Chapter 7 Carla
Carla
I press send on the email to the athletic director of Santa Isabel and blow out a breath, leaning back on my sofa and placing my laptop beside me.
Picking up my phone, I send a message to Luca.
Carla
I sent the application and my CV.
He replies immediately and I roll my eyes at his ribbing.
Luca
With your talent, they would be crazy to turn you down.
Carla
Don’t jinx me, DiBlanco.
Luca
Relax. That job is yours.
“From your lips to God’s ears, Luca,” I mutter to myself.
This coaching opportunity feels bigger than it is in my current emotional state. The thought of being rejected, again, fills me with dread and anxiety. I need the direction, the commitment, as much as the girls need a coach who will put them first.
Besides, as Papá pointed out—again—if I want a shot at a club team in Spain, I need to get my ass in shape.
No more wallowing around, directionless.
It’s time to restart chasing my dream. Coaching the girls’ team would put me back in the headspace to train hard, manage my nutrition, and work on my game.
In fact, it’s something I want to float by El Tanque and Risitas. I know they’ll push me to hone my skills and sharpen my play in case I’m invited to train with a club or the national team.
I’m not holding my breath…but fuck if I’m not hopeful and praying for a miracle. International breaks occur at the end of the month so there’s a small chance I could be invited as early as this month or April. If that happens, I need to be fully prepared to take my shot.
Changing into leggings and a T-shirt, I head to the gym.
Over the next few days, I dive back into my old routine—training, running drills, eating clean. I run in the early mornings, force myself to sleep early, and substitute my wine for water.
At the end of the week, an email from the concertado, Santa Isabel’s semi-private school classification, hits my inbox, inviting me to come in for an informal interview. And my world opens up again.
I vow to secure the coaching position. I’m ready to prove to myself that I haven’t peaked at twenty-five. I’m not washed up. Instead, I’m ready for my second act.
“We’re celebrating, Joe!” Ale announces as he slides onto a barstool at Corcho.
“Congrats on the win, Ale,” Joe replies, grabbing two pint glasses. “That was some bicycle kick.”
“Thanks, man. But we’re celebrating something else,” my brother replies, winking at me.
“Oh? Is Marlowe pregnant?” Joe asks, dropping his elbows to the bar top and assuming a very chatty stance.
Ale drops his head, chuckling. “Who told you?”
“Er, sorry,” I murmur as Joe points at me. I give him the stink eye. “You didn’t have to call me out!”
“But it’s so easy,” he whines. “Besides, without Bianca here…I’m bored.” He points to someone behind me. “Don’t tell her I said that; I’ll deny it.”
I swivel on my barstool as Luca steps in front of me. My throat dries. He looks…delicious. Dark eyes, chiseled jaw, full lips. His curly hair has been buzzed short, making him look…mature and sophisticated.
My stomach twists, and I cross one leg over the other. “DiBlanco.”
He grins slowly and I nearly avert my gaze. “Cucciola.”
Ale snorts and slaps his friend on the back. “We’ll take three shots of tequila, Joe. My sister just became the head coach for Santa Isabel’s juvenil feminino.” He mentions the sixteen- to eighteen-year-old girls’ squad that represents the concertado.
“Ayyy.” Joe grins, congratulating me. “?Ola tú, Carla! Enhorabuena.”
“Gracias,” I say, blushing. Turning toward Ale, I ask, “You sure you want to drink with Marlowe feeling so poorly?”
“She practically pushed me out of the flat. Said she needed space without me hovering over her,” Ale replies, shrugging.
Luca and I exchange a look and a quiet laugh.
Luca slips onto the barstool on my other side, sandwiching me between him and my brother. “I knew you’d get the job.”
“The interview was hardly an interview,” I admit. “It was more of a chat, an opportunity to discuss pay and the team’s schedule.”
“I figured as much,” Luca replies. “Hey, Joe, can I get a beer as well?”
“Sure thing, man,” Joe replies, filling a pint glass with a draft of Turia, a local amber beer.
“How’s the team?” Ale asks from my other side.
I scoot my barstool back so I can include them both in the conversation.
“Pretty good,” I admit. “The program is solid, having made it to playoffs the last two years. I think they have a shot at winning the regional league championship this year. Two of the girls—Anna and Julieta—are powerhouses who have the potential to play professionally. I only met them briefly but…” I grin at my brother and Luca.
