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The sun was sweet and golden, stretching long over the grass like it had nowhere better to be.
It was late afternoon. The kind where time moved a little slower, cicadas hummed somewhere out of sight, and the smell of sunscreen lingered on everyone’s skin.
The backyard goal was set up. Small, plastic, slightly lopsided from years of Alora’s attacks. The ball was scuffed but solid. Ferran called it “a classic” and refused to buy a new one.
Pedri was barefoot. Ferran wore socks with little pineapples on them. Alora had on her favorite shorts and a tank top that said “unstoppable” in bold glittery letters.
Mateo, three years old and full of mischief, was standing near the ball with his hands on his hips and a suspicious expression.
“Okay,” Ferran said, clapping his hands. “Little man, you ready to kick it?”
Mateo blinked up at him.
“No.”
Pedri stifled a laugh.
“Come on, it’s easy,” Alora said, dropping to his level. “I’ll show you. Watch.”
She took a couple of steps back and gave the ball a firm kick. It rolled cleanly into the net.
Mateo nodded, impressed. “Nice.”
“Your turn.”
He toddled up to the ball, lined himself up, raised one leg dramatically, then turned around and walked away.
“I’m tired,” he said, flopping into the grass like a tired prince.
“You didn’t even try,” Alora groaned.
Pedri wandered over and crouched beside him. “Hey, you alright?”
Mateo made a face. “Ball’s boring.”
Ferran gasped like he’d been shot. “You take that back.”
“No.” Mateo rolled onto his back. “Boring game.”
Alora threw her hands in the air. “You’re a Torres-González. We play football.”
“I like painting,” Mateo said confidently.
Pedri gave Ferran a look that said we’re fighting a losing battle here, but Ferran wasn’t giving up just yet.
“Alright,” he said, hands on hips. “Then we make it fun. New rule: if you kick the ball, you get ice cream.”
Mateo sat up instantly. “What kind?”
“Strawberry.”
“Sprinkles?”
“Obviously.”
Alora glared. “I didn’t get a bribe.”
“You don’t need a bribe,” Pedri said. “You’re built different.”
Mateo stood up, dusted off his shorts, and marched over to the ball. Alora and Ferran watched like proud scouts. Pedri pulled out his phone, already filming.
Mateo squared up.
He kicked the ball.
It went the wrong way.
Directly into the bushes.
Ferran gasped again. “That was… creative.”
“I did it!” Mateo cheered.
Pedri stopped recording. “He’s technically not wrong.”
Alora retrieved the ball and dropped it at Mateo’s feet again. “Try again. This time toward the goal, okay?”
Mateo narrowed his eyes, took aim, and kicked it straight up into the air where it bonked Ferran lightly on the head.
Ferran pretended to stagger. “Fatal injury. I’m going down.”
Mateo giggled until he had to sit down. Alora snorted. Pedri shook his head with a smile.
“Okay, so football’s not happening today,” Pedri admitted, ruffling Mateo’s hair.
Mateo looked up at him. “Can we paint now?”
Ferran threw himself into the grass beside them. “Sure. We’ll paint. But someday… someday I’ll get you to pass the ball.”
Mateo leaned over and patted Ferran’s cheek. “Te amo, Papa. But… no.”
Later, the four of them sat around a little plastic table with Mateo’s finger paints smeared across every inch of it.
Alora had given up on football and was now trying to make a realistic rainbow, tongue poking out in concentration.
Mateo was painting a purple blob that he swore was a giraffe.
Pedri watched Ferran silently mourn the missed football legacy while helping clean strawberry yogurt off Mateo’s elbow.
“Hey,” Pedri whispered, leaning over. “He might never score a goal.”
“I know.”
“But he’s already a masterpiece.”
Ferran looked over at Mateo, now humming to himself and painting tiny pink flowers into the corners of Alora’s rainbow.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “He really is.”
- sofía ✎ᝰ.