July 26th, 2015, was not just a date on the calendar in the Rivera household; it was a holy day of obligation. The air crackled with a fever-pitch anticipation usually reserved for natural disasters or lottery drawings. Marco had "strongly encouraged" Alex to attend, and Sherlock, sensing the elevated energy, was whining and pacing by the front door.
The small living room was a packed, vibrant tableau of fandom. Marco, Javier, Rosa, and Lucía (Javier's mom) were a sea of green, red, and white. Jerseys, flags, and even face paint were on full display. Alex sat on the floor, leaning against the couch with Sherlock's head in her lap, feeling like a single, beige pixel in a high-definition Mexican flag.
She noted, not for the first time, how Rosa and Lucía were sitting exceptionally close on the loveseat, their hands occasionally brushing as they reached for the bowl of *chicharrones*. Marco, his eyes glued to the pre-game show, was oblivious. Javier, similarly entranced, was just as blind.
"Look at them," Marco said, pointing at the Jamaican team with disdain. "They're fast, but they don't have the heart. We have *corazón*!"
"*¡Sí, mijo!*" Rosa agreed passionately, her attention momentarily shifting from Lucía.
The game began, and the room became a vortex of noise. The four Latino spectators didn't just watch the game; they lived it. They shouted advice to the players in Spanish as if they could be heard through the screen. They leapt to their feet at every near-miss, groaning in unison. They argued with the referee's calls with the fervor of Supreme Court justices.
When **Andrés Guardado** slammed the ball into the net in the 31st minute, the room exploded.
"**¡GOOOOOOOOOOL!**" Marco and Javier roared in perfect stereo, launching themselves from the couch. Marco grabbed Alex and spun her around, while Javier hugged his mom. Rosa and Lucía embraced, jumping up and down, their cheers blending into one.
The second half was a masterclass in Mexican dominance. Just a minute in, **Jesus Corona** scored again.
"**¡OTRO! ¡OTRO!**" Marco bellowed, pounding his chest. He grabbed a bewildered Sherlock and danced the wobbly puppy around the room. "You see that, *hijo*? That's your heritage!"
Alex couldn't help but laugh, caught up in the infectious joy.
The celebration for **Oribe Peralta's** 61st-minute goal was even more raucous, a confirmation of victory. The room was a symphony of whoops, whistles, and the thunderous shaking of a *matraca* noisemaker that Javier produced from somewhere.
When Jamaica's **Darren Mattocks** scored a consolation goal in the 79th minute, a collective "*¡Ay!*" of disgust rippled through the room, but it was quickly drowned out by chants of "*¡México! ¡México!*"
The final whistle blew. Mexico 3, Jamaica 1. **Campeones.**
The Rivera living room transformed into a microcosm of the celebrations erupting across Mexico and countless Latino neighborhoods. Marco and Javier were locked in a bear hug, screaming the national anthem at the top of their lungs. Rosa was weeping tears of joy, and Lucía was holding her, wiping her tears away with a tender smile.
Marco broke free, his eyes wild with triumph. "THE SEVENTH! THE SEVENTH TITLE!" He grabbed a flag and ran a victory lap around the coffee table, nearly tripping over a snoozing Carlos, who had emerged from his hiding spot, probably hoping for dropped food.
He then scooped up a very patient Ava in her terrarium, holding her up to the TV. "You see, Ava? You see what we did?"
Finally, breathless and beaming, he collapsed next to Alex on the floor, throwing a sweaty, flag-draped arm around her. Sherlock licked his face enthusiastically.
"See, *mami*?" Marco panted, his chest heaving. "I told you. There's no party like a Mexican football victory party."
The room was a mess of discarded plates, fallen streamers, and pure, unadulterated happiness. The four fans were now replaying the best moments, their voices hoarse but still passionate. Rosa and Lucía were sharing a quiet, proud moment, their heads close together.
Alex, surrounded by the beautiful, overwhelming chaos, leaned into Marco's side. It was loud, it was messy, and it was nothing like the quiet, orderly world she usually craved. But as she watched his face, alight with a joy so profound it was almost tangible.
"Yeah," she said, a smile tugging at her lips. "I see."
***
The last days of July bled away in a humid haze, the frantic energy of the Gold Cup victory having settled into a warm, satisfied hum. It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon when Marco, uncharacteristically, suggested something simple.
"Hey. Let's go to Starbucks."
Alex looked up from her laptop, where she was mapping out her fall semester schedule. "Starbucks? You? Since when do you voluntarily go somewhere you can't rev an engine or teach a raccoon to fist-bump?"
"Since I wanna have a date with my girlfriend where the only wild animal is the one in the back stealing Splenda packets," he said, grinning. "C'mon. For old times' sake."
It was, after all, where they had officially met, months ago, when his chaotic energy had first collided with her ordered world.
They drove to the same location. It felt strangely formal. They ordered—a Caramel Frappuccino for him, a simple black iced coffee for her—and found a small table by the window.
For a few minutes, they just sat in a comfortable silence, a rarity for them. The air conditioning was a welcome relief from the summer heat, and the low hum of the espresso machine was a familiar white noise.
"This is weird," Marco finally said, stirring the whipped cream into his drink with a straw.
"What is?"
"This. Just… sitting." He took a sip. "It's nice."
Alex smirked. "Don't tell me you're mellowing out."
"Never," he said, his eyes regaining their familiar sparkle. "I'm just recharging. Gotta keep you on your toes, mami." He kicked her foot playfully under the table.
They fell into an easy rhythm, talking about nothing in particular. He told her a ridiculous story about Javier trying to cook a romantic dinner and setting off every smoke alarm in his apartment. She told him about Haley's latest, doomed business venture involving personalized horoscopes for pets. They talked about Sherlock's new habit of howling along with police sirens.
It was mundane. It was normal. And for Alex, it was perfect.
She watched him as he talked, his hands gesturing wildly as he recounted Malik's latest dating disaster.
"What?" he asked, catching her staring.
"Nothing," she said, taking a sip of her coffee to hide her smile. "I just… I like this."
"The Frap? I know, it's a masterpiece of modern engineering."
"No, idiot. This. Us. Just… being."
Marco's bravado softened. He reached across the small table and took her hand.
"Yeah," he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Me too."
They sat like that for a long while, hands linked, watching the world go by outside the window.