Eduardo Camavinga X Black Reader - Blog Posts
esperança rising • eduardo camavinga - part i
SYNOPSIS: She's blunt, can cut hair like nobody's business, tattooed, a fellow glasses-wearing dork, just a tad bit older than him, and he's enamored. But the only issue is that she's the newest barber at Camavinga House....and he's the investor.
PAIRINGS: Eduardo Camavinga x Esperança Dos Santos
WORD COUNT: 5,580
WARNINGS: cursing, falling in love type stuff, depictions/mentions of sex, boyfriend/dork!cama, workplace romance/close proximity (18+ only) MINORS DNI
TAGLIST: @judesvirtual , @yeea-nah , @leilaxaliel , @jessnotwiththemess @bbgkoo @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @sucredreamer @whoevenisthiz @thepointlessideas @oombrophilousss, @snowseasonmademe @dexastres @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @kj77
A/N: This is set in the Football Baes Universe. Read Hey There, Delilah, Fouled By Fate, and In Between The Lines to catch up. Please let me know if you wish to be added/removed from the taglist. Also this story is set in March 2025.
Eduardo Camavinga winced slightly as he stepped out of his Audi in front of Camavinga House. The hamstring was still giving him trouble, though he'd never admit it to anyone besides the team physios. One week with Les Bleus had been incredible as always, but the injury during training had sidelined him for the second leg against Croatia. Now back in Madrid, he was supposed to be resting, but cabin fever had set in after just one day at home.
"Just a quick check-in," he muttered to himself, adjusting his glasses and pulling a Real Madrid cap low over his eyes. He caught sight of his reflection in the shop window and couldn't help but grin. His friends always teased him about being unable to stay serious for more than five minutes. It was true—even injured, even tired, a smile was never far from his face.
He'd spent the morning playing chess against himself while icing his hamstring, then gotten bored and started looking over investment projections for the barbershop chain. Being an investor at 22 still felt surreal sometimes, but he loved having something substantial outside of football. His economics teacher back in school would be proud—he'd always had a knack for numbers that surprised people who only saw the perpetually laughing footballer.
The usual chorus of greetings met him — "¡Edu!" "¡Cama Baby!" — but he immediately noticed something different. The shop had a new energy, and it wasn't just the playlist, which had shifted from Sebastião's usual Afrobeats to something more eclectic—was that Rico Nasty?
He ran a hand through his shoulder-length micro dreads, the sides of his head shaved down in an almost mohawk style that had become his signature look. The protective style had been perfect during international duty, requiring minimal maintenance while he focused on recovery. He'd have to find someone here to maintain it properly. Maybe Sebastião had finally hired somebody who could handle it without him having to explain exactly what he wanted for the millionth time.
He patted his pocket, making sure his travel chess set was there—a nervous habit when entering new situations. He'd gotten into the game during COVID lockdowns, and now he was constantly challenging teammates to matches during travel. Most of them refused after the third or fourth crushing defeat. He had a habit of just saying whatever popped into his head during games, trash-talking in the most cheerful way possible, which his opponents found even more annoying than his strategic skill.
And then he saw her.
At the furthest station, a woman with the most intricate braiding technique he'd ever witnessed was working on a client. Her movements were precise, almost like watching someone play chess, each motion calculated and confident. Brown skin glowed under the barber lights, and as she turned slightly, he caught the glint of her double nose piercing and the flash of ear gauges. The sleeve tattoo on her right arm was a swirling masterpiece of what looked like Angolan and Spanish imagery blended together.
What struck him most was her complete focus. While other barbers chatted animatedly, she worked in near silence, her face set in what his teammates would definitely call "resting bitch face." But there was something about her concentration that spoke of passion rather than coldness. She reminded him of himself during a match—totally in the zone, aware of everything but focused on one goal.
"That's the weird new hire," Sebastião materialized beside him, speaking low in English. "Esperança. Found her working at some underground spot in Lavapiés. Bit odd, doesn't talk much, but look at her station."
Cama looked. There was a line of people waiting—more than for any other barber.
"She's brought in half of Madrid's Afro-Spanish community," Sebastião continued. "And a bunch of football players from Atlético." He said this last part with mock disgust. "Competitors on our turf."
