Chapter 6 Luca
Luca
She pulls her coat tighter around her frame as we step out into the cool night air.
Unable to stop myself, I place a hand in the center of her back, leaning closer. “Freddo?”
“I’m fine. It’s just…chillier than I realized.” We fall into step with each other. She studies me from the corner of her eye before tapping my abdomen with the back of her hand. “You worry too much.”
“You sound like Bianca.”
She bites her bottom lip, ducking her head.
I note the way her cheeks heat and I want to reach for her.
Instead, I shrug it off and we walk in silence for a few minutes.
It’s not late and the city streets are still alive with clusters of people congregating on the corners to watch the fallas being constructed.
Above us, decorative lights stretch across the width of the street, adding a festive vibe to the start of March.
“It’s gonna be a long month,” I comment.
Carla snorts and pokes her finger in my side. I squirm, reaching out to grasp her finger.
She laughs. “Don’t tell me you don’t like firecrackers.”
“They’re constant for nearly three weeks.”
“Vale, abuelo,” she jokes, calling me grandpa.
“I’m not that old.”
She rolls her eyes, amusement flaring in their depths. I like this version of her—teasing and playful. It reminds me of the version I witnessed on the soccer pitch. Confident, engaging, alive.
As we near the end of the street, I flip my chin to the dessert truck set up on the closed-off street.
“Do you want some churros con chocolate?” I ask.
Carla glances up, incredulous. “After all the desserts we just ate?”
I shrug.
She grins cheekily. “You’re a bad influence, DiBlanco. Who would have thought?”
I snicker, holding up a hand in defense. “I’m just asking.”
Her expression softens as she shakes her head.
“I’m okay. But thank you.” Then, she notices the falla in the center of the street.
Gasping, she quickens her pace to reach it.
It’s still a work in progress, cordoned off by barriers, as a portion of the papier-maché structure is added day by day until the falla is complete.
“This is going to be huge,” Carla muses, tucking her lips between her teeth as she slowly walks around the brightly colored sculpture, dissecting it. “What do you think it is?”
“Definitely satire,” I comment, looking up at the outline of an hourglass.
“These are small phones.” Carla points as she leans closer to study the contents of the hourglass.
“And people,” I add, stepping beside her.
The hourglass is a massive, brightly colored structure.
It isn’t completed yet but it’s obvious that the bottom of the hourglass is filled with mobile phones and tablets.
And figures of people sit, staring at their devices instead of each other.
The only communication is through a screen, not a conversation.
“Time is passing them by,” Carla breathes. “And they’re wasting it.”
“Missing the moments,” I murmur. Gesturing between two hunched figures, I say, “Our connections are increasingly artificial now.”
Carla looks up at me, her blue-green eyes darker. She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you ever feel like that? Like you’re missing the moments?”
At the pain underlining her words, I pause. Think about what she’s really asking me. Am I missing the moments? “Sometimes,” I admit. “Not because of my dependence on technology but because of my own choices—responsibilities and obligations.”
“Taking care of everyone around you,” she muses, echoing my sister’s recent assessment.
“I did what I had to do.”
Surprise flares in her eyes. “I didn’t mean that as a judgement.”
“I know. I’m…being defensive. B’s been on me to…well, to get a life.”
Carla cracks a smile. “Little sisters can be meddlesome.”
“The worst. She’s threatening to create dating profiles for me.”
Carla’s eyebrows rise, nearly into her hairline, before dropping back down. Something I can’t read shutters over her expression and she averts her gaze. “Is that what you want? To date a stranger?”
I fold my arms across my chest, turning my attention back to the falla. “Well, I can’t exactly date any of the women I know since they’re mostly dating my friends so…I imagine a stranger is best. Although I’d rather meet her naturally. Like through a friend or at a bar, like how Ale met Mar.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you identify with this?” I point at the falla.
