Chapter 25 Carla
Carla
“Let me get at least one punch in,” Alejandro jokes when Luca and I step into his and Marlowe’s flat.
Luca turns his head and points to his chin.
“Get over here,” Ale says, pulling me into a hug and kissing my temple before slapping Luca’s back. “Tío, a heads-up would have been nice.”
Luca tosses his head back and groans. “I was going to tell you. I swear. When there was something to tell…”
“And Italy raised those stakes?” Marlowe questions from the doorway, grinning.
“Sí,” Luca replies, staring right at me. “Italy changed everything.”
“Oh, God,” Andrés groans, walking into the foyer, a smoothie in hand. “I can’t take it if you two become as bad as them.” He gestures between Marlowe and Ale.
I wrinkle my nose. “Never.”
Andrés chuckles and kisses my cheeks. “Happy for you, Carlita.”
“Thank you,” I reply, looking up at my brother’s other best friend.
For as long as I can remember, Ale, Luca, and Andrés have been a group.
A trio. But since I spent so much time daydreaming about Luca, I never gave Andrés as much attention.
Now, he looks almost…forlorn at the news of my dating Luca.
I hope he doesn’t feel left out and like a fifth wheel.
“It was rubbish that a blogger broke our story and stole all our thunder,” Luca laments, leaning close to Andrés to sniff his smoothie. He makes a horrified expression. “Figs? In a smoothie?”
“You Italians have too many rules and contradictions,” Andrés says, dismissively.
“Like what?” Luca crosses his arms over his chest.
“Like, no cappuccino after eleven a.m.,” I supply, winding an arm around Luca’s waist.
“Eh, it has milk. Milk is for breakfast and—” Luca argues.
“Don’t cut spaghetti with a knife,” I continue.
“You twirl it.” Luca spins his finger in a circle, gesticulating the movement.
“No ice in wine,” I add.
Horror crosses Luca’s face.
“It’s okay,” I say soothingly, moving him toward the kitchen.
Andrés shakes his head. “You two are going to be worse than Mar and Ale.”
I glance over my shoulder and grin at him.
“My God, who are you guys?” Marlowe asks, following us into the kitchen. “This is…” She trails off gesturing between us. “I don’t know what it is, but I am here for it! You both look really happy.”
“We had a great time in Tuscany,” I explain.
“Everything is prepared for the camp.” Luca takes a more pragmatic approach.
Andrés rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure you spent most of your time on camp details and not fu—”
“Argh!” My brother holds up his hand, cutting Andrés off. “Listen, tío, I’m trying to be cool about everything, but there are details that I do not want to know.”
“Why are you being so cool about this?” Andrés questions.
Luca smacks the back of his head. He shakes it off, keeping his eyes pinned on my brother.
Ale frowns, confused by Andrés’ questioning. Even I’m thrown by the direction of conversation because…why is Andrés trying to stir shit up?
Marlowe clears her throat. “I baked muffins,” she offers, unwrapping a dish and placing the muffins in the center of the island. “It’s Gladys’s recipe. Would anyone like tea? Coffee?”
“They look delicious,” I say, taking a muffin. “How the hell do you have time to do this while running Prescott Sail Valencia?” I take a huge bite and groan.
Marlowe winces. “Grandpa’s sent reinforcements. Two new staff members from the States are here to help me during this phase of my life.” She wrinkles her nose and I hear the dejection in her tone.
“You’re doing amazing,” Ale murmurs, kissing her cheek. “The new team members are part of a support system. They’re not replacing you.”
“I know,” Marlowe huffs. She points at the muffins and looks at Andrés and Luca. “Eat one.”
They both snag a muffin.
Ale takes one too and glances between his best friends.
“The reason why I’m so chill about one of my best mates dating my sister is because it’s Luca.
” He smirks at me before looking at Luca.
“He’s the kind of guy you want your sister to date.
I know him, his values, and the kind of man he is.
To be honest, I’m more worried about him getting his heart broken than I am about Carla. ”
Andrés snorts and I flip Ale the middle finger.
But Luca’s hand on my shoulders tightens imperceptibly. When I glance back at him, he’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. And the tiniest flicker of doubt flares in my mind.
Is he worried I’ll break his heart too?
