Chapter 11 Carla
Carla
My blood pressure skyrockets when my girls and I approach the field to see the boys’ team practicing. Sergio glances at me over his shoulder and smirks.
He’s pulling this bullshit rank crap. Again.
This week, he’s corrected me twice in front of my team, intentionally misunderstanding me so he could appear to know more. And then, he had the audacity to ask if I truly know the rules of fútbol.
“What are the boys doing here?” Alice wonders, squinting at the field.
“Yeah?” Julieta questions.
“They’re probably training for playoffs, same as us,” Maria points out.
And I’m sure she’s right. Both the girls’ and boys’ teams have advanced to the regional playoffs series. But I reserved the field for the girls to train at this time and Sergio is aware of that fact.
“It’s our time, Coach,” I holler out as I approach Sergio.
He snorts, glancing at his cleats before turning to me. “We’ll be done when we’re done, García.”
“You reserved yesterday; it’s my time now,” I remind him, keeping my expression neutral.
He shrugs, nonchalant. “Julio, square your chest!” he hollers to one of his players. Then, “We’re preparing for playoffs.”
“So are we.”
He gives me a wry look. “Come on, García. You must know that the boys winning a title trumps the girls. Oh, don’t get pissy about it. That’s always the way it’s been.”
I bristle from the flagrant putdown. I’ve heard it my entire life, witnessed it in real-time. Like now. The sentiment that boys are better than girls. That the boys’ teams deserve more funding than the girls’ teams. That the boys matter more than the girls.
I scoff, shaking my head. “Good luck to you, Coach.” I turn away from him and round up my team.
“Girls, the boys have taken the field. There must have been a mix-up with the timing,” I lie. “So, we’re going to do things a little differently today.” I gesture toward the parking lot. “Julieta and Maria, can you girls grab some cones and balls from the utility closet?”
“Sure,” Julieta says. “I hope the closet is open since Mr. Gomez is still in the hospital,” she murmurs, as she and Maria run back toward the school.
I wince. Mr. Gomez is álvaro. And yes, he’s still in the hospital with no conclusive news on his prognosis.
“The boys didn’t have a practice scheduled today,” Anna says, frowning. “They stole our slot.”
I sigh, looking around the huddle. “Never let them see you sweat,” I explain.
“Opponents, male or female, will try to undercut you at every opportunity. They will look for a weakness and attack it, trying to gain the upper hand. No matter what they do, you pivot. You adapt. You beat them at their own game and in the end, you hold the trophy. Trust me on this.”
Anna crosses her arms over her chest, fuming.
“Use your anger to motivate you,” I advise. “And start running laps for warm-up.” I point toward the perimeter of the nearly empty parking lot. “Today, that’s our practice area and our field. We’re going to use it wisely.”
Once the girls return, I set up the cones for a series of drills. I hate that the girls are practicing on the hard pavement but there’s no way I’ll cancel practice and waste their time or let Sergio think he got one over on me.
Blowing my whistle, I call the girls over to run them through today’s practice goals. And then, we start. I’m tough on them, pushing them to improve, to strive for more.
When they’re dripping sweat and taking a water break, the boys’ team calls practice.
“We’re done. You can have a go.” Sergio points toward the field as he passes.
I ignore him. “Vamos, chicas.” Let’s go, girls. “We have two sets left.”
“Are you pretending you can’t hear me, García?” Sergio calls out loudly, drawing the attention of his players and mine.
I look at him over my shoulder. “We’re training, Coach. Sorry, can’t chitchat with you right now.”
He narrows his eyes. I turn back toward my girls and run them through another drill.
Luca
Can’t train today. At the hospital with álvaro.
I frown at Luca’s message, my concern for álvaro heightening.
Carla
Don’t sweat it. Everything okay?
Luca doesn’t answer and I sigh. Throwing my car in drive, I head home for the day.
But I’m too agitated from my encounter with Sergio. I’m frustrated and looking for an outlet. After dinner, I change into workout clothes, grab a ball, and head to the field in Parque Turia.
“?Ahí, está, La Pulga!” Guapo shouts when he sees me. There she is, the flea.
My lips curl into a smile. “You ready for me, Guapo?”
He holds his arms wide, grinning at me. “Siempre lista para ti. ?Te acuerdas?” Always ready for you. Remember?
I chuckle at the innuendo behind his words and chuck my soccer ball at his head. “It was two dates, Guapo.”
“The best two dates of his life,” Risitas replies for him.
“I’m in a bad mood and need to blow off steam,” I warn the guys.
