Chapter 30
Luca
The days that follow are agony. It’s a new low, one I haven’t experienced the depths of since Mamma passed. I move through the motions—fútbol, check in with álvaro, call Bianca, eat, sleep, repeat. It’s like existing on autopilot.
“You look like shit,” my sister greets me on a video call.
I sigh and tip my head back. “I feel like shit.”
“That was a great game against Galicia.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“You played really well.”
I dip my head in thanks. And it’s strange, because I have been playing well. Even though I spend each day feeling mostly nauseous and drained, my game is on point. I’m channeling everything I can’t express—heartache, loneliness, frustration—into fútbol.
While social media outlets speculate that Carla’s and my relationship is “on the rocks,” we haven’t confirmed anything.
Not when our careers are at pivotal moments, me with the end of the season and Carla with her team’s final game.
And wasn’t that the catalyst of our break? So, we could focus on our careers?
I snicker to myself. It looks like Carla was right.
“Why are you laughing?” my sister questions, looking alarmed.
“Ugh,” I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. I forgot she was still on the call.
“Damn, fratello, Carla García really messed you up,” Bianca comments, peering at me with concern in her gaze. “You should have let me make dating profiles for you.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” Bianca sighs. “I was worried this would happen.”
“That Carla would break up with me?”
B, never one to mince words, nods. “Carla’s awesome. She’s fun and outgoing and a total girls’ girl. But she also dates fun, outgoing, temporary guys. Men that she’ll never really settle down with.”
“Thanks.”
“You were her exception, not her rule. But I still worried. And now…” She tosses a hand in the air.
“I’m fine, B. I’ll move past this. Tomorrow is my last game of the regular season and then, I only have finals for Champions League. By this time next week, I’ll be focused on the camp—”
“The camp that you and Carla are running together,” B points out.
I make a face. “I’ve been worried about that.”
“You should be. It’s going to be awkward as fuck.”
“I think we can both be professional.”
“Yeah.” B nods. “But I also think you’re both hurting.”
I sit up straight at that. “What have you heard?”
Bianca snorts. “Just that Carla is pushing herself to the max. Sunday is her team’s final game. If they win, they win the regional trophy. And on Monday, she leaves for Alicante to begin her trial with Alicante Atléticas. It’s a lot of pressure and she’s unraveling a bit.”
“Marlowe used the word unraveling?” I question, knowing my sister is getting her information from Ale’s wife. Or maybe from Andrés?
“She said she hopes Carla doesn’t crack under the pressure. She’s worried Carla is trying to do too many things at once and be a rock star at all of them.”
“She can do it. I have no doubt about that. Carla is a rock star.”
“I think so, too,” Bianca murmurs. “Maybe you guys will work this out. You’ll be together for two weeks at camp. There’s a chance you’re back together before preseason training starts.”
“I doubt it,” I reply. A pang cuts through my chest at the confession, but I don’t want to get my hopes up. Not even for my subconsciousness.
Bianca sighs. “I have to go, Luca. Call me after your game tomorrow?”
“I’ll talk to you later, B.”
We end the call and I shower, moving through my routine before bed. But I’m plagued by thoughts of Carla.
Can I maintain professionalism where she’s concerned during the camp?
Can I handle having her back in my home, in my space, knowing how right it felt the last time we were there?
What room will she sleep in if she’s not in my bed?
I was so excited to run this camp with Carla and now, even the camp doesn’t hold the same appeal. I hate that I’m more torn up over seeing her and gauging my reaction to her presence, than I am about the fucking wrench our break has thrown into the camp’s agenda.
How will we work together? Should I split the boys’ and girls’ programs completely?
Confront her beforehand? What the hell would I even say?
And could Bianca be right? Will Carla and I end up together again? Is there even a chance that we work this out?
When I finally close my eyes and crash for the night, it’s a relief.
The following day, I head to the stadium early.
It’s our final game of the regular season and that’s always tinged with a bittersweetness.
Walking out onto the pitch before the fans arrive, I glance at the thousands of empty seats surrounding me.
