Christina's Story

The wind rustles through her hair as Christina Sanchez kicks the soccer ball high into the sky, all but daring the defender to intercept the pass from midfielder to forward. She smirks at the auburn-haired girl, teasing her with her eyes.

“Go ahead, gatito.” She swears in her ancestral tongue. “Do it, I dare you.”

The defender glares at her and tries to make good on Christina’s threat, jumping in the front of the checkered sphere as it sails toward the Latina’s teammate. But alas, her timing is off. The forward connects with the ball, bunting it with her head toward the opposing team’s goal, out of reach of the fiery-haired goalkeeper.

Go, team.

“Perra.” Christina laughs. “You rose up to the challenge, and even then you failed. Some play, mierda.”

The auburn girl grows beet red, fully aware of the meaning of the words. Her teammates roll their eyes at the profanity. The curses are nothing new—Christina’s nickname isn’t “Popeye” for nothing, and not because of her strong forearms. The defender bares her teeth in a show of strength.

Christina isn’t buying it.

This time it’s her turn to play keep-away as the other team tries to advance along the field. She intercepts a couple of plays, angering the defender even more. Eventually they manage to break free of her, but even then their luck is anything but good. With a tight formation and well-trained players, the opposition doesn’t stand a chance against Christina and company.

When her team’s turn comes, they run rings around the defender and her comrades, scoring two goals sixty minutes in. The rest, as they say, is history.

It doesn’t help that Christina helped set up one of those scoring shots.

As they head off to the showers, her classmates congratulate her for yet another notch in their belt. Without her, it wouldn’t be possible.

Off the field, Christina’s life is anything but successful. Despite her strong athletic record, her academic career has languished thanks in no small part to her training and time on the road. She may be headed for a career in college soccer, but not if her grades could help it.

Exhausted and spent from the previous day’s game, she struggles to stay awake in Mr John Doe’s class, her eyes bloodshot red. She barely keeps up with the lecture, writing down a few short phrases to help her remember. How she’s going to memorize everything before next week’s quiz is anyone’s guess.

As her classmates file out, she gets up to leave, only for her instructor to motion her to sit down.

“We need to talk.” Mr John Doe points at her purse.

“What’s the matter? Did I forget to turn in my report again?”

“Not that.” The teacher shakes his head. “Though your lack of class work is bothersome.”

“I’m telling you for the last time, professor.” Christina slips into her Hispanic accent. “I’m really busy. Training, playing games…I try my best, but if I miss an assignment here or there, I apologize. I mean it.”

“I understand. Believe me, I do. But as we say in academia, you’re on the bubble.”

“On the bubble? What does that mean?”

“It means if you don’t stop dribbling and start reading you’ll be stuck doing something else than playing professional soccer for the rest of your life.”

The C student runs her hand through her coarse dark hair, considering the impact of her instructor’s words.

“I see.” She nods. “Is there anything I can do to help myself? Extra credit? Class trips, that kind of thing?”

“Yes and…yes.”

“Terrific! When do you expect me to turn the paper in?”

Mr John Doe shakes his head.

“That isn’t necessary.”

“What is?”

His swallows, trying to frame his next words carefully.

“How can I put this delicately? How do you feel about certain…extracurricular activities?”

“You mean sports?”

Mr John Doe palms his face.

“Sex, Christina. I’m talking about sex.”

“The hell?” She gasps, taken aback. “No way am I ever going to sleep with you if it means passing this class. Might as well plan for a career in the food services industry…”

The teacher blocks her path as she tries to leave, forcing her to sit back down.
“You sure you want to risk ending up a poor old trabajador like your mother and father?”

“If I have a choice between that and…what you propose, a life of menial labor would be preferable in comparison.”

“Think about what you’re saying. A life sweeping floors and scrubbing toilets? That’s not you. You’re way too bright for that.”

Christina glances up at him as the words sink in.

“You have a point. What do I have to do?”

“Oral gets you a C, vaginal gets you a B and anal gets you an A. Although I’d strongly dissuade you from choosing C.”

The soccer player takes her time trying to decide.

“What will it be, Christina? A? or B?”

“B. Not like I’ve screwed a man since forever.”

“Very well. Take off your jeans and shirt off and join me.” Mr John Doe motions her behind his desk.