Roatan Plunge | Love Travels #2

Four - Óscar

Being back in Honduras is comforting and exhausting all at once. The burger from Corona Cabana drips deliciously down my fingers, sauce exploding out the back just like it always has. It is the most stable thing in my life. I'm aware that is pathetic.

I'm so very aware.

But try telling that to anyone else. I'm Óscar Calderón, the highest paid fútbol star the league has ever seen. The shining golden boy of Honduras. And believe me, I know I have more than I could ever repay, and I remember what it was like to not know where my next meal was coming from. But being ridiculously wealthy, as Marcia puts it, is not all that's important in life. And while I'm grateful for the opportunity to give back to my family and my country who so desperately need it, I sometimes wonder if I've given up more than I really know.

But what's done is done. And we are all handed our lot in life, so all we can do is make the best of what we're given. And for me, that is keeping in shape, staying out of trouble, and continuing to score goals well into my old age.

"¿En serio? A hamburger?" Marcia says when she arrives for our meeting. "I leave you alone for ONE sponsorship deal meeting and find you disrespecting your meal plan. No," she says before I can interrupt her, "not just disrespecting, outright offending. This is just. How many times do I have to tell you vegetables are not optional?"

I point at the small piece of lettuce poking out of the burger and, as I hoped, her eyes roll so far back in her head her eyes go white.

"You want to share the fries?" I ask, earning myself a scathing glare from my cousin. "If it will make you feel better, I will point out that I had Julio check out and approve all plans for eating out and activities to ensure I was neither breaking my contract nor doing anything that would reduce the longevity of my career. Your job is safe. No te preocupes."

"Fine. I'm appeased. Now, hand over the fries I was promised and let's get into it."

The burger gives me a reason not to respond to her long monologue about the potential sponsorship with Xabal, but maybe halfway through her explanation of legal negotiations and contract loopholes they were trying to shore up, I'd completely zoned out, eyes floating out over the turquoise waters as the sun's descending rays peek through the open air under the roof of the dock bar at Sunset Bay Resort & Spa.

A group of women in oversized hats and sunglasses bursts through the door, one of whom is dressed in an obnoxious tiara and a sash with "bachelorette" written on it. The blonde bounces over to the DJ, a man I recall from my trips in high school, and soon the opening notes to "Culpa al Corazón" play through the speakers. All the women sit down at the bar and order shots.

The amount of liquor they've ordered is more than enough for the three of them, but once the obnoxious song choice is over, they blend into the background at the bar.

With my burger now complete, all I want is to sink into the chair and relax, but all I get to do is listen to Marcia ask me question after question about my commitments, my priorities, and my willingness to agree to contract terms.

I answer her questions—a lot, it's complicated, and no way—and earn several nasty looks and three threats to call my mother. The last one comes after she asks me if I'm willing to do an underwear photoshoot.

"Marcia, you know I draw the line at shirtless. Bien sabes. Why are you suddenly pitching things you know I'm going to reject just so you can threaten to call my mother?"

She shifts in her seat and stares at her phone.

"Marcia, what aren't you telling me?"

"Look, we don't want to worry you because nothing's happened yet but... You know how old you are. One day you won't be making this kind of money and you won't be coveted by every team, inciting bidding wars over your salary. It's not far off, Óscar. And we need to consider what you're going to do when that happens. ¿Me explico?"