“Sometimes,” she says slowly. “I’ve definitely missed the moments. Soccer, the Tornadoes, was my whole life. My whole identity. Now…” She trails off.
“Now, what?”
“It feels like everyone I know has moved forward in their lives. Weddings and babies and big milestones.” She half shrugs.
“And I’m just here.” She glances at me. “Alejandro would say I’m being dramatic, but I feel depleted.
Just…going through the motions. I didn’t realize that entire portions of my life are missing.
But at the same time, I miss soccer and being part of a team. ”
I’m taken aback by her honesty. The Carla García I remember is a ballbuster. She’s brash and outgoing and shimmering with vitality. I hate seeing her look forlorn, hearing her sound dejected.
And yet, a part of me recognizes that she’s confiding in me when she normally doesn’t let her guard down. Ooh, she’s friendly and inviting, but not with her inner thoughts or feelings. There’s always been a wall protecting those.
“You’re not being dramatic.”
She gives me a soft smile. “You’re a good big brother, Luca.”
“I’m not saying it as a big brother,” I assure her. “You’ve suffered a huge career setback.”
“Thanks.”
I huff out a snort. “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, cucciola. I’m just calling it like I see it.”
She waves a hand, giving me permission to continue.
“Losing your spot with your team is devastating. You lived in the States for years. You solidified your reputation with your squad. Your life was built around it. That’s normal. Hell, I feel that way here. But that’s not the reason why you haven’t found a partner or settled down romantically.”
“It’s not?” she widens her eyes, silently calling me out for my lack of a romantic commitment.
“No.” I shake my head. “I know you dated and had a life. The last guy, if I remember correctly, was German.”
“There were a handful of dates after Jonas Schmidt,” she murmurs. “Nothing serious though.”
Surprise slams into me and I gape at her. “Jonas Schmidt…the fútbol player?” Schmidt is a powerhouse of a player, having won a handful of national titles, before finishing his career in the Premier League. He’s also a serial dater with a lavish lifestyle, and more than a decade older than Carla.
She shrugs. “He didn’t like pretzels. Can you believe that?”
“He’s…forty.”
“Thirty-eight. And should you really be throwing stones at a glass house?”
I shake my head, rattled by her dating Schmidt. And, if I recall correctly, there was also a doctor in New York, an entrepreneur from London, and a real estate mogul in Tulum. But they were always mentioned in passing, as ellipsis in Carla’s life instead of exclamation points.
I glance at her as she takes another turn around the falla. In my mind, she’s still the kid I watched grow up. But she’s all grown up now. She’s a woman who dates and puts herself out there and makes mistakes. She’s a woman who truly lives life.
Like Bianca.
And it’s my fault for not recognizing it sooner.
“Were pretzels the deal-breaker?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
Carla grins, the slightest shadow of a dimple appearing in her cheek. “Basically.” She laughs. “But Jonas wasn’t as bad as one guy I dated in college. He didn’t like puppies…” She wrinkles her nose. “That was a one and done.”
Sighing, I toss an arm around her shoulder when she reaches my side.
We continue our walk to her home. “You haven’t fallen behind,” I say, returning to our earlier conversation.
“Fútbol is not your entire identity. You don’t have to make it your whole personality, Carla.
You have so much to offer outside of the game. ”
“Do I?” Her voice is smaller than it should be.
“Yes. It’s only been two months. And it’s tough when it seems like everyone around you is moving forward while you feel stuck.”
“I’m happy for my friends. For Ale and Marlowe.”
I hug her closer. “I know. You can be happy, ecstatic even, for the ones you love and feel a little bit sorry for yourself at the same time. Trust me.”
She tilts her head back. “Trust you?”
I nod, staring into her bottomless eyes.
“I do,” she admits softly. She licks her bottom lip and my eyes drop to her mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss her pillowy soft lips. To taste them. “That’s why I’m going to apply for the coaching position at Santa Isabel.”
I force my gaze back to hers, relief flooding my chest. “I was hoping you would bring that up.”
