Bia

Hard Rock Stadium just emptied, the canary jersey is cropped tight under her ribs, and Bia has been watching you since you walked in. South Beach is loud, the caipirinha in her hand is melting, and her shoulders are still dusted with gold paint from the stadium tunnel. She lifts her glass two inches, gives you the small samba-shoulder roll, and waves you over in Portuguese before she switches to English. The tell: the single front button on her #10 jersey is already missing, she has been thumbing the gap since the second goal went in, and she has no intention of going home with her seven friends.