Chapter 8 Luca
Luca
“How was your first week, cucciola?” I call out as Carla crosses the pitch to meet me.
She points a finger at me. “No pet names.”
“Rightttt,” I draw out, putting my hands up in a defensive position. “How was your week?”
She grins. “It was…interesting.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Interesting good…or interesting bad?”
“Good, mostly.” She reaches my side and drops her training bag on the bench next to mine. Sitting down, she digs into her bag and tugs out her boots. “The boys’ coach is an ass.”
I frown. For her to admit that means they’ve already had exchanges that left a bad taste in her mouth. “Is he going to be a problem?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” She slips her foot into her boot and tugs on the laces.
My jaw tightens. That means yes. As much as I admire her confidence, hell, I’m attracted to it, I don’t like the thought of some wannabe futbolista giving her a hard time.
“But the girls are awesome,” she continues.
“You know, I forgot what it’s like to be sixteen, seventeen, years old, but after a few days with them, it all came back.
The friendships, the relationship drama, the wanting to prove myself and feel good enough…
” Carla trails off as she finishes double knotting her boots.
“They’re already a cohesive group. Loads of team morale; they’re big on respect.
” Carla looks up at me, her eyes softening.
“And they’ve gone out of their way to make sure I feel welcomed. I’m glad you got me to apply.”
“I’m happy for you,” I tell her, tying my boots. “Next up, national team.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, DiBlanco.”
“I’m not. If you want it, it’s yours.” I swipe a ball. “We just gotta train for it. You ready?”
She backpedals onto the pitch. “Give me your best.”
Over the next two hours, I run Carla through drills. We do sprint intervals and run through passing patterns.
“Vale, listen up,” I say, taking a swig of water. “That was good. Good work, hard effort.” I raise my hand and she high-fives me. “But I want to close out with some body positioning.”
“I know how to—”
“You’re fast, but you’re small,” I cut her off.
Her jaw tightens and she crosses her arms over her chest, her frustration flaring to life. But my job is to make her a better player and that’s what I’m going to do.
“Don’t get pissed off,” I remind her. “I want to help you. To better shield that ball, you gotta get lower. Defend, Carla.” I bend my knees, splaying my frame wide to take up more space. “I want you to mirror my movements.”
When she moves the ball, I shake my head. “No ball. Just me and you.”
She scoffs.
“Get lower.”
She bends her knees, facing off opposite me. We move laterally, performing a series of small shuffles.
“Square your chest.”
She repositions her shoulders.
“Good. How’s that feel?”
Carla stares at me. For a beat, I think she’s going to tell me off. But then, she nods and reluctantly admits, “I notice the difference.”
“Okay, two more shuffles.” We work through the drill.
“This time,” I say, gathering the ball, “we’ll shield with the ball. I’m the defender, you’re the attacker. Come and get it.”
She huffs and I smirk.
I crouch lower, throwing out my arms to hold her back. “Use your whole body to get it. Your hips, your shoulders, everything you got.”
She tries her best, catching me off guard a few times. But I’ve been doing this longer, not to mention I’m much bigger.
“You hold your own,” I say encouragingly, stopping the play to give her a pointer. “Square your hips.” I grasp one of her hips, flexing it slightly to reposition her. My frame shadows her back as I lean closer, tapping the inside of one of her knees. She shifts her leg slightly.
“That’s it,” I murmur.
Carla sucks in a breath.
“Does it hurt?”
Carla shakes her head, glancing at me through loose strands of hair. Sweat beads along her forehead, her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are parted.
Her lips. I avert my gaze, hating how blatantly I’m checking her out. My hands are still on her body and my fingers tighten on her hip. I rest my other hand in the center of her back, forcing myself to step away. “Let’s run it again.”
“Okay, sure,” Carla pants.
I set up. “Vamos.”
This time, she uses her body smarter, getting in my space to steal the ball. When she does it successfully, a genuine smile crosses her lips before it slips. “You didn’t let me take it, did you?”
“Carla, as much as I like you, I always play to win. Remember that.”
She grins.
“Come on, that’s enough for today.” I toss an arm around her neck as we walk back toward the bench.
“You smell,” she tells me, nudging my arm off her shoulder.
“Delicious,” I tack on, wagging my eyebrows. “I know.”
She wrinkles her nose, rolling her eyes. “Hit the showers, DiBlanco.”