“Thanks for passing along the information.”
“I meant it when I said I’d help you, Carla.”
She nods, her expression thoughtful. “Do you think I have a real shot for the job? It feels like…I don’t know, am I posturing? Like, here I am, about to teach girls how to play when I’m not even on a team?”
I shake my head, chuckling. “Honestly? You’re overqualified for the position. Stop selling yourself short. Those girls will be lucky to have you.”
She wrinkles her nose.
“Trust me, Carla, girls need a coach like you. Someone with your skills and experience, but also someone who can relate to them. Besides, isn’t empowering girls in sports your thing?”
“Yes. It is.”
“Apply for the position. You’ll have it by the end of the week.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “I’ll send in my CV tomorrow.” We turn a corner and she looks up at me, bumping her shoulder against my arm. “Thank you. Again. Every time we’re together lately, I make a fool of myself.”
“Nah.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“You can always be yourself around me. I like getting to know the real you. Just don’t cut me off at the knees because I like cats or dip my fries in mayonnaise instead of ketchup.”
Her mouth drops open in horror.
“Carla!”
She snickers. “Kidding. I’d never cut you off, DiBlanco.”
“Good.”
“But will I get to know the real you?” she questions, stopping in front of a light blue building.
I stare at her, noting the curiosity and hope flickering in the cool pools of her eyes.
In many ways, we’re similar. We’re affable and easy to talk to.
We can engage strangers and make them feel like friends.
But when it comes to our true feelings, we’re closed off, concealing our truths under layers of bright smiles and quips.
Carla’s comebacks just tend to be more sarcastic and off-the-cuff than mine.
The air tightens around us, the quiet of the night seeping through my skin. Strands of her hair frame her face. Her eyes never waver from mine. Her lips are pursed, as if in thought.
Reaching up, I brush my fingertips across her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat as she leans, imperceptibly so, into my touch.
“Hope so, cucciola.” The words come out huskier than I intended but fuck if she isn’t affecting me. On levels I don’t want to admit. In ways I shouldn’t fucking feel. Not with her.
Slowly, she lifts onto her toes. Her hands hook over my shoulders and she uses my height for leverage as she presses a kiss to each of my cheeks.
But the movement is intentional and sends a rush of heat through my blood.
“I’m here for you too, Luca.” She lingers, her lips practically ghosting mine.
“I always have been.” She drops back to her feet and gives me a smile that could light up the night sky. “Buenas noches.”
“Buona notte.” I wait as she slips into her apartment building.
Right before she enters the elevator to ride up to her flat, she turns and gives me a little wave.
And the simple sweetness of it slams into me.
My phone beeps with an incoming message.
Ale
Thanks for making sure Carla got home safe.
Luca
Anytime. You know that. Hope Marlowe feels better, and thanks for dinner.
I’m about to slip my phone into my pocket when it beeps again.
I swipe open on the incoming email and swear as I scan its contents. Paolo, my main point of contact for my youth summer camp in Tuscany, is bailing. It’s a family emergency—his father is ill—which I obviously understand.
But I can’t run the camp alone. Logistically, it would be a nightmare. But even during the two weeks of camp, I need someone with expertise to help organize, train, and motivate the players. Paolo is a difficult person to replace.
On the third floor of the building, a light flickers on.
Carla’s silhouette appears through the window and I suck in a breath.
No. I can’t ask Carla. She’s…too fucking perfect for the position. That’s what she is. But I can’t spend two weeks living in the same rustic farmhouse in Tuscany with her and not slip up. It would be too dangerous, too tempting, to make a mistake I’d never forgive myself for.
Turning away from the apartment building, I head to my flat, grab my jacket and helmet, and go for a long motorcycle ride.
But even the open road, the speed, and release can’t block out the mental images I have of laying Carla—blonde hair fanning out on my pillow, eyes wide and wanting—out on my bed and making her mine.