Chapter 19 Carla
Carla
The following week, I receive a text from Luca that makes me smile.
Luca
What are you doing tonight?
Carla
Meeting you to train???
Luca
Even better, meet me for dinner???
Carla
Where?
Luca
Sicilia, nine p.m.?
Carla
Ooh, going all in on fancy Italian?
Luca
Trying to impress you. Is it working?
Carla
Maybe
Luca
I’ll pull out my A game tonight.
Carla
Have I been getting your B game?
Luca
Never.
I tuck my phone away as I lean back in my office chair and open my email.
More good news greets me.
The girls’ first playoff game is scheduled for the following week. Biting my lip, I think of things I can do to mark their advancement with something special. They’ve worked hard this season, especially considering their coach changed in the final third of the school year.
Picking up my phone, I reach out to a few contacts that might be able to help me pull off a last-minute surprise.
“You look beautiful.” Luca cups my cheek and dips his head, kissing the corner of my mouth, as he greets me.
I wrap my fingers around his wrist and grin. “Is this your best material?”
He chuckles and the sound washes over me like honey. I like making Luca laugh. Even though he’s always amiable, he also tends to be emotionally contained and serious.
“Come, cucciola.” He takes my hand and pulls open the door to the restaurant, ushering me inside before entering behind me.
We’re greeted by a pleasant hostess who seats us at a cozy table in a small alcove, ensuring our privacy as well as offering a more intimate atmosphere.
“This is pretty,” I note, looking around the restaurant. “It’s very elevated nonna’s kitchen vibes.”
“You sound like a social media post.”
“I like the tiles.” I point to the flooring, a pattern of cobalt blue and bright yellow, reminding me of sun-drenched Sorrento.
“I’d like to take you to Italy,” Luca murmurs, surprising me.
“You mean…for the camp?” I clarify as my heart rate increases.
He clears his throat and dips his head in a nod, but his eyes blaze with too many emotions to settle on. “Sí. Yes.”
“Right,” I agree, opening a menu. “Well, I have good news. My girls have their first playoff game scheduled for next week. But after that game, there will be a long weekend so…”
“Complimenti,” he says, offering his congratulations. “Send me the details and I’ll do my best to watch the game.”
“Thank you. I will.”
“And I’ll see if I can book flights for your long weekend. We have a small break too before our second leg of the quarterfinals.”
“I hope the timing works out.” Excitement thrums through my veins at the prospect of spending a few days in Italy with Luca.
It’s not that we’re hiding our relationship, or whatever this is, because we’re not.
But, away from Spain and my family and prying eyes who know us, we can disappear for a bit.
Have some time to truly explore this spark between us.
Give it a chance to catch fire and ignite.
“Me too. Vino?”
“Please. I’d love a glass of wine.”
When our server appears, Luca orders a bottle of red wine and a handful of appetizers while we settle on our entree choices.
Once we’ve determined that he’s indulging in pasta carbonara and I’m going to enjoy pasta pesto, we close our menus and he leans back in his chair. Lifting a glass of wine in my direction, he says, “A te, campionessa. Much success next week.”
“To us, Luca,” I amend his toast.
We clink glasses and I take a long sip of the bold red.
When I place my glass down, Luca’s smoldering glance holds my attention. “What is it?”
“You surprise me, Carla.”
“In a good way?”
“In the best way possible,” he murmurs. “I forgot what this is like…”
“Going on a date?” I tilt my head. I know he’s dated.
He huffs out a little laugh. “Being with a woman who makes me want more.”
His words catch me off guard. Luca’s always been honest but sometimes, his truths overwhelm me.
Because they ring with sincerity. I don’t know how to make myself that open, that vulnerable, to someone else.
I hide behind humor and adventure. I lean into nitpicking to find quirks that are deal-breakers. I add distance and create space.
But with Luca, I don’t want to. And I’m not sure how to reconcile the emotions he stirs up with my one-track, career-driven ambition I’ve relied on for so long.
“It’s new for me,” Luca continues. “A welcome change.”
I clear my throat and take another sip of wine. Stalling like the brave woman I am. But as the wine rolls over my tongue, I try my hand at honesty too. “Everything with you is new for me, Luca. I don’t do…serious entanglements.”
“You’re more than an entanglement to me.”
“Me too. And that’s what I mean. This, you, it’s all new for me. The promise of it is more than a dead end.”
“Do you usually go into relationships thinking of them as dead ends?”
“I rarely think of them as relationships to begin with,” I admit. “It’s…dating and fun and fleeting until it burns out.”
“And why does it burn out?”
“Because I find something, a quirk, a vibe, a habit, to fixate on as a reason to pull away.”
“Pretzels,” he recalls, remembering the German, Jonas.
“Or socks and sandals,” I agree.
