Jugador: The Mendoza Family Read online

  JUGADOR

  Copyright © 2020 by Rose Croft. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Bex Harper Designs

  Formatter: Integrity Formatting

  He was the star athlete.

  Football player.

  MVP.

  A walking god among mere mortals.

  Everyone knew Marco Cruz was destined to be a supernova burning bright in the sky.

  On the outside, he seemed to have it all.

  On the inside, he was a troubled boy hiding his pain.

  He truly was a beautiful, vacant shell.

  I thought I could fix him.

  I thought I could change him.

  I thought I could handle what we were.

  I was wrong.

  He warned me he wasn’t relationship material.

  He told me he’d ruin me if I let him.

  I should’ve listened.

  But, I wanted to take a bite of that shiny, poisonous apple,

  regardless of the consequences.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Present

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Rose Croft

  Excerpt - Cabezon

  Marco Cruz—Age 14, Dallas

  Turning points. Life was full of turning points that defined you. Was I too young to be so cynical and philosophical about this? Yeah, probably. Let’s just say I’d seen a lot in the last few years. Funny, I felt the same way about football. An interception, a fumble, or a blocked punt could completely change the flow of the game. One minute you’re rolling along and then BAM…the quarterback bobbles a bad snap, the opposing team’s defense breaks through the offensive line and dives for the loose ball. Bodies scramble around on the ground like over-padded, jacked-up crocodiles, then hands start frantically pointing in the direction of whoever’s team gets possession. Soon, the referee signals that the other team has the ball on your ten-yard line. After the opposing team’s celebration and the disgusted headshakes of the offense, a dog pile of players slowly rise from the ground. Then, you saw the true meaning of a crucial turning point when your team’s starting quarterback writhes around on the turf in pain.

  I stood on the sideline and watched with the desolation of the situation, threatening to bring me down. That’s bullshit. I should’ve been more remorseful. And yet, there was a voice in my head screaming, “Let me in, Coach, I’m ready.” I did whatever I could to be hyped up for the big games. A new day, a new chance. It wasn’t hard to self-motivate myself. Not to sound like a high school pep rally, but I was born ready. I’d played football for years, whether it was pee-wee, Pop Warner, middle school, and now high school. I was a freshman, waiting patiently behind the senior quarterback who was a starter because he’d gone through the paces and waited his turn throughout his four years. Our coach was an old-school, hard-ass who believed that seniority trumped talent. At least, that’s how I saw it.

  Players on both sides took a knee and dropped their heads in prayer as coaches and trainers rushed the field. The only sounds heard were gasps and whispers of people wondering what was going on. Before I knew it, Mike, our QB was put on a stretcher being carted off the field while my coach was stomping over to me with the ever-looking grim set of his jaw as he shot a hand out signaling for me to start preparing. I eagerly grabbed a football and began warming up on the sidelines with one of our backup wide receivers, trying my damnedest to block out what was happening on the field. I truly hoped Mike was okay. I’d never wish an injury on anyone, but I needed to stay focused. And we needed our defense to make a stop. It was late in the fourth quarter, and we were tied.

  I could tell as I continued to play catch that our side of the field was quiet, while across the stadium, the fans were cheering frantically. The sound of cowbells clanking mixed in with the scream of the crowd was hard to ignore. “Touchdown!” yelled the announcer enthusiastically over the PA system in the state-of-the-art dome where the professional team played. This was what every high school football player in Texas lived for, to play in a pro stadium and win. This was the ultimate high school highlight reel. To most kids, this was their highlight reel for life. Live to play another game. We were playing in the district playoffs against a team from the ritzy Dallas suburbs. “Friday Night Lights” was not a myth in this football-crazed state. When August hit, high school football was everything. And what was better than seeing the underdog from the poor side of the tracks play the rich team who owned the railroads.

  “Cruz! You ready?” my coach barked.

  “Yeah, Coach.” I positioned my helmet and rubbed my hands together in anticipation.

  “Get out there and don’t do anything goddamned stupid!”

  I nodded as he went on growling behind me with enough expletives to make people look at him and wonder if he were still sane.

  You got this. I ran to the huddle and licked my lips. My team hovered around watching me, waiting for the play call.

  I glanced over to the sideline then down at my wristband of plays fighting a sudden case of raging anxiousness. It’s different when you’re used to being the starter all those years and preparing for the game. Now I was coming in at the end of the game, expecting to perform miracles. Not complaining. I had my opportunity. I was just nervous as shit. I would’ve prepared differently if I’d known I would play. My brain ran through a myriad of “what ifs” while I tried to act like I knew what the hell I was doing. I did know what I was doing, dammit. I took a breath. Called the play…and then executed it…first down…move the chains…we got this. If I could just make that first play, then my nerves would settle down. And we marched down the field on a mission.

