Saint Bertrand

The Monumental was almost empty. River had just won in stoppage time. He was waiting in the front row of the stands, just like he had since he played in the reserves.
Santiago came out of the tunnel with his shirt soaked in sweat. He saw me and smiled:
—Are you still here?
-Always.
He sat down next to me. We watched the court in silence.
"You know what?" he said suddenly. "Every time I save a penalty... the first thing I do is look for you."
"Liar," I laughed.
—I swear. It doesn't matter if there are eighty thousand people, I always know where you are.
—What if one day I'm not here? —I looked down.
He stopped smiling:
—Don't say that.
—It's a question.
—Then I don't want to answer it.
We remained silent. The wind moved the nets.
—Aren't you ever afraid that all this will change? —I asked—. Fame, Europe, the national team... That one day my place will be empty because your life is moving too fast.
Santiago got up, walked to the grass and signaled to me:
—Come here.
I jumped over the sign and went down. He placed a ball on the penalty spot.
—Kick.
-Now?
-Now.
I kicked horribly. The ball went way wide. Santiago didn't even try to stop it; he walked towards it, picked it up, and passed it back to me.
—Do you know why I didn't try to stop it?
-No.
"Because there are some people you just don't want to beat," he said, taking a deep breath. "Football can take away a match, a final, or a career. But if fame manages to take you away from me... that's going to be the only match I'll feel I lost."
I felt a lump in my throat.
—What if one day you forget all this?
Santiago took my hand and placed it on the River Plate crest on his chest.
—As long as this shield is here and you are here, I will always know where I came from.
He rested his forehead against mine and kissed me.