Luca smirks but his eyes are sharp. “And what’s my quirk?”
I shake my head. “I like all your quirks. Everything about you. And it scares me.”
Understanding washes over his face and he leans over the table, closing the space between us. “I’d never hurt you, Carla.”
“I know that. That scares me too,” I admit. “I’m new to big-girl feelings.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Adult relationships then.”
He smiles. “I don’t believe you. You’re the most confident woman I know. You know what you want. Take it.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “But what if I can’t have it all?”
His eyes sharpen. “You mean have both? A relationship and a professional fútbol career?”
“You’re smarter than you let on, DiBlanco,” I joke, reaching for levity.
“So are you, campionessa.”
Our appetizers arrive a moment later and Luca moves our water glasses and the bottle of wine to make room for the plates.
“Did I tell you two of my girls are joining our camp this summer?” I ask, changing the subject to lighter topics I feel comfortable traversing. Like soccer.
“Really? That’s great news. I had a handful of American programs reach out too.”
“It was that article in the sports magazine.”
“I think so, too,” Luca replies, spearing an artichoke heart with his fork. “That was great placement. Thanks for lining that up.”
“It was no problem. Hey,” I say, recalling a conversation I had earlier with Marlowe. “Did you send my sister-in-law a private chef?”
Luca bites the corner of his mouth. “Who told you?”
“Marlowe!”
He chuckles. “I didn’t know what to send her, or Ale, to help them through this time. She’s been so sick and it’s making him feel useless.”
“He is useless. He’s never done his own cooking or laundry,” I murmur, loving to razz my brother whenever possible.
“Did the chef make something Marlowe can keep down?” Luca asks hopefully.
“His talents are being wasted in that household,” I admit. “He made her dry toast today.”
“Well, it’s better than nothing.”
“It was a very sweet gesture and they both appreciate it. Especially Mar. I think she was touched that someone outside of her family thought about her.”
Luca blushes, shrugging it off. “It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing. Thank you for thinking of her.”
“Of course. Here, try some burrata.” He picks up a serving plate and adds some burrata cheese to my dish.
I stare at him, noting the effortless way he steps in to care for everyone around him. And I wonder how I got so lucky to have Luca looking out for me.
“Our playoff game is before yours.” Sergio falls into step beside me in the hallway of Santa Isabel.
“Congratulations,” I remark dryly. Where is he going with this? Both teams made the playoffs. The schedule of games is not a criterion for competition.
“I’m just saying, if the boys end up getting more support from the student body and the administration, it’s because we’re playing first.”
“Great.”
We step outside and near the pitch.
“Coach!” Julieta calls, pointing excitedly at the ice cream truck.
I grin. “Surprise, chicas! It’s for after practice.”
Beside me, Sergio falters. “You got them an ice cream truck?”
“Just a little surprise ahead of playoffs.”
“You’re spoiling them.”
“Or building team morale.”
“They should be ecstatic just to have made playoffs.”
I clear my throat and fix him with a look. “The boys and you are welcome to ice cream, too. Have a good practice, Coach.”
Then, I walk away from Sergio, round up my team, and put them through a rigorous practice.
But they perform each drill without complaint. They give practice their all and leave every drop of energy on the field.
And when I blow the final whistle and the girls run to me, it’s with smiles on their faces. “The ice cream is really for us?”
“As much as you want,” I confirm, waving to the ice cream company’s staff members. “Invite the boys’ team to join you.”
Julieta lifts an eyebrow. “Why? Sergio’s been horrible to us.”
“Maybe, but that’s not the boys’ fault. And sometimes you catch more flies with honey.”
“Huh?” Anna wrinkles her nose.
“We’re gonna kill them with kindness,” Carmen translates.
I laugh. “Something like that. ?Vamos!”
They take off toward the ice cream truck and I hold back, watching the scene unfold. The boys’ team approaches and the girls pull them into line. Together, both teams enjoy ice cream cones stacked with various flavors and dipped in nata, or sweet cream.
“For you, Coach?” one of the staff members calls out when I’m the only one without a cone.
“Fresa, por favor.” I order a strawberry scoop and reach into my wallet to settle up with them for the awesome experience they provided.
“Daniel wanted me to tell you the ice cream is on the house,” the employee explains, passing me a cone.
“No, no way.” I shake my head.
“I promise.” She waves a hand at me. “Your money’s no good here.”
Sighing, I slip her a hundred-euro note. “For your time,” I explain, gesturing between her and her companion. “Consider it a propina.” A tip.
“Gracias,” she says, graciously accepting the note.
I take a bite of my ice cream and close my eyes, enjoying the rich flavor. I’ll have to call Daniel to thank him. He expanded the ice cream company the summer we dated in Chicago. Now, it’s a booming multinational corporation.
It’s a shame he frequently spoke of himself in the third person.