Goalie

VOLUME 3: GOALIE There she is. Looking at her, I can hardly breathe. She's beautiful. Gorgeous, actually. Long dark hair. Shapely legs that go for miles. Killer rack. Much more glam than my "mom" bod. I shouldn't be so critical of myself. I've had three kids in the last five years, and Theo is only a few months old. But it's hard looking at her, knowing I'll never have that body again. Is this why my husband strayed? No. I don't know that for sure. Maybe he really is just tying one on with the guys like he claims. But I've heard the talk. I know the rumors. And she has the answers I need. I just have to have the courage to ask for them. Ringing my hands together, I take a deep breath and approach her. "Hi." Tiffany looks up at me with surprise. Usually the only one to talk to her during the games is Quincy, the team captain's girlfriend. Everyone else steers clear. Partly because Tiffany is a groupie - well, former groupie anyway. Now that she and Rowen Flanigan are together, she's officially become a WAG, which stands for "wives and girlfriends." But people also don't talk to her because, apparently, she's a former soccer player herself. She doesn't treat games like social events. Instead, she watches the games really closely and ignores everything going on around her. So, I know she's surprised I'm talking to her. "Mind if I sit down?" She looks around like she's confused. "Um, yeah. Okay." She takes her feet off the chair in front of her and straightens her spine. We sit in awkward silence for a while. She's had a rough go of it lately with Rowen having a meltdown on the field leading to a suspension and a nudie pic scandal she was the center of. Compared to how she normally looks, right now she looks like s**t. Which is still better than ninety-nine percent of the population. I know she feels self-conscious about who has and hasn't seen the picture that was blasted all over the internet. But I have questions, and she's the only one with the answers, so leaving her alone isn't an option. Still, I'm not sure how to ask them. Not sure I really want to ask them, if I'm being honest with myself. And I certainly don't want to end up in a fistfight like she and Jessica Funderling did once. Yeah, she's had a really rough time lately. But I have to know. I have decisions to make. And if my worst fear is true, I'm running out of time to follow through. I have to do this now. "I have questions for you." I turn to look at Tiffany, who visibly cringes. "I don't want to fight with you or anything. I just need information. Honest information." She bites her lip and nods her head. "I'll be as honest as I can," she agrees quietly. "I owe you that." She snorts a sardonic laugh. "Actually, I owe you so much more than that." She takes her own deep breath and looks at me. "What do you want to know?" This is it. It's now or never. I need answers for my own sanity. I don't want to know, but I need to. I make eye contact with her and throw it all out there, no matter what the cost. "You've slept with my husband." I don't ask her. I want to make sure there is no doubt that it's an accusation, a challenge. I'm challenging her to tell me the truth. She just holds my stare. Then she responds in the way I was praying she wouldn't, but knew she would. She nods. "Yes," she utters, her eyes getting glossy. I, however, shut my emotions off completely. This is a fact-gathering conversation. I can break later. "How many times?" "I don't know." A single tear slides down her cheek. "Were you the only one?" She wipes away the tear with the sleeve of her Texas Mutiny hoodie. "I don't know. I assume not, but I wasn't paying too much attention. I was so focused on myself, I wasn't worried about anyone else or what they were doing." I turn back to watch the game, my eyes catching on my husband as he stands in the net, bright yellow jersey and matching gloves. He prides himself on being one of the best goalies in the league. He rarely lets a shot through. He defends that net with a vengeance. It's ironic he never protected our family the way he protects that damn net. "I'm so sorry," Tiffany whispers. "I was so selfish and stupid. I pretended no one was getting hurt because I was so far removed from the families. But I see it now, Mariana. I understand, and I'm just… so ashamed." She turns completely toward me and talks fast, tears streaming down her face. "I know that doesn't make up for anything, it never will. But you need to know, I need to tell you how so, so sorry I am. And how it will never, ever happen again." I just look at her blankly as I gather my thoughts. I have so many. I'm angry. I'm sad. I'm relieved to finally have answers. I'm frustrated. I'm scared. But I have to make sure before I make these decisions. Have to make absolutely, one hundred percent sure she is telling me the truth. "Prove it." "What?" Her brows furrow in confusion. "I can't base the rest of my marriage, if there even is one anymore, on one person's information. If I confront him, he's going to deny it. And I will have no proof except your word. And around here, your word isn't worth much." She flinches, but I feel no sympathy. She knows what I'm saying is true. "I need proof that you really did have an affair with my husband. I need solid evidence so when he tells me I'm off my rocker, I can show him exactly how I know he's lying to me. My entire life is about to change, and I can't do that without proof. So prove it." She closes her eyes and licks her lips, steeling herself for whatever she's about to tell me. "He um… when he's about to, uh, finish… he hums." My heart plummets. I know in that moment, without any doubt at all, it's true. My husband has been unfaithful to me. I hear a whooshing sound in my ears as my brain tries to catch up. Ten years we've been married. Together over eleven. Part of my college life and all the years since have been wrapped around this man and his career. As my senses start to come back to me, the sound of Tiffany's voice begins to register. "It never meant anything. The parties, they just used to get really crazy. Lots of booze, lots of testosterone. It was just really easy to fall into it without a second thought. It didn't mean anything. I know he loves you." "Stop." I hold up my hand in front of her, and she immediately stops talking. "It doesn't matter if it meant anything or not. It still happened." I look at her and for the first time, it registers how distraught she is. Which is funny because she's the other woman. Watching her, I'm glad she feels guilt. I'm glad she is crying over this. She should be crying over this. Women are supposed to stick together, and all that s**t, right? But a part of me, a very small - miniscule maybe - part feels bad for her. I think back to the nudie pics of her that were leaked on the web recently and realize, she's not acting. She's not trying to save face. She really does feel remorseful. She learned a hard, hard lesson about how your actions can have unintended consequences. My confronting her is another one of those moments for her. And dammit, if that doesn't make me feel just a tiny bit of compassion for her. Pushing my feelings aside, I finally respond. "Look, I'm going back and forth between hating your guts and wanting to hug you because I can see that you get it. You really understand what you've done." She nods again and wipes more tears. "What you did to me, to my family, to any other wives you did it to, it's despicable." I can feel myself getting riled up again, so I take a deep breath to calm down. "But you didn't stand up before God and my family and vow to stay faithful to me. Santos did. He's the one who broke that promise, not you. And as much as it pains me to say it, I forgive you. Okay, well, not right at this exact moment. It might be a few weeks. But I will forgive you at some point because I know you've learned your lesson. So I think it might be time to forgive yourself, too." A sob escapes her throat and she reaches to hug me. I hesitate, but ultimately put my arms around her, not in forgiveness, but strictly in thanks for being truthful. I pull away and look her in the eyes. "That being said, we will never be friends. Ever. In fact, I hope I never see you again. But if we do end up in the same place, please do me the respect of staying far, far away from me." "Absolutely. I can respect that. You deserve that distance." I stand up and start to walk away, but realize I have one last thing to say. "For the record, I don't care what you've done. You didn't deserve what Mack did to you. I hope you'll find a way to use all of this mess to help other people know how to be better than you have been." She sucks in a breath, like I slapped her. And I guess I kind of did. I'm not proud of being such a b***h. I pride myself on my kindness to people. But I don't have to be nice right now. I'm pretty sure she knows that. Turning, I walk through the box one last time, grabbing my purse and ignoring anyone who tries to make eye contact with me. As the door shuts behind me, I pull my phone out and press the speed dial button on the home screen. After two rings, she answers. "Mama," I sniffle as the tears finally start to fall. "Can the kids and I come stay with you for a while?"