She left her career as a journalist because she chose to accompany me to continue enjoying football and I understand that this was a difficult decision for her. Now she is more relaxed, but within two to three years, she can resume career. Sara, I repeat, is calm and will soon be able to return to journalism, which is what she likes to do. Everything is cyclical, everything changes. Today she is for me, tomorrow I’m for her.
“Are these all?” the commander asks then. He nods. “And which one was the shooter?” He just shrugs. He doesn’t know. They didn’t agree on that before. The commander starts to read the names aloud. “Iker Casillas Fernández, born in Madrid, police officer.” It could have been Iker. He’s probably the best shooter of them all, and he would have taken the responsibility. “David Villa Sánchez, born in Tuilla, miner.” It could have been Villa as well. He has the guts to do such thing. “David Josué Jiménez Silva, born in Arguineguín, journalist.” He’s almost sure it wasn’t Silva. He’s an idealist, but even if he wanted to, they wouldn’t entrust him with such task. “Sergio Ramos García, born in Camas, waiter.” Could it be Sergio? He’s a fool, he would probably not even think of it as of something important. He would just do it and think about the consequences only when they would come. “Fernando José Torres Sanz, born in Fuenlabrada, teacher.” He remembers Fernando, his freckled face and big brown eyes, the warm smile all the kids in his class fell for the first day of school. Somehow he can’t imagine him shooting anyone. “Xavier Hernández i Creus, born in Terrassa, railway employee.” He can’t imagine Xavi to be the one to shoot. Unless he could hold the gun together with Andrés. They never do anything without the other one. “Andrés Iniesta Luján, born in Fuentealbilla, railway employee.” Andrés would probably be the one planning something, but the actual thing, he doubts it. “So, where can we find them?” the commander asks.