Cama laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Smart business move then."
"The smartest. Just... prepare yourself if you talk to her. She's... direct. Says whatever pops into her head. No filter whatsoever."
Cama's interest only grew. After years of people walking on eggshells around him, carefully measuring their words because of who he was, someone direct sounded refreshing. He'd grown up in a household where his parents never sugarcoated anything—maybe that's why he'd developed such a persistently positive outlook in the first place.
Sebastião was called away to handle something at the register, leaving Cama to observe Esperança more closely. Her outfit was unlike anything he'd seen in Madrid—oversized colorful layers that somehow worked perfectly together, platform boots despite the heat, and a tiny coquettish bow in her hair that contrasted with her otherwise edgy appearance. The combination of harajuku and street style with that single coquette touch was striking—it was like she'd invented her own fashion category.
And her face—she wore an expression of intense concentration that bordered on severity. If he hadn't been watching her for several minutes, he might have thought she was angry at her client. But there was something fascinating about someone so completely immersed in their craft, someone who clearly didn't care what anyone else thought of her.
That's what happens when you hang around footballers all day, he thought with amusement. Anyone with a different personality becomes instantly intriguing.
Curiosity piqued, Cama made his way toward her station, trying not to favor his good leg too obviously. He'd almost reached her when she turned suddenly, adjusting her glasses, and then—
"Shit!" She'd knocked a spray bottle off her station, and it rolled directly into Cama's path. He bent to pick it up, wincing again as his hamstring protested.
"Thanks," she said, her voice low, melodic, and accented, taking it from him without really looking up. Then, as an afterthought: "Your fade needs a touch-up. Two weeks growth, right? Take a seat if you want, I'm finishing up with Jorge."
Cama blinked in surprise. She didn't recognize him. In Madrid, that was rare enough to be refreshing. Either she truly didn't know who he was—highly unlikely given she worked in his brother's shop—or she simply didn't care. Both options were equally appealing to someone who'd been in the spotlight since he was sixteen.
"I—sure, thank you," he found himself saying, settling into the waiting chair beside her station. He watched as she finished Jorge's hair with meticulous attention to detail, chatting minimally but pleasantly. The way she worked reminded him of his own approach to judo—something else few people knew he practiced, a disciplined focus where nothing else mattered.
As Jorge paid and left with effusive thanks, Esperança finally turned her full attention to Cama. She squinted slightly before gesturing to the barber chair.
"Glasses or contacts? Your favorite?" she asked as he settled in.
"Glasses," he replied, removing them and setting them on her counter. The world immediately blurred around the edges.
"Same," she said, tapping her own frames. "Blind as a bat without them."
Cama grinned at that. Another thing they had in common. His teammates always teased him about how dorky he looked in his glasses, but he preferred them to contacts during his off time. There was something about the slight barrier they created between him and the world that he found comforting.
She draped the cape around him with practiced efficiency, then paused, her hands gently touching his micro dreads, assessing their health and the precision of the fade on his shaved sides. For the first time, she really looked at his face.
"Wait. You're not a regular."
Cama smiled, the warm, natural expression that had earned him countless endorsement deals and the affection of fans worldwide. "Not here, no. But I'm familiar with the establishment."
Something clicked behind her eyes. "You're... shit. You're Eduardo. The Eduardo Camavinga. The owner's brother." Her expression didn't change much, but a slight widening of her eyes betrayed her surprise.
The fact that she cursed so casually in front of him made his smile widen. Most people treated him like he was made of glass, especially women who recognized him. It was exhausting.
"Just Cama is fine," he offered, charmed by her reaction—or lack thereof.
"Huh," was all she said, before reaching for her clippers. "Your locs look good, but the fade needs touching up. Your barber in France doesn't quite get the texture right on the sides."
Straight to business, he thought with appreciation. No asking for a selfie, no subtle attempts to get his number, no questions about the team or his famous teammates.
And then, without waiting for a response, she switched on the clippers and got to work, her fingers occasionally brushing against his scalp as she navigated around his micro dreads with expert precision.
Cama found himself relaxing under her touch. There was something oddly comforting about being treated like any other client, about the confident way she tilted his head exactly where she needed it without excessive talking or fawning.
