Call to Mestalla

The kettle had long since stopped whistling, but the steam still curled above it in lazy spirals.

"Álvaro!" the voice came again from down the hallway, half urgent, half amused.

"We're going to be late! Just because you are brushing now doesn't mean you won't do it again when we get back. I'm sure you'll drink a beer for every goal we score."

From the kitchen doorway, Álvaro poked his head out, toothbrush still in his mouth, foam clinging to his stubble.

"We?" he said around it.

"Since when did you care more about football than I do?"

His wife, Lucía, laughed as she pulled her scarf from the hanger, looping it twice around her neck.

"What do you mean when did I care more about football? I'm a Latina for Christ's sake!"

She turned and reached down for the little hand beside her.

Their daughter, Alba, barely six, clutched a toy fox in one hand and her mother's fingers in the other.