Chapter 26
Luca
“Carla’s not coming,” Ale says when I meet up with him and Andrés for breakfast the following morning.
“I know,” I reply, glumly. “I spoke with her and I feel fucking terrible that she’s so sick.”
“Abuela will take good care of her,” Andrés offers.
I drag a hand through my curly hair and nod in agreement. The three of us take a seat at a back table in the hotel’s restaurant and rattle off an order.
“I’m also pissed as fuck about the shit Sergio keeps putting her through,” I admit, once I have a cortado in hand.
At that, Ale’s head snaps up. Andrés narrows his eyes.
“What shit?” Ale presses.
Damn. I close my eyes. If Carla didn’t tell her brother, I don’t want to go and gossip to Alejandro. But he’s one of my best mates and if Carla wasn’t his sister, I already would have vented my frustrations to him.
“You can’t leave us hanging,” Andrés tacks on.
“He’s a fucking dick,” I mutter before launching into all the shit Sergio has done to undermine Carla—the snide comments, making her look bad in front of authority figures, stealing her pitch time, bruising her up during the fake friendly, and the latest, not filing her players’ paperwork to flag their eligibility to play.
When I’m done, both guys are staring at me in shock…and blazing anger.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ale swears. “Why didn’t she say anything?”
“What a piece of shit. Have you handled it yet?” Andrés glares.
I sigh. “She asked me not to—”
Ale narrows his eyes.
“And I’m trying to respect that,” I continue. “But now…I can’t leave this unchecked. Especially when she’s so sick and has a big game on Monday. Even álvaro warned me about the guy.”
“This is insane,” Ale murmurs, thanking the server for our food.
“I know,” I agree, chomping on a piece of toast. “I can’t wait to play this game and get home.”
Ale’s expression softens. “You really care for her, don’t you?”
“I do,” I say solemnly. “And I would have told you earlier but—”
“But your loyalty belongs to Carla now,” Ale finishes for me, nodding. “And it should. I meant what I said, Luca. You’re the best guy I could have picked for my sister.”
“Gracias,” I murmur.
Andrés looks between us, his expression unreadable.
“What?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Nothing. Just wondering who you would pick to date Bianca?”
At the absurdity of the question, I burst out laughing. “I don’t know, mate. B is a man-eater. Whoever she ends up with is going to have to be tough as nails to put up with her antics. But,” I admit, “she’s fiercely loyal and easy to love so he’ll be a lucky motherfucker too.”
Ale chuckles.
We finish our breakfast before we meet with the rest of the team for a mid-morning meeting. Then, it’s physiotherapy and massages, a lunch break, an afternoon nap, a pre-match meal, and finally, time to travel to the stadium and play for the Copa del Rey.
The stadium roars with energy as I step onto the pitch. Thousands of fans chanting our names, wearing our colors, and praying for victory. I’ve played hundreds of games, but there’s something about the Copa del Rey that fills my body with nerves.
The history of the Cup is rich and long. The pride and the glory and the legacy are steeped in tradition. It swims in my veins like shots of adrenaline, propelling me forward as I run through the warm-up with my teammates.
Coach Javi huddles us up for one last set of instructions, a pep talk, and then—it’s kickoff.
We play hard, all of us determined to secure victory. Both teams, Valencia and Bilbao, dig in and I know it’s going to be a battle until the last second.
Even though it’s late, the heat still hangs in the air, causing me to drip with sweat within the first fifteen minutes of play. Bilbao scores first, in the eighteenth minute, and I feel their joy, the shouting of their fans, the energy that bursts forth in the stadium, like a throat punch.
Andrés hangs his head and I know he’s mentally berating himself.
Shaking it off, I resign myself to stepping up my game. Playing harder. Faster. Giving more.
It’s right before the half when the opportunity presents itself.
It’s as if I can see the trajectory of the ball before my opponent kicks it.
Darting forward, I cleanly steal the ball and note Carlos cutting diagonally behind the defenders.
I send a long, arcing pass that drops in stride for Carlos and he chases the ball inside the box for a shot on goal that… succeeds!