"Hamstring?" she asked abruptly, noticing him shift in the chair to find a more comfortable position.
"How did you—"
"You're favoring your right leg. Plus I saw the Croatia game. Or, well, saw you not in it. Deschamps looked pissed."
Cama laughed. "He always looks pissed."
"True." She worked in silence for a moment, then added, "My friend tore his hamstring playing football when we were kids. Recovery is a bitch."
Her bluntness was oddly comforting. No empty reassurances, no "You'll be back better than ever!" Just acknowledgment that recovery sucked, which was exactly what he needed to hear right now.
"It's getting there," Cama said, surprised to be discussing his injury so casually. "Team doctors say another week before full training." What he didn't add was how the forced rest was driving him crazy, how much he missed the daily rhythm of practice, the camaraderie, the purpose.
She nodded, focused on her work again. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, just calm. Different from the constant chatter he was used to.
"So," he ventured after a while, "how are you liking Camavinga House?"
"It's clean. Good equipment. Your brother doesn't micromanage. The clients are nice." She paused. "The music was terrible until I fixed it."
Cama burst out laughing, a genuine belly laugh that he couldn't contain. It felt good to laugh like that, without worrying about cameras or social media.
"Don't let Sebastião hear you say that."
"Already did. Yesterday. He said, and I quote, 'Your taste is bizarre but the clients seem into it, so whatever.'" She shrugged. "I took it as a compliment."
Cama stole a glance at her in the mirror. There was something fascinatingly contradictory about her—the stern expression alongside these flashes of unfiltered honesty, the precise technical skill with the spontaneous playlist that now featured some underground artist he couldn't identify. Most people he met were so one-dimensional, so easy to read, but she was...different.
Somehow, in that moment, with clippers buzzing and the frank way she spoke, Cama felt more at ease than he had in weeks. The constant pressure of recovery, of getting back to peak performance, of living up to everyone's expectations—it all receded slightly. There was just this moment, this conversation, this person who seemed to see him as just another guy who needed a haircut.
"You're good at this," he said simply.
"I know," she replied, without a trace of false modesty. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled—a quick, bright flash that transformed her severe expression completely. The change was so dramatic it almost startled him. It was like watching a cloudy day suddenly break into brilliant sunshine. "And you're good at sitting still. Most footballers fidget."
That made him laugh again. Most people praised him for his skill, his technique, his potential. No one had ever complimented him on sitting still before. He wondered what she was like outside of work—if she played chess or even knew how, if she had the same laser focus when watching football matches, if that smile made rare but regular appearances in her daily life.
As she finished up his fade, applying a light oil to his locs and adjusting a few of them to frame his face perfectly, Cama realized he was already thinking about when he could come back. For the haircut, of course. Nothing to do with the intriguing woman with the RBF and surprisingly gentle hands. Nothing at all to do with the way her playlist had somehow matched his exact mood, or how she talked about football like someone who actually understood the game, or how she'd made him laugh more in thirty minutes than he had in the past two weeks of rehab.
"All set," she said, handing him his glasses and spinning the chair so he could see the mirror. "Better than your French barber, right?"
Cama put his glasses back on and examined her work. It was perfect—exactly how he liked it, but somehow even better. The contrast between his shoulder-length locs and the clean fade on the sides was sharp and precise.
"Way better," he agreed, standing up carefully. "I think I've found my new regular."
She gave him that flash of a smile again. "Good, because your hair grows fast. Come back in two weeks." Then, almost as an afterthought: "And ice that hamstring. Twenty minutes on, twenty off. The team doctors probably told you that, but still."
Her matter-of-fact concern, devoid of the usual cloying sympathy he received, was oddly touching. She wasn't treating him like how everyone else did. She was treating him like any other athlete with an injury she knew something about.
As Cama paid (leaving a generous tip), he found himself already counting the days until his next haircut, his next conversation with Esperança. For the first time in months, something besides football had captured his full attention.
And for someone nicknamed "Cama Baby" because of his perpetual smile, that was saying something.
He wondered briefly if she knew about his other interests—the chess, the judo, his business ventures. Probably not, and that was refreshing too. A clean slate. Someone who might get to know the real Eduardo, not just the footballer, the investor, the public persona that had been carefully cultivated since he was a teenager.