Guapo drops his teasing. “?Estás bien?” You okay?
I nod. “I just need to…play.”
“Vale. Venga,” he agrees.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the guys divide into two groups. And then, we play fútbol. All out, messy, sweaty, pickup fútbol.
And I breathe a sigh of relief that I can still lose myself in it.
I don’t see Luca for the reminder of the week since he’s traveling for an away game on Friday.
But, in all honesty, I barely have the time.
After training sessions with my team, I either visit álvaro or close myself in my office.
At night, I spend hours at my kitchen table reworking our strategy, rotating the roster, and devising new plays.
As we approach playoffs, I want to give the girls every opportunity to win a title. To feel that unmistakable pride that fills your veins when you rise above and win.
On Saturday, I schedule field time. Again, when we arrive, the boys’ team has stolen our spot.
“This is getting ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath.
What the hell is Sergio playing at? He should want the girls to excel just as much as the boys because both are wins for the school. A solid program, for both the boys and girls, ensures more funding for the athletic department.
The fact that he’s so damn insecure as to prioritize his team by undermining mine is pathetic.
But I know he’s threatened by me. I’m younger, have international experience, and played at a level he’s never achieved.
Plus, he assumes I’m riding the coattails of my family name—something that has plagued me throughout my career.
I’ve always had to work extra hard to prove that even though I’m a García, my place on the field is earned.
Sergio is short-sighted. Instead of using my credibility to bolster the program and strengthen the reputation of the school, he’s overplaying his hand.
“Didn’t know you’d be here, García,” Sergio lies as we approach the field.
“I reserved the time on the athletic calendar,” I say through clenched teeth. “You’ll have to wrap up.”
“Just started.” He shrugs. “My boys are already warmed up and playing.”
Behind me, I sense the girls’ restlessness. I feel their agitation, nerves, and worry.
“I’ll tell you what,” Sergio says in clipped Spanish, snapping his fingers and pointing at me. “Why don’t we have a friendly scrimmage? We’re already on the field, you’re all here…” He looks over my head. “How about it, girls? You think you can keep up with the boys?”
Anna coughs to cover her snarky reply.
I roll my lips together to keep from lashing out at him and turn toward my team.
“We’re game,” Julieta speaks up.
“Come on, Coach. We want to take them down,” Maria adds.
I look at the girls, noting the excitement and pride that filters over their expressions. They want to prove themselves. They need to.
Sighing, I turn back to Sergio. “Fine.”
He smirks. “Great. We’ll give you a few minutes to warm up,” he says, blowing his whistle to call in his boys.
The girls and I move to the visitors’ side of the field. “They’re going to do whatever they can to make sure they win,” I warn them. “The last thing these boys want is to lose to the girls’ team.”
“Which will make our victory even sweeter,” Julieta remarks.
“Justo.” Anna nods. Exactly.
I fight back my grin because I understand these girls. This was me at seventeen. Hell, this is me now.
Knowing I need to keep my cool—and my professionalism—I map out our game strategy, rattle off the names of the starters, and watch as the girls take the field.
“Vale,” Sergio says, clapping his hands together. “Two halves, twenty minutes each. Rolling substitutions.”
“Keep it clean,” I tack on, earning some scoffs and eye rolls from the boys. I glare at Sergio.
His jaw is tight, but he doesn’t have much of a choice but to reiterate my input.
Then, the play begins. It quickly morphs from a friendly to a fierce competition. The boys work well as a team, passing the ball and calling out plays. It’s obvious they’ve played together for a long time and can read each other’s intentions before action is taken.
But the girls step up. Wanting to prove themselves, they have intentionality behind their passes and shots on goal. I’m proud of them for not being rattled. They keep their heads, even as the boys begin to talk smack.
At the end of the half, the score is tied: two to two.
I pace the sidelines, calling out plays, substitutions, and feedback.
Across from me, Sergio starts to unwind. He’s furious that this isn’t the easy win he predicted.
“?Márcala, márcala! ?Párala ya!” he yells. Guard her, guard her! Stop her now!
But Julieta is on a mission. She nutmegs the player, taking the opening to pass the ball through his legs, recover her dribble, and take off toward the goal.
The player, number twelve, is furious, and tears after her as the boys shout on the field. Slowly, their play begins to unravel.
Julieta makes a clean pass to Anna who receives it beautifully.
Come on, girls. Come on. I press my hands together, keeping my mouth shut and watching the moment unfold.