Luca’s schedule intensifies even more after our whirlwind trip to Tuscany. With commitments for League Valencia, the Copa del Rey, and the Champions League, I barely see my boyfriend.
But the moments we do share—late nights, early mornings, and any second we can squeeze in between—leave me sated, breathless, and smiling. Luca makes me feel like a priority in his life, showing up at my door when he gets off a team bus, leaving fresh pastries before he flits away in the morning.
I attend his home games, smiling for the paparazzi and their cameras on my way in or out of the stadium.
And although I grin at their questions—“Carla, how serious is your relationship with Luca? How does Alejandro feel about you dating his best mate? Are you planning to play fútbol again, or is Luca’s career the focal point now? ”—they tear me up on the inside.
Do people think I need my brother’s permission to date? Or that I don’t care about my career now that I’m dating Luca?
These questions are multiplied by well-meaning fans.
And while I know it’s their blatant curiosity getting the best of them, my run-ins with these questions leave me feeling off kilter.
They twist my mood and infiltrate my self-talk, making me wonder if I’m ready for the big romantic commitment I’ve shirked for years.
My doubts grow legs the longer Luca and I are apart. But the moment we reunite, we reconnect wholly. And knowing our time together is limited, I don’t want to waste it talking about other people’s projections about our relationship. Those opinions shouldn’t matter anyway.
So, I push them away and soak up as much time with Luca as possible.
I miss him desperately, but I also love how we crash back together after several days apart.
Our needy couplings in early morning hours and sappy voice notes, filled with yearning, when he’s traveling to an away game, layer our relationship with a sense of adventure.
The time apart also provides us with an opportunity to know each other on a deeper level. Our conversations transcend our daily routines. We talk and text about meaningful topics, all laced with my sassy humor and Luca’s steadfast values.
Where do we see ourselves in five years?
I’m playing on a club team and representing Spain on the national team. Luca’s preparing to elevate his camp to an academy.
What destination do we want to visit most in the world?
I would love to see the cherry blossoms in Yoshino, Japan. Luca wants to cage dive with great white sharks in Cape Town, South Africa.
What superpower do we wish we had?
Luca wishes he could fly while I’d prefer mind-reading.
And so, our text thread goes, with Luca messaging on long team bus rides when he can’t make the phone call and me responding in early mornings or late evenings when I’m not at Santa Isabel.
By the time the end of April rolls around, my girls are poised to advance to the regional semifinals and League Valencia is competing against League Bilbao in the final for the Copa del Rey.
Our schedules are both about to normalize and I’m looking forward to spending more time with him after his game this weekend.
I’m shutting down my computer on Friday afternoon before I scoop up Abuela for our drive to Sevilla ahead of tomorrow’s game when I glimpse a sticky note tucked under my desk calendar, the corner sticking out.
I pull it out and swear. Anna Garida. Julieta Cruz.
Sighing, I drop back into my desk chair.
I remember writing the girls’ names down so I could follow up on their submitted medical clearances and additional documentation.
Since the girls are not Spanish citizens and are living in Valencia under their parents’ visas, I was required to fill out additional paperwork for their eligibility in the regional games.
But now…I fire my computer back up. I know I filled out the forms and…
I close my eyes to sift through my memories.
The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of extra practice sessions, local games, and travel logistics as Sergio tried to screw me out of field time or busing priority on several occasions.
Sergio!
He walked into my office as I was filling out Anna and Julieta’s documents and offered to submit them with three of his players’ paperwork.
Of course, I refused, not trusting his sincerity.
But then, Juan Ramon, the athletic director, poked his head around the door, thanked Sergio for helping me, and I had no choice but to pass the papers to Sergio.
That’s why I wrote the sticky note! To remind myself to follow up on the documents being submitted and approved.
My stomach sinks even before I sign into the athletic portal. I grip my mouse and suck in a breath.
Sergio filed the paperwork. He might hate me, but he wouldn’t try to screw over the girls.
Oh, please! Of course he would. That’s why you didn’t want him to take the papers in the first place.
My mind argues with itself as the portal page loads.
“Ugh,” I groan, noting the red exclamation marks next to Anna and Julieta’s names. Insufficient documentation.