As he pushed open the door to leave, he glanced back and caught her watching him go, that serious expression back in place as she prepared for her next client. But for just a moment, he thought he saw something curious in her gaze—like she was trying to figure him out, too.
His hamstring still ached, but somehow, it didn't seem to matter quite as much anymore.
______________________________________________
Cama laughed, dropping into the empty chair. "Physio says I can train tomorrow. Light session, but still."
"About time," Jude said, pushing a plate of chicken and vegetables toward Cama. "Team's not the same without you, bruv. Though Arda's been filling in decent."
"Decent?" Aurélien raised an eyebrow. "That's a lie though. He’s good but he isn’t Cama."
Jude's entire personality was like an exclamation point—loud, expressive, always moving. Even sitting down, he was in constant motion, gesturing with his fork, tapping his feet, his expressions changing rapidly. In contrast, Aurélien maintained a cool, composed exterior, his movements economical, his face rarely betraying emotion except for the occasional smirk or raised eyebrow. The contrast between them had fascinated Madrid fans from the beginning.
"How's Lila?" Cama asked Jude, digging into his food. He was always starving after physio.
Jude's face lit up at the mention of his girlfriend, Lewis Hamilton's sister. "She's amazing, mate. Coming to the match next weekend. Been busy with that new Versace campaign." He pulled out his phone, scrolling to a photo of them together at a recent Versace event. "Still can't believe she still puts up with me."
"None of us can," Aurélien deadpanned, but there was affection in his voice.
"And Zuri?" Cama turned to Aurélien, curious about his teammate's unconventional relationship situation.
Aurélien actually smiled—a rare sight. "She's good. She’s been busy too with going off to events and brand trips." Everyone in the team had knew the story—Aurélien's traditional family had essentially arranged his marriage to Zuri, the daughter of family friends. Against all odds, the arranged situation had blossomed into something real. "Having dinner with her tonight. She's baking dessert."
"Better than her last attempt?" Jude teased. "When she set off all them smoke alarms?"
"Watch it," Aurélien warned, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "She's taking lessons. And yeah, it's gonna be fire. Literally and figuratively."
Cama grinned at their banter. This was what he'd missed most during his injury—not just playing, but these moments with his teammates who'd become like brothers.
"What about you, lover boy?" Jude swiveled to Cama, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I see that fade. Looking extra fresh. Who you trying to impress?"
Cama felt an unexpected warmth creep into his cheeks. "Just went to the shop. They got a new barber."
Something in his tone must have given him away because Jude immediately leaned forward, all attention. "Oh yeah? New barber, huh? And?"
"And nothing," Cama said, focusing intently on his food. "She's good with hair."
"She?" Aurélien's eyebrows shot up, his cool exterior momentarily cracked. "Now we getting somewhere."
"Cama's got a crush on his barber!" Jude announced, loud enough that several teammates at nearby tables turned to look. "Look at his face! Man's blushing!"
"I am not," Cama protested, though he could feel his cheeks growing warmer. "She's just...different."
"Different how?" Aurélien asked, suddenly interested, setting his phone down.
Cama struggled to explain. "She didn't even really react when she recognized me. And she just...says whatever she's thinking. No filter. It's nice."
"Ah, the rare girl who doesn't care about the fame," Aurélien nodded sagely. "Those the dangerous ones, my guy."
"Proper fit though, innit?" Jude pressed, grinning like a shark that smelled blood. "Go on, you can tell us."
Cama hesitated. "She's...yeah. She's beautiful. But in this unconventional way. She's got this full sleeve tattoo, and piercings, and this style that's like street fashion mixed with something else I can't even describe. And she just has this focus when she works. Like nothing else exists."
"Mans is SMITTEN," Jude declared, slapping the table. "Listen to him! 'She has this focus,'" he mimicked in a dreamy voice. "Next you'll be writing poetry about her eyebrows or some shit."
"Shut up," Cama laughed, throwing a napkin at his friend.
"For real though," Aurélien said, leaning forward slightly, "you should ask her out."
"I just met her," Cama protested. "And she works for my brother."
"So? Your brother would be hyped if you found someone who wasn't just after your money and fame." Aurélien shrugged. "At least get her number when you go back for your next cut."