Only if you come with me. The words run through my mind and I thank the fucking saints above that I didn’t mutter them aloud. “Right after I walk you home,” I say instead.
“You don’t—”
I hold up my hand, cutting her off. “We’ll make a training plan for this week. I need to know when your team has games and also, I’m in Sevilla this weekend.”
“Right,” Carla says, unlacing her boots. “That’s a good idea.”
I don’t admit that I already downloaded Santa Isabel’s game schedule.
I don’t admit that I just want to spend more time in her presence, soaking up moments together.
Instead, I keep my mouth shut, shoulder her practice bag, and fall into step as Carla fills me in on the little details about her day, her new job, her life.
Over the next two weeks, Carla and I fall into a seamless routine. My life revolves around my one true passion—fútbol. I train with my team, I dial in my nutrition, I spend hours stretching and conditioning.
Fallas celebrations come and go and still, Carla and I train. Desperate to help her believe in herself again, I throw myself into training her to maximize her potential. Which, from where I’m standing, is endless.
It’s partly why I ride her as hard as I do.
But at the start of our fourth week working together, exhaustion creeps in.
League Valencia suffered a loss against Barcelona.
It was a tough defeat as we were playing a solid game up until the last three minutes when things went to shit.
We ended up losing by two and team morale took a hit.
The bus ride back to Valencia was long and heavy with silent anger and disappointment.
When I make it home, all I want to do is collapse onto my bed and pass out. But it’s still too early so I call Bianca to check in, take a shower, and drop onto the couch to watch some mindless television.
I must drift off to sleep because the next thing I know, the ringing of my cell phone is cutting through the air. I wake up in a panic, momentarily reliving the nights when I slept with my phone next to my pillow, worried Bianca would call to tell me that Mamma’s health took a turn.
That same sheen of anxiety clings to my skin, intensifying when I note the name of the hospital on my caller ID.
“Hola.”
“Buenas,” a woman says, her Spanish clipped. “Is this Luca DiBlanco?”
“Yes.”
She sighs. “I’m calling on behalf of álvaro Gomez. He took a fall earlier this evening and shattered his hip and pelvis. You’re his emergency contact.”
I tip my head back and silently swear, wondering how long álvaro was alone before someone called an ambulance. How long has he been in the hospital before they called me?
“I’ll be right there,” I say, scrambling to jot down the relevant information she shares.
My skin is still coated in a sticky sheen from the panic of waking up disoriented.
I quickly brush my teeth, wash my face, and pull myself together.
Then, I jam my feet into sneakers, grab my wallet and keys… and my helmet catches my eye.
With nerves still ping-ponging through my body, the open road, empty at this hour, beckons. I reach for my helmet and ride to the hospital.
The clarity and relief I felt on my motorcycle dissipates the moment I enter the hospital. The sterile environment wraps around me, causing my mind to time travel.
Spoon-feeding Papa in his final weeks, his frail hand wrapped around the side rail of his hospital bed. His bony fingers trembled, the back of his hand bruised from so many blood withdrawals.
Dotting Mamma’s hairline with a cool compress in a New York hospital. Her hair was gone, her lips cracked and parched.
The helplessness of those experiences slam into me, causing me to sag against the wall of a hallway and suck in ragged breaths.
álvaro is going to be fine. He’s going to leave this hospital and make a full recovery. I’ll make sure he has everything he needs—the care, the support, the financial means to retire, the way he should have years ago.
Sighing, I tuck my helmet under my arm and approach his hospital room.
I knock twice on the door before pushing inside.
“They shouldn’t have called you,” he greets me in gruff Spanish.
“Good to see you, too, old man.”
He smirks. “I do feel old.”
“Are you in pain?”
“I can handle it.” That means yes.
“álvaro—”
“I’m fine, Luca. I’ll be on my feet in no time.”
“I know you will. But things are going to change.” I sit down in the bedside chair and outline exactly how I’m going to help him get on his feet.
Oh, he protests but when I threaten to move him into my place, he pipes down. álvaro has a handful of cats that he adores and he would never want to force them to relocate.
“I care about you.” I switch to English, knowing álvaro would hate my messy, emotional display. I grip his hand.
He stares at me and for a beat, I know he senses how desperate I feel. How much I wish I could do more to help him. How much I wish he would accept my offers of support.
His eyes narrow and I swear.
“Don’t worry; I’ll send you the bill,” I tack on.
And then, he laughs. And I know he really will be fine.