I check the boys’ roster and note that his three players have all been approved. Sergio didn’t file my players’ paperwork. On purpose. And, no doubt, he was hoping I wouldn’t notice because I’ve been so busy and he knows I was planning to go to Sevilla for the game this weekend.
Dropping my face into my hands, I pull in a breath. Calm my racing heart. Get a grip on my spiking anger.
Glancing at my watch, I note the time. There’s a good chance the administrators have already left for the day, hell, for the weekend.
And if those papers aren’t submitted by end of day today, Anna and Julieta won’t be able to play in the regional games.
I swear and send Abuela a text message that something came up and I’ll be late.
Then, I grab my folder and purse, and race to the parking lot, my phone already pressed to my ear to get in touch with an administrator at Valencia’s Fútbol Federation.
Of course, no one answers.
Undeterred, I throw my car in drive and head to the office. If luck is on my side, I’ll get this sorted before the office closes for the day.
At eight p.m., I drop my forehead to the steering wheel of my car and breathe the biggest sigh of relief. A headache is forming in my temples and fatigue clouds my mind, but I did it. I sorted out my players’ information so they are eligible to compete at the next level, which starts next week.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes, partly in relief and partly in frustration. I can’t believe Sergio would do something so underhanded, something that would hurt high school girls, just so he could feel important.
My phone rings and I dry my eyes when I note the incoming video call from Luca.
“Hey!” I answer as cheerfully as possible.
He smiles when he sees me, all chocolate eyes and sexy lips. “Carla,” he breathes. “I’m glad you’re already on the road. How far from the city are you?”
“I have bad news.”
He frowns, a line forming in between his brows. “What’s wrong?”
“We didn’t leave yet,” I admit. “In fact, I haven’t even picked up Abuela.” Sighing, I recount the whole ordeal with Sergio and the girls’ paperwork.
Luca swears and shakes his head. “Stronzo di merda!” Fucking asshole. “He’s out of line, Carla.”
“I know, I know,” I lament, shaking my head miserably. “But I had to try to get the girls’ paperwork in order.”
“Of course you did,” he agrees. “You did the right thing. I’m just, fuck, I’m pissed that Sergio is still giving you a hard time. He needs to be dealt with.”
“You’re not mad that I won’t get to Sevilla until super late?”
“Mad? At you? Never,” Luca says. “And you can’t come tonight. Carla, the drive is seven hours. You’d have to drive through the night and you look exhausted.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“No.” His tone is clipped. “It’s okay if you skip the game and—”
“I’m not missing the game.”
“I don’t want you driving through the night.” His jaw tightens.
“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll sleep at Abuela’s and we’ll leave early in the morning. What time is kickoff?”
“Not until ten p.m.”
“So, we’ll make it.”
He sighs and scrubs at the center of his forehand. “Yes, but Carla, that’s a lot of driving. You’re going to turn around the next day and drive back and then coach your team for their big game on Monday afternoon? It’s too much. Just, stay home and take it easy. It’s only one game and—”
“It’s the oldest competition in Spanish fútbol.”
He grins. “I know. But please don’t drive tonight. Just, straight to Abuelita’s, okay?”
“Vale,” I agree, annoyed. “And don’t get involved with Sergio. I’ll handle it.”
Luca rolls his lips together but doesn’t say anything.
“Luca,” I warn.
He swears. “Fine.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow night?”
His expression softens as he nods. “Get some rest, Carla.”
“I will.”
Then, I end our call, start my car, and drive to Abuela’s house. She is, as always, understanding. And after fixing me a light supper, she shoos me into her guest bedroom for a good night’s rest.
But when my alarm rings at six a.m. the following morning, I’m too sick to move. My limbs feel like dead weight, my head swims, and my throat burns.
“Cuarenta.” Abuela reads my temperature.
Forty degrees Celsius. One hundred four degrees Fahrenheit.
Her cool hand rests against my forehead and she swears colorfully, letting me know she’s getting me medicine and calling the doctor.
“Lo siento, Carla, carino. Hoy no hay fútbol.” I’m sorry, Carla, darling. No fútbol today.
I’m too ill to muster a response. Instead, I close my eyes and, sick and defeated, let sleep claim me.