"I haven't even decided if I'm going back to her yet," Cama lied.
"Yeah, right," Jude scoffed. "That's why you got that dopey smile every time you mention her. You've probably already circled the date on your calendar, bruv."
Cama hadn't actually circled the date, but he had set a reminder on his phone, something he didn't feel the need to share with his already insufferable friends.
"Anyway," he said, desperate to change the subject, "tell me what I've missed. Tactical changes? Drills? Anything I need to know before tomorrow?"
"Ancelotti's been testing a new midfield formation," Aurélien said, mercifully allowing the subject change. "More fluid transitions. You'll see tomorrow."
"And you know how Vini's been a right pain in the arse without you to calm him down," Jude added. "Had a proper go at the ref last match. Nearly got himself suspended."
They fell into shop talk, discussing the team's performance and what Cama needed to prepare for. But every few minutes, Jude would waggle his eyebrows suggestively or make a scissors motion with his fingers, mouthing "barber girl" when Aurélien wasn't looking.
After lunch, as they headed toward the locker rooms, Aurélien fell into step beside Cama, letting Jude walk ahead with Vinicius who'd joined them.
"For real though," he said quietly, "I get it."
"Get what?" Cama asked.
"Meeting someone who sees past all this." He gestured vaguely at their surroundings—the state-of-the-art training facility, the luxury cars in the parking lot, the security guards. "That's rare. Zuri was like that. Looked at me like I was just some regular dude she was being forced to marry." A smile played at his lips. "It's why I fell for her. Well, that and she’s so sweet and amazing."
Cama laughed, remembering when he first met Zuri and how the two of them were now inseparable.
"I'm not saying I like her like that," Cama clarified. "I just met her. But yeah, it was... nice. To just be a guy getting a haircut."
Aurélien nodded, understanding without needing more explanation. "That barber shop chain of yours doing well?" he asked, changing topics seamlessly.
"Yeah, really well. Sebastião wants to open a fourth location soon, maybe in London. Jude's been pushing for Birmingham, but..." Cama grinned.
"Nobody want to go to Birmingham, man. Not even for a fresh cut." Aurélien shook his head, the hint of a smile playing at his lips. "London's smart though. Lot of high-profile potential clients."
They reached the locker room, where Jude was already engaged in what appeared to be an impromptu dance battle with Rodrygo, music blasting from a portable speaker.
"Look at this clown," Aurélien said fondly, watching Jude attempt some complicated move that resulted in him nearly falling into a locker.
"You love it really," Cama said.
"It's trash," Aurélien replied, but he was smiling now—an actual genuine smile. "But yeah, wouldn't trade these fools for anything."
Cama glanced around the locker room, watching with a smile on his face as his teammates danced and had a good time after another day of a good training.
Yeah, I wouldn’t trade this in for anything.
Outside, the evening air was cooling, the sky turning a deeper blue. Esperança put on her headphones—Mariah The Scientist's latest album, the music immediately creating a barrier between her and the crowded Madrid streets—and headed for the metro. Her mind slipped into its familiar evening routine, calculating timing and logistics. Thirty minutes on the metro. Five minute walk to Señora Vega's. Then the walk home with Luisa, who always moved at half the necessary speed, distracted by everything.
She'd need to throw together dinner, something quick but healthy. Then homework. Then Luisa's bath. Then maybe, if she was lucky, an hour to herself before sleep and doing it all again tomorrow. The mental load never ended, not since her mother had died three years ago from lung cancer, leaving Esperança, then just 21, with custody of her little sister.
Their fathers weren't in the picture—different men, both long gone. Her own had disappeared when she was four, her sister's had never been more than a brief presence in their mother's life. Sometimes Esperança felt like she'd been born responsible, born with this weight on her shoulders, though in reality it had developed gradually, taking care of her mother during the illness, then becoming Luisa's legal guardian afterward.
The metro was crowded, as always at this hour. Esperança kept her headphones on, her expression neutral, avoiding eye contact. People rarely bothered her, which suited her fine. The RBF, as her friends called it, was both a burden and a shield.