Grazie a Dio. I thank God, glancing heavenward in gratitude.
We play the remainder of the stoppage minutes with no advancement until the half is called.
I drop onto a bench in the locker room, guzzling water mixed with electrolytes. Andrés throws me a towel and I use it to mop up the sweat on my forehead and around my neck.
I nod as Coach throws out feedback.
“Stay tighter on #8. Lock him down. And look for the openings. Keep your mind sharp.”
Alejandro gives us one last pep talk and we jog back to the pitch, ready to take on the second half.
I suck in a breath and throw back my shoulders. As much as I wish Carla was in the stands, I hope she’s resting at home, watching the game.
As I take the pitch, I vow to win this match for her. To bring the Cup home, to her. To make this the most focused, all-out play I’ve ever brought to a game before.
“Andiamo!” I holler, dragging my hand through my hair. Let’s go!
“Amore, Carla, we’re bringing home the trophy!” I yell into the phone once I’m back in the locker room. Champagne sprays behind me, music blares, and my teammates mill around, some in kits, some in towels, several making their own video calls.
“I know! I’m so proud of you! You were amazing, Luca,” she gushes, beaming at me. But I note the fatigue that clings to her expression.
“I wish you were here.”
“Me too,” she admits, her smile slipping.
“How are you feeling? Better?”
“A little bit.”
“Go rest.”
“Call me when you get on the plane.”
“You need your sleep,” I warn.
“I’ll be waiting for your call. Promise me?”
I nod in agreement. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
I end the call and join my team in celebrating. The hype after our win is unreal and now, we still have interviews and a press conference before the bus transports us to the airport.
It’s after one a.m. when I text Carla.
Luca
Just boarded. I’ll be home in a few hours. I hope you’re resting. I don’t want to wake you, cucciola. I’ll see you tomorrow.
She doesn’t respond, which I didn’t think she would. Once I settle on the plane, I close my eyes and let sleep take me.
Tomorrow promises to be wild. There will be a parade, nonstop fireworks, and a balcony celebration at the ayuntamiento, or city hall.
The team will bring the trophy to the Basilica of Our Lady of the Forsaken, the patroness of Valencia, to honor our culture and give thanks.
And we will party, late into the night, at the stadium.
It will be nonstop chaos mixed with excitement and joy.
When we land at the airport, it’s nearly three a.m. Thousands of fans flood the space, cheering for us, chanting squad songs, and waving scarves.
I can’t fight the grin that cuts across my face.
As the team moves through the crowd, with security trying to keep the fans at bay, I stop to sign autographs for kids or pose for selfies.
Once we board the bus, the fans shake it, slapping our windows and grinning.
“It’s going to be a late night,” Carlos jokes.
In the distance, fireworks explode and car horns cut the night air.
“A crazy week,” Andrés agrees.
“You boys earned it,” Coach says, tapping the dashboard of the bus.
Slowly, we roll out of the airport and back to our stadium where we will collect our cars and head home for the night or out to party until sunrise.
Pulling out my phone, I power it on. There’s still no response from Carla, which is a good thing, since it means she’s resting.
But a swell of disappointment rises in me.
I really wish she could have attended the game.
That I was going to see her at the stadium, grab her hand, and pull her out for a night of celebrations.
Anger over all the shit Sergio put her through, the stress he’s caused, eats at me. Shaking my head, I look out the window. I’ll deal with him in due time. For now, I have a victory to celebrate and a girlfriend to check up on.
When the bus rolls into the stadium, fans are waiting. They jump up and down, lighting off fireworks and cheering loudly as we descend the bus.
“Gracias!” I call out, lifting a hand. My shirt it tugged by kids and I stop, dipping low to sign their jerseys and share some encouraging words.
I’m swarmed by fans and, despite my exhaustion, I revel in their congratulations, staying behind to sign as many jerseys and papers that are stuffed in my face to show them how grateful I am for their support.
By the time the last fan leaves, the first glimpses of dawn color the sky. Sighing, I shoulder my bag and move toward my car.
And there, leaning against it, wrapped in a shawl, and smiling at me is my cucciola.