Anna shoots, propelling the ball toward the top right corner of the net. The goalie lunges, his arms outstretched. But the shot is perfect. The ball skims the tips of his fingers before neatly dropping into the goal.
“?Goalzo!” Julieta screams, her arms flung wide. Goal!
The girls huddle together, giving props to Anna and Julieta for the play.
The boys are pissed, trash talking, blaming each other, and wasting time.
“?Esto es un vergüenza!” Sergio hollers, his anger rolling off his shoulders. This is a disgrace!
He glares at me, sneering at my girls. I step toward the pitch, wondering if we should just call the game.
“Vale, vale,” he murmurs. Then, snapping his fingers, he points at me. “You want to play for real? Let’s play. Let’s go. Coaches in. We finish this game now; winner takes all.”
I shuffle back a few steps, caught off guard by his flagrant unprofessionalism. “This is supposed to be friendly, hombre…”
“What? You don’t think you can take me?” Sergio jeers.
My anger fucking soars. But I’m not about to lose my cool like him.
“Come on, Coach! You can beat him easily,” Julieta encourages, a little too loudly because Sergio’s eyes flare.
“We’d love to play with you, Coach,” Alice tacks on.
“See? They want you to join too,” Sergio says, nodding.
I sigh. “Fine. There’s twelve minutes left. Let’s do it. You ready for me, Coach?”
Sergio snarls, narrowing his eyes. “Siempre.” Always. Except it sounds like a threat.
I take the field with my girls.
“Move the ball around. Clean shots only. We work as a team,” I coach the girls.
They nod in understanding and then, we’re back in play.
I love every second of working with my girls. They’re smart, strategic players and they have heart, a true love and appreciation for the game. And for each other. We work well together, moving the ball up field.
We have a one goal lead against the boys. Julieta scores, making it a 4-2 game.
And that’s when things turn nasty.
Sergio is all over me, pressing me hard.
I accept a pass from Maria, dropping low like Luca taught me to shield the ball.
I use my body to protect the ball as I look for an open player.
As I begin to dribble, Sergio reaches out and twists the back of my shirt.
He grasps the end of my ponytail as well, pulling my head back before shoving me forward.
Not expecting the physicality, or the strength he uses, I falter. My ankle stays frozen as my body propels forward and I go down hard, hitting my elbow and ribs at an unnatural angle.
“Oof,” I breathe out, feeling the wind get knocked out of me.
A moment later, a hand appears in my line of vision. It’s one of Sergio’s players. “?Todos bien, Carla?” I note the genuine concern in his expression as he pulls me to my feet.
My body screams in protest. My elbow smarts and my ribs are going to sport a massive bruise. But my ankle, while tender, is okay. And there’s no way in hell I’ll lose face in front of Sergio, in front of my girls, after he pulled a stunt like that.
“Sí, gracias,” I murmur, thanking the player.
I dust off my hands and tighten my ponytail.
“You’d get a yellow card for that in a real game,” Julieta mutters to Sergio.
He holds up his hands in a faux apology. “Perdón, García.” Sorry. What a crock of shit. “If you want to call in a sub…”
“I’m fine,” I bite out. “Let’s finish this.”
I make it through the remainder of time, managing to set my girls up for one more shot on goal. I pass the ball to Maria who scores, securing our win at 5-2.
“Buen partido, chicas,” the boy who helped me up congratulates the girls, holding up his hands to high-five them. Good game, girls.
“?Sois unas cracks, tías!” another boy calls out, grinning at them. You’re legends, girls. He points at me. “You too, Coach.”
The girls grin and I dip my head in thanks. His calling me coach, showing me genuine respect in front of his incredibly disrespectful coach, speaks volumes about his character. It means a lot to me.
“Muchas gracias,” I reply. “Bien jugado, chicos, de verdad.” Well played, boys, really.
I round my girls up, congratulating them on a well-earned win. I don’t bother exchanging words with Sergio. What he pulled was shady and everyone on the field—the girls and the guys—know it.
My team beams with pride, throwing their arms around each other and replaying portions of the game. I hang back with them, reveling in their joy, even though my body screams to be thrown into an ice bath.
Instead, I take my team out for ice cream to celebrate.
By the time I make it home, I’m slightly limping.
I manage a cold shower and make some toast and tea for dinner.
Grabbing a frozen bag of vegetables, I rest it on my elbow.
Then, I place a bag of frozen blueberries on my ribs and ease back on the couch.
Ah, relief. The icy compresses feel good against my bruised skin. I close my eyes, relieved to finally relax, when the doorbell rings.