Her mind drifted to the footballer again. Eduardo Camavinga. His easy smile, the way he'd asked questions and actually seemed interested in her answers. The way he'd laughed without restraint when she'd mentioned fixing the shop's playlist. Most people found her too blunt, too intense, too "weird." Her lack of filter had cost her jobs before. But this one—this one she couldn't afford to lose.
Camavinga House was the best gig she'd ever landed. Good pay, flexible hours that allowed her to drop Luisa at school in the mornings, and a boss who didn't seem bothered by her directness. She'd bounced between barbershops for years, building a client base but always eventually running into issues with management who wanted her to be more "friendly," more "approachable." As if her skill with clippers and scissors wasn't enough.
But Sebastião had hired her based purely on her portfolio and a ten-minute cutting demonstration. "Your work speaks for itself," he'd said. "The rest is just noise."
She couldn't mess this up, not when it was finally providing some stability for her and Luisa. The apartment they shared in a working-class neighborhood wasn't fancy, but it was clean and safe, with two small bedrooms and big windows that let in plenty of light. Luisa deserved stability after all the upheaval of their mother's illness and death.
The metro announcement for her stop jerked her back to the present. She navigated through the crowd, emerged onto the street, and walked the familiar route to Señora Vega's building. The elderly neighbor had become a lifeline, watching Luisa after school for a modest fee. Without her, Esperança couldn't have managed the barbershop's hours.
"Espe!" Luisa's excited voice greeted her as soon as the door opened. Her sister barreled into her, all gangly limbs and boundless energy. At ten, Luisa was her opposite in many ways—outgoing, talkative, always moving, always expressing. Sometimes Esperança wondered how they could share the same DNA.
"Hola, mono," she said, giving Luisa a tight hug. "¿Cómo estuvo la escuela?" (Hey, monkey. How was school?)
"Muy bueno!" Luisa launched into a detailed account of her day, complete with dramatic reenactments, while Esperança exchanged glances with Señora Vega.
"Deberes?" she asked quietly. (Homework?)
"Matemáticas," the older woman replied. "Ella luchó un poco." (She struggled a bit.)
Esperança nodded, making a mental note to spend extra time on it tonight. Math had never been Luisa's strong suit, but she helped where she could. When the work became too advanced, they'd have to find a tutor, something that made her stomach clench with financial anxiety.
"Gracias," she said, handing over the weekly payment. "¿A la misma hora mañana?" (Same time tomorrow?)
"Por supuesto, querida. Ella es una delicia." Señora Vega smiled warmly at Luisa, who was now attempting to demonstrate some complicated playground game involving jumping and clapping.
The walk home took twice as long as it should have, with Luisa stopping to examine interesting rocks, point out dogs, and share more elaborate stories from her day. Esperança found herself constantly trying to hurry them along, then forcing herself to slow down, to be present. Her therapist—whom she saw monthly on a sliding scale fee—had emphasized the importance of this, of not letting the responsibility rob her of the joy of her sister.
"¿Podemos comer pasta esta noche?" Luisa asked, skipping alongside her. (Can we have pasta tonight?)
"Ayer comimos pasta," Esperança reminded her. "¿Qué tal arroz y frijoles con un poco de pollo?" (We had pasta last night. How about some rice and beans with chicken?)
Luisa made a face but didn't argue. She knew the financial constraints they operated under, even at her young age. Sometimes that awareness broke Esperança's heart—children should be children, not miniature adults worried about grocery budgets.
At their apartment, the evening routine unfolded: Luisa changed out of her school uniform while Esperança started dinner, then they sat at their small kitchen table, Luisa chattering between bites while Esperança helped with the math homework. After dinner, Luisa had her bath, and then they spent a precious half hour reading together, currently making their way through a fantasy novel that had Luisa completely enraptured.
"¿Solo un capítulo más?" Luisa pleaded when Esperança closed the book.
"Mañana," she promised, kissing her sister's forehead. "Ya ha pasado tu hora de dormir." (It’s already past your bedtime.)
Once Luisa was finally settled, Esperança retreated to the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The silence was sudden and complete. She closed her eyes, letting the day's social interactions fade away. Being "on" all day—with clients, with Sebastião, with Luisa's boundless energy—drained her in a way that physical work never could.
