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Jasmine to the beat of a song playing from a car some young men worked on nearby. He had everything he’d ever wanted and he knew it. Life was good.
    Now come back! Come back! ” he said as he turned his “manager’s little sister, pulled her under his arm, and twirled her again. José loved to dance, to sway his hips and shoulders, to twist his ankles. At the clubs. In front of his mirror. With his mother. With his girlfriend.
    The beautiful Caroline. Prettier even than Helen, who’d dated him as he rose to the professional level, Caroline planned to meet him that evening after the press conference. Fine clothing and beautiful women would land him in magazines all over the world. Not a bad deal for kicking some leather around. Not a bad deal for a kid who spent his early mornings shoveling horse manure.
    â€œYour brother would be late to his own funeral, Jasmine.”
    She blushed.
    â€œCar!” The shout echoed off the parked cars and the faces of the houses.
    José turned toward the boy who yelled, then picked up a soccer ball as he and the rest of the young players hurried to the sidewalk. The boy, ash brown hair cut close to his head, turned to one of his companions as he pointed to José. “I told you it was him!”
    The others just nodded.
    Eyes holding a few more years than his birthdays might suggest, he held out a ragged ball, so dirty and worn it was hard to differentiate the white hexagons from the black. “Would you?”
    â€œWhat is this?” José popped the ball out of the boy’s hands, bounced it once, then spun it around between his palms. “Nice ball. Wow. You guys play a lot, huh?”
    They nodded. He pushed his thumbs into the ball, feeling the pressure. Good.
    â€œWhere do you play?”
    The boy, obviously the group’s spokesperson, jerked his head toward the road. “The street.”
    â€œThe street? What about the cars?”
    â€œWe have to move every time. It stinks.”
    José reached out and mussed up the boy’s hair. He knew if the game seethed in their blood, they’d play anywhere. He liked the way the boy looked at him, admiring but sizing him up all the same.
    He leaned over to Jasmine and whispered, “ Go tell your brother to hurry up. We need to go. ”
    Back to the boys. “Okay! You, there!” He pointed from one boy to the other, positioning them along the sidewalk as he settled the ball on the ground. “You over there, you there, you here, and you here.”
    The boys snapped to. Most likely none of them figured when they came out to play that day that the most freshly signed player for Club Madrid would join them. Their lucky day, eh? José pointed to the only boy who’d said anything so far. “What’s your name?”
    The boy mumbled.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œDavid.”
    â€œAre you ready, David?”
    He nodded, mouth drawn in a grim line. José started forward, weaving through the boys where he had placed them. They turned and followed him.
    José stopped and spun on his heel. They ground to a halt.
    He held out his hands. “Where’s the ball?”
    The boys stared at his feet, confusion wrinkling their brows. They looked around back to where José began his run.
    Oh. There it was. The ball. Almost stuck to the cement, it seemed.
    José crossed his arms. “You guys are sleeping, huh?”
    David hurried over, picked up the ball, and threw it to José.
    José caught it. “Francisco!” he called back toward the house where he was staying. They were going to be late. He reached into his pocket for the Sharpie his manager slipped in there earlier for autographs, just in case. “ You never know, José ,” Francisco had said.
    He signed the battered ball, and the boys grinned. “Hmm. My name looks pretty lonely on this ball. How about I get a few more names here for you? Like Tomas Cordoba.”
    â€œEl Puma!”