“I’m really excited. It feels good to be invested in something again. ”
“Happy for you, Carlita.” Ale bumps his shoulder against mine and passes me a shot of tequila.
“A te, campionessa,” Luca says, lifting his shot glass. To you, champion.
I beam, clinking my glass against theirs, and toss the shot back. The tequila burns my throat, but I smack my lips together, relishing the chance to celebrate.
“You guys are already making me cheat,” I say.
Ale lifts an eyebrow, questioning me.
“I gave up drinking,” I explain.
Ale scoffs. “Since when?”
“She’s a coach now. She’s gotta set an example,” Luca says.
“True,” I agree. “And I’m back in training.”
Ale arches an eyebrow. “You want to play for a club here?”
“Yes,” I admit, lowering my voice. “Maybe the national team.”
Surprise crosses my brother’s face. Pure admiration bleeds from Luca’s eyes. I take a breath before sipping my beer.
Now that I’ve admitted it aloud, it doesn’t sound as delusional as I feared. Why shouldn’t I take my shot? Why shouldn’t I give it my all?
“I need to train,” I admit. “I’ve taken a lot of time off, slacking.” I bite the corner of my mouth. “But I want to go all in.”
“I’ll train you,” Luca offers.
Ale shakes his head. “No way, Carlita. He looks all nice and dad-like—”
“I’m not that old,” Luca interjects.
“It has nothing to do with age, tío,” Ale refutes. “It has to do with characteristics.” Ale turns to me. “But he’s a tough fucking coach. He’ll have you up at the crack of dawn running and spending your weekends, your days off, doing yoga. You’ll start sleeping with your foam roller.”
I snicker.
“I’m serious,” Ale continues. “I attended his summer camp three years ago. It was brutal.”
“Two of those boys just made Italy’s U-19 team,” Luca adds, cracking his knuckles. “I produce champions. You in, cucciola?”
My heart rate ticks up at the carrot he dangles. But…is he serious?
“If we do this, no pet names,” I reply, swiveling toward him.
“If we do this,” Luca counters, “you show up. No excuses. Rain or shine.”
I glance at my brother. “You’re right; he does sound like Papá.”
Ale barks out a laugh. Luca, not impressed, clucks his tongue.
“Fine,” I agree. “But no pulling big-brother power moves on the field.”
“The pitch,” Ale corrects me.
“Remember, you’re a coach, not a tyrant,” I tell Luca.
“Alright. But I don’t want to hear ‘I know’ every time I correct you,” Luca shoots back.
“But what if I do know?” I arch an eyebrow.
Alejandro laughs again. “This is too good. Joe, you hear them? Luca wants to coach Carla.”
Joe howls. “It’ll be a bloodbath.”
“Who are you putting your money on?” Ale asks.
“Carla,” they say in unison.
I beam; Luca scowls.
“Recovery matters,” Luca continues. “Your sleep, nutrition, and stretching are nonnegotiable. No injuries, cucciola.”
“No pet names,” I remind him.
“I’m not agreeing to that,” he says bluntly.
“Fine, but then, I pick our workout playlists. And no whining if it’s reggaeton.”
“I like reggaeton,” he murmurs.
“No, you don’t,” Ale cuts in, shaking his head.
“To recap…” Luca ignores him. “You show up, check your ego, and prioritize your health.”
“And you treat me like an equal, let me pick the music, and try to keep your cutesy pet names to yourself,” I toss back.
Luca grins and holds out his hand. “Deal.”
I place my palm in his, ignoring the thrill that dances up my spine when he wraps his fingers around mine.
Secretly, I love the idea of spending more time with Luca.
Of having someone with his level of experience training me.
He’ll be a lot more effective of a coach than El Tanque or Risitas and I’m fortunate he offered. “Deal.”
“And I’m now taking bets,” my brother calls out.
I elbow him in the ribs and take a sip of my beer. I savor it, knowing it’s the last one I’ll have in a while.
“We start tomorrow.” Luca leans into my side, his voice low. “Seven a.m.”
“Seven?” I gasp.
Alejandro chuckles, his dimple deepening. “It’s like watching reality TV.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “This is nothing like Las Islas.”
My brother’s face pales and he gives me a strange look. “Of course not. The two of you…” He shakes his head, gesturing between us. “I only meant it’s a train wreck waiting to happen…”