The diagnosis had come when she was twelve: high-functioning autism spectrum disorder. It had explained so much—her difficulty with social cues, her intense focus on specific interests, her sensory sensitivities, the way she'd always felt slightly out of step with the world around her. The lack of filter between her brain and mouth that had gotten her into trouble so many times.
But the diagnosis hadn't made life easier, just more understandable. She still had to mask her natural tendencies in most social situations, still had to work twice as hard to interpret what others found intuitive. Most days she managed. Some days she didn't. But since becoming Luisa's guardian, failure wasn't an option.
She pulled out her phone, checking the calendar for tomorrow. Work from 10 to 6. Luisa had a school field trip, which meant picking her up from a different location. She'd need to leave work by 5:30 at the latest to make it. Sebastião was usually understanding about these things, but she hated asking for special treatment.
Her thoughts drifted again to Eduardo Camavinga. There had been something different about him, something that had made their interaction less exhausting than most. He hadn't seemed bothered by her direct manner, hadn't pushed for unnecessary small talk, had actually laughed at her bluntness rather than being offended.
And he'd noticed her playlist change immediately. Most people failed to notice things like that—the details that stood out so glaringly to her. His observation skills were surprisingly sharp for a celebrity. She'd expected someone more... self-absorbed.
Plus, she'd had to admit, he was attractive in a warm, genuine way. Those smiling eyes behind his glasses had caught her off guard. And his locs had been perfectly maintained, showing he actually cared about his appearance beyond just the performative aspect of being a public figure.
"Stop it," she muttered to herself in English, standing up abruptly. Thinking about a client this way was unprofessional, especially one connected to her boss. And besides, men like Eduardo Camavinga didn't date women like her—single mother figures with severe RBF, unconventional style, and a tendency to say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.
She headed to the bathroom to wash her face and prepare for bed. In the mirror, she examined her reflection critically. The double nose piercing that had scandalized her mother but that she'd gotten anyway at eighteen. The small gauges in her ears. The sleeve tattoo that had taken years to complete, a visual narrative of her Angolan and Spanish heritage intertwined.
Her appearance had always been the one area where she felt completely confident, where she could express herself without words. The avant-garde clothes that mixed streetwear with harajuku influences, the occasional coquette accessories that seemed to surprise people—they were all deliberate choices, her visual language in a world where verbal communication often failed her.
But these same choices made her an outsider in many spaces. She'd been turned away from job interviews before the interviewer had even spoken to her, judged solely on her appearance. The barbering world had been more accepting, but even there, she'd encountered pushback. Too edgy. Too alternative. Too much.
"At least I'm not boring," she told her reflection, a phrase her mother used to say when others criticized their family's unconventional choices.
Her phone buzzed with a message: her kickboxing instructor confirming tomorrow's session had been moved earlier. Another scheduling puzzle to solve. She'd have to skip lunch at work to make it happen, but the physical outlet was necessary for her mental health. The rhythmic patterns of training, the pure physical exertion—it cleared her mind in a way nothing else could.
She set her alarm for 6 AM, giving herself time for a run before Luisa woke up. Every minute of her day was accounted for, optimized, a careful balancing act that left little room for error or spontaneity.
As she climbed into bed, she allowed herself one more thought about Eduardo Camavinga. About how his eyes had crinkled when he laughed. About how he hadn't tried to fill the comfortable silences with pointless chatter. About how he'd noticed an attention to detail she rarely encountered.
"Two weeks," she murmured, remembering what she'd told him about coming back for another cut. The timeline made sense for his hair growth, but part of her wondered if he actually would return. Celebrities were notoriously fickle, and there were plenty of high-end barbers in Madrid who would gladly clear their schedules for a Real Madrid star.
Well, if he did return, she'd give him another perfect fade. And that would be that. No point fantasizing about anything else. She had enough on her plate without adding impossible daydreams.
With that thought firmly in place, Esperança set her phone aside and closed her eyes, letting the day's accumulated tension slowly release. Tomorrow would be another carefully choreographed day of responsibilities, another test of her endurance and resourcefulness. Another day of making it work, because she had to.
For Luisa. For herself. For the promise she'd made to her mother in those final days.
I'm doing it, Mamá, she thought as sleep began to claim her. It's hard, but I'm doing it.