  It was now third down, and we were on the twenty-yard line with thirty seconds left in the game, behind by one touchdown. I glanced over to the sideline and saw our offensive coach throw up his hands, signaling the next play. A running play. Why? Was he an idiot? Were we burning time on the clock? We needed every second right now. Besides, we’d been torching this defense through the air all night.

  “What’s the call?” Vince Mendoza asked in his never-enthusiastic voice. That fucker was as cool as a cucumber and looked like a man among boys with his full five o’clock shadow. He was only fifteen but looked like he was twenty-one. He, too, was only a freshman, but I knew he’d been held back a grade. I’m surprised nobody questioned whether he’d been held back several grades. Regardless, he was a beast at wide receiver.

  “Thirty-three draw,” I answered flatly. Thirty-three was our running back, Joe Garza. The play would look like a pass, but I would hand it off to him in the backfield. This hadn’t worked at all for us tonight. The other team knew we relied heavily on our running back in previous games and were prepared for it. As we broke from the huddle, I tapped Vince on the shoulder. “Be ready.”

  He nodded and trotted over to his spot, lining up in his stance.

  I stepped back in the shotgun position, rubbing my hands together, watching how the defenders shifted as though they already knew the play. “Blue eighty-eight, blue eighty-eight. Hut!” I clapped my hands together and caught the hike. I faked a hand-off to Joe and rolled out of the pocket. Joe stutter-stepped, clearly caught off guard, but got his shit together in time to block a linebacker that was zeroing in on me. I looked down the field. Vince had his man beat and was slanting across the middle. I fired off the ball a second before I was leveled in the chest and slammed to the ground.

  The roar of the crowd was all I needed to hear to know we’d scored. I jumped up and ran like a crazy man over to Vince, who even scoring a touchdown didn’t seem too excited. “Fuck yeah, bro! You did it!” I slapped his helmet.

  “Great pass,” was all he said as we walked back to the huddle. We were down by one. Surely, we were going for two and forego the extra point. Our coach was signaling me off the field as Tony, our kicker jogged out. I waggled two fingers, motioning to go for it.

  “Cruz! Get your ass off the field.” My coach’s face was bright red because nobody argued with him or questioned his calls. I gritted my
teeth and unwillingly moved over to the sideline.

  Nothing against Tony, he’d been money all night. However, we’d be tied and have to play overtime. I wanted to end this game now, and I was confident enough to know I could make it happen. Unfortunately, Coach played it safe. I yanked at the strap on my helmet and lifted it, spitting on the ground as I watched our kicker call for the ball. The pigskin was set at his feet, Tony stepped in and kicked, the ball sailed through the air…and went wide right.

  “Fuck.” I threw down my helmet. We’d lost. Our season was over. No more Friday night lights for us.

  Marco

  The after-game speech in the locker room was depressing. Who the hell wanted to hear about how you played your heart out and left it on the field? We still lost. We made some stupid errors, and Mike ended his season with a concussion and potentially broken collarbone. His arm was in a sling and he kept his eyes to the ground, occasionally running his hands over his face, wiping away unwanted tears he couldn’t control. Mike was a good quarterback at the high school level, but that was as far as his career would go. He knew it, too. That’s why tonight was even more devastating for him. It was his last time to be a football god.

  After players showered and filed out of the locker room, I felt a hand on my bicep yanking me back before I passed through the doorway. Coach Erickson. He looked me up and down and sneered. “If you ever pull that shit again on the field, I’ll make sure your ass never gets off the bench.”

  “I thought you wanted to go for two.”

  “That’s not for you to decide, and the next goddamn time I call a play, I expect my quarterback to run the fucking play.” Spit flew from his mouth as he spoke like the true blowhard he was. “This is not your team, it’s mine.” A vein pulsed in his forehead as he glared at me.

  “Sorry, Coach, I knew they were onto our running gam—”

  He yanked me by the collar until we were nose to nose. “I don’t give a shit if you have talent, Cruz. You may be the second coming of Peyton Manning for all I know, but right now, all you are is a disobedient piece of shit who has no concept of discipline. But what can I expect when you live with a sorry excuse for a dad who would rather rack up DUIs than be a responsible father and teach his son how to be a man.”

  A red mist of fury clouded my eyes, and my fists balled.

  “You wanna hit me? Don’t you?” His lips curled up. “Do it. Go ahead and fuck up your football career before it even gets started. Because that’s all you got going for you, boy.” He shoved me back, releasing his grip from my shirt. He was breathing heavily. “Grab your shit and get on the bus before I kick your ass off the team.”

  I rolled my lips together, contemplating choking his ass out, but I knew he was right. Football was my last resort. Straining to regain my calm, I bent down, lifting the strap of my duffel bag. My eyes never wavered from his. This old man. Who the fuck did he think he was? If I wanted to punch his face (and I did), I could beat his butt to a pulp.

  He shook his head and smirked as I casually walked out the door. I heard behind me, “Punk-ass kid thinks he knows everything” echo off the locker room walls down the hallway.

