2022

Thanks, K. You already know this comment made me grin like a fool. :) Thought you might enjoy this story! I haven't tried the flashback format in a while, so whilst writing this I actually had "Double Take" open in another tab for inspiration lol

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Michał Przywara
20:55 Jun 24, 2022

Great story! Love balanced against a shared, rough history, against duty to family and community, and against personal ambition. It's a complicated, contradictory mess, as the narrator says, "That he should have never come back if he won’t stay. That, despite it all, I want him to succeed in Spain and achieve everything his talent is worth." On that note, I like how speaking-via-fútbol worked out. It's plausible, and in a way it's much more intimate than just words. Plus if they're running around, kicking, etc, then adrenaline is necessa...

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06:39 Jun 25, 2022

Hi Michał! As usual, you picked out the main subtext easily. Always appreciate your comments and reads - thank you so much!

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H L McQuaid
14:45 Jun 24, 2022

Great set-up and follow-through (whoops, slipping into tennis terminology, but what the heck), you aced this! Incredibly delicate and detailed character portraits with minimal dialogue, oodles of showing, great use of metaphorical language, etc. As for suggestions, was wondering if 'for much much longer than is necessary' here: "We jostle each other - for much longer than is necessary - until I pull away..." might be more lyrical. Like, "We jostle each other - a small eternity - until I pull away"... There was just something about the 'fo...

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06:44 Jun 25, 2022

Hi Heather, thanks for the lovely comment, and in particular the constructive feedback! I've implemented your first suggestion. For the second - I thought about it long and hard, but ended up keeping it the same (though neither are completely satisfying lol). Regardless, I really appreciate the suggestion! Cheers. :)

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H L McQuaid
07:52 Jun 25, 2022

All good. The best advice I got about deciding what feedback to implement, was to consider whether it helps me achieve my artistic vision. If it does, I find a way to make the change. If it doesn't, I ignore it. Also, I like interrogating my decisions as a writer, even if I opt not to make a suggested change, I know why I didn't, and it gives me more insight into my own intentions. 😁

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23:46 Jun 25, 2022

This is sage advice that I've never received before, but I already feel like a better writer for hearing it. Thank you so much!

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Aesha Amin
09:31 Jun 24, 2022

Heya, The first three paragraphs drew me in right away and then the hidden meanings behind their actions kept me wanting to read more and more. I’m kinda sad that I finished reading the story. I wish I could read it for the first time again hehe. I couldn’t tell you about which elements of the story I liked because I was so engrossed in reading that I didn’t even bother to take notes. Thanks for sharing!

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13:26 Jun 24, 2022

Thanks for reading, I really appreciate it. :) I wasn't sure how the concept would pan out, so it's great that it held your attention!

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Graham Kinross
02:38 Aug 18, 2022

The title makes me think of the song “your love alone is not enough” by the manic street preachers. There’s a bit of an accent fetish here isn’t there? That thing where it would possibly fade with time and getting to know him or just be an aspect of why she loves him later.

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