Matteo’s the first to step up. “Since we’ve all been so mad at Declan for keeping a secret,” he says, his voice shaky, “I’ve been keeping one, too.”
Croix London groans, thick Irish accent making him sound more wound up than usual. “Here we go. This bloody team and their bloody secrets.”
But Matteo doesn’t flinch. “I passed my college entrance exams. I’m going to be a teacher.”
The room goes still and then smiles begin to form on the team’s faces, one by one.
“Why the hell was that a secret?” Justice Trager blurts out. “That’s amazing!”
Matteo shrugs, sheepish. “Because all you guys ever talk about is women, sex, and partying. Other than soccer, of course. I didn’t think you’d care. And taking this step means I’ll eventually have to step back from the Strikers. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
Justice claps a hand to Matteo’s shoulder. “We’re a team, no matter where you go. And shaping the minds of future Strikers—and Striker fans—sounds like the perfect job for you.”
“Yeah, good for you, lad,” Croix adds. “Nerd suits you much better anyway.”
Laughter ripples through the locker room, breaking some of the tension.
But then Matteo turns, eyes landing on me and Luca. “But I couldn’t have done it without Luca and Declan.”
Silence falls again, sharper this time.
“They took me into one of their private suites, studied with me all night, ran practice tests until I was ready. I know we’re all pissed at Declan for what he said, but I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Because he’s not that kind of guy.”
I step forward, laying a hand on Matteo’s shoulder, the gratitude heavy in my chest. For the first time in days, I feel like someone just cracked the door open for me.
Matteo clears his throat, glancing around the room. “Since it’s December sixteenth, I wanted to tell you all aboutLas Posadas.”
A couple of guys tilt their heads, curious. He brightens. “It’s a Mexican tradition, from the sixteenth to the twenty-fourth of December where we re-enact Mary and Joseph’s search for a room in Bethlehem. You go house to house, singing, until someone finally welcomes you in. Then you celebrate—food, drinks, piñatas. The whole neighborhood comes alive.”
His voice softens, more personal. “When I was a kid, we’d start right at sunset. My siblings, my cousins, kids from down the street—we’d walk block after block, voices cracking from singing, until finally, someone opened their door. Then it was tamales, champurrado, laughter so loud you could hear it two streets over.” He chuckles. “But everyone waited for one thing.”
Justice grins. “The piñata.”
Matteo nods, eyes glinting. “Always the piñata.”
I glance around the locker room, confused. I know what a piñata is—we had them back home in Argentina too—but there’s nothing hanging from the ceiling, no papier-mâché donkey in sight.
My frown deepens. “So…where’s the piñata?”
That’s when the smiles start spreading across their faces—slow, wicked, way too coordinated. And then Croix lifts a rubber bat from behind the bench, Justice follows, and suddenly half the team is armed. Some with rubber bats. Others with large, inflatable candy canes.
Oh, hell.
“You,” Justice says, pointing his bat straight at me, “are the piñata.”
Laughter erupts. Before I can protest, they’ve got me tied to a bench with rolls of athletic tape, arms stretched wide like some sacrificial offering.
“Alright, alright—easy now,” I start, but the firstwhaphits my thigh.
Then another on my shoulder. Not hard enough to injure, just enough to sting.
“Shh! Ahh fuck!” I hiss.
With every tap, the guys let loose.
“Do you know what it felt like to hear you say you didn’t trust us or didn’t care what we thought?” Croix growls, giving me a smack on the arm.
“Not. What. I said,” I squeeze out between hits.