  The bus ride home seemed like the longest thirty minutes of my life. I reached in my bag and pulled out my knock-off Beats headphones and clicked on my iPod. I bobbed my head to the bass and looked across the aisle to see Vince sitting with his brother Emilio, both looking glum, much like everyone on the bus. Finally, the bus pulled into our school parking lot. There were groups of people gathered around cars waiting for us. Families and friends. The consolation waiting party. Players filed off the bus and joined their parents. I stared absently through the crowd, knowing I would have no one waiting for me. If I were honest, Coach was spot-on about my dad.

  I strode by the crowd of people to the parking lot gate. My house wasn’t far from the school, and the walk would do me good anyway. About half a mile down the road, headlights flashed behind me as a car skidded to a stop.

  “Yo, Tom Brady, need a ride?”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see Emilio hanging his head out the passenger window. Vince was behind the wheel.

  “I’m good, man. I don’t live far from here.”

  “Get in. Little boys don’t need to be walking alone at night. It’s a dangerous world out there,” Emilio said and jumped out of the car to open the door behind him. His tone was teasing, but it was somewhat true. We didn’t live in the safest neighborhood.

  I shook my head and made my way to the Tahoe. “How the hell do you have a car?” Emilio was fourteen. “And, how is he legal to drive?” I slid into the back seat. “Vince really is a twenty-one-year-old posing as a high schooler, right?”

  Emilio laughed while Vince’s expression didn’t change as he pointed to the street. “Hey, fucker, you’re free to walk your ass home.”

  “Calmate cabrón.” Emilio ruffled his brother’s perfect hair. “You do look like a grown-ass man.” Vince’s personality was completely different than his brother’s. Emilio was loud and constantly joking about anything. However, when he was on the field, there was nothing to laugh about. He was a linebacker and crazy, leading the team in tackles.

  Emilio leaned over the console and looked back at me. “My brother has a hardship license, and this is the family car.”

  I nodded and said, “Take a right at the next street.”

  “How come you always walk everywhere?” Emilio asked.

  Deflect. Deflect. Deflect. I wasn’t going to reveal or explain my family life. Not that it was a big secret. “I don’t have a sweet ride or a personal chauffeur like you, big baller.”

  Emilio chuckled. “Ah, you got some jokes.”

  “Where’s your house?” Vince gruffed. A sense of humor was not a top priority to him.

  “Third one on the left.”

  Vince pulled into the gravel driveway, overgrown with weeds. The house was one-story, small, and the white siding was gray and dingy. The roof was caved in on one side and was a water trap anytime it rained. We had to set out gallon buckets to catch the leaks in the ceiling. However, nobody took the time or interest to repair shit around here. In a nutshell, the house was old and rundown. I knew they were probably embarrassed seeing where I lived but kept their comments to themselves. But…it is what it is.

  I clutched the strap of my duffel bag and grabbed the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.” I quickly stepped out and slammed the door, ready to close myself off to the world.

  “Later, bro. Good game,” Emilio said quietly. His expression was one of pity.

  “Thanks.” I stepped to the uneven concrete steps of the front porch.

  “Hey!” I heard behind me and twisted my head. Vince watched me with raised eyes. “Next year, man. We’ll get there next year. You’re the future, Cruz. Whatever Coach thinks or says, deep down, he knows it too.”

  “You heard.”

  He jutted his chin. “I heard. He’s just being a hard-ass because he knows he fucked up. He won’t ever admit it either.”

  “Thanks.”

  “See you at school Monday.”

  I turned and climbed the cracked steps. Fishing out my keys, I gripped the handle, realizing the door was unlocked. Jeez, Pops! When will you learn?

  I pushed in and glanced around the living room. Shadows danced off the walls of the darkened room as the twenty-seven-inch pre-flat-screen-era TV blared. The room was vacant, and empty beer bottles littered the coffee table while the stale smell of cigarette smoke filled the room. I glanced at the mantel of pictures that were cracked from the last time when Pop forgot to lock the door and our home was ransacked, remembering how those same family pictures lay broken on the ground.

  “Laura,” I heard a male groan. I angled my head and saw my dad slumped over at the small kitchen table with eyes closed. Several beer bottles were lined up around him. Shit. Why was I even surprised? All my father did was get drunk and moan about missing my mother in his drunken stupor. Why did I think anything was ever going to change?

  It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when my father was a hero. He’d been a marine and served many tours in the Middle East. He’d received a medal of honor for his courage, saving members of his squad when they were ambushed in a small village in Afghanistan. I remember my father being overseas until I’d reached the second grade. Little did I know, my mother had already checked out on him and was seeing someone else on the side. When dad came home for good, I thought we’d be the perfect family. Angel Cruz, the son of migrant farmers, was a second-generation Mexican American who knew the value of hard work. He immediately found a job as a foreman for a road construction company in Dallas. He had connections, and Dad had always been a jack-of-all-trades.