It’s hard to imagine that in a few hours, these seats will be taken.
How can someone feel so lonely, so lethargic, in a space built for sixty-thousand people? Sighing, I sit down on a patch of grass and lie back. The sky is a bright blue, the grass is springy beneath my touch, and I pull in a lungful of air.
I really believed that Carla and I were building something meaningful, something enduring.
I miss her so much it’s as if I’m shadowed by phantom pain.
I want to talk to her before her girls’ final game tomorrow; hell, I wish I was going to the game.
But it will be too hard to sit on the sidelines and not interact with Carla, to pretend we don’t have history and big feelings between us.
And if I show up and don’t talk to her, the social media bloggers will run with it as confirmation that our relationship is over. And it is. But, Dio, I don’t want it to be. And I don’t want to navigate the public’s perception of my relationship ahead of Champions finals.
Closing my eyes, I listen to the silence and focus on my breathing. The crunch of grass under footsteps has me turning my head.
“Hey,” I greet Andrés.
“Hey,” he replies, sitting beside me and flopping back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
He snorts. “You’re not. But you will be, DiBlanco.”
DiBlanco. That’s what Carla used to call me. Now, I hate the sound of my surname in anyone’s voice but hers. It’s completely fucked.
“Yeah,” I mutter again, not in the mood to talk.
“At least you know she loves you back,” Andrés says after a beat of silence. “You never have to wonder if you could have had a chance, if it would have worked. You know you did. Do,” he amends, switching to present tense.
I turn to glance at him, but he keeps his eyes trained on the sky above. There’s something in his voice, an edge of pain, that I can’t place. Is he speaking from experience? And about who?
“It’s not over between you guys,” Andrés continues. “It’s just a really low fucking low. Don’t give up on Carla or what you have with her. I saw you together; she loves you just as much as you adore her.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Andrés meets my eyes. “I do.”
“Thanks, mate. I appreciate that.”
“Do you guys need a minute?” Carlos asks, peering over us, a shit-eating grin on his face. “We don’t want to interrupt anything.”
Alejandro cackles and reaches down to pull me up. When Andrés and I are on our feet, I clasp his shoulder in thanks, but he doesn’t say anything else.
Carlos cracks some unfunny jokes and the four of us head back to the locker rooms. Before I hand in my cell phone since we can’t have them in the locker room during games, I glance at the screen one last time and grin at álvaro’s text messages.
álvaro
Sergio no va a presenter cargos.
Sergio isn’t going to press charges.
álvaro
Así que, una preocupación menos.
So, one less thing to worry about.
álvaro
Suerte hoy, Luca.
Good luck today, Luca.
I breathe a sigh of relief and show my phone’s screen to my friends.
“Congratulations, hombre.” Carlos smacks my back. “That’s a good sign. Means better things are on the horizon.”
“Exactly.” Andrés grins.
Ale sighs. “I’m glad that’s taken care of.”
“Yeah.” I nod. And then, I look at my friend. “How is she?”
Understanding washes over Ale’s expression and he lowers his voice. “As miserable as you are.”
That doesn’t make me feel better because I don’t want Carla to feel miserable. I want her to thrive.
I want us to thrive. Together.
“It’s our last game of regular season,” Ale reminds me, grasping my shoulder and giving it a shake. “Focus on fútbol. Leave it all out on the field. And then, fix shit with my sister.”
I nod but don’t say anything. I can’t. Because it’s not up to me to fix what’s broken between us…not when Carla doesn’t even want to try.
We win our final game of the regular season by one goal. It’s a hard-earned victory, cemented in the eighty-seventh minute of play. Rushing up the pitch, I sent a beautiful pass to Alejandro who was already inside the box. He took his shot, a precise strike, that resulted in a goal.
And the stadium roared with approval. We ran out the clock and celebrations ensued. I hung around for the postgame interviews and press conference, but as soon as I could escape, I hustled to my car.
Begging off a celebratory drink at Corcho, I drove home to my flat, threw myself in the shower, and nursed my broken heart with a beer and an early night.
The next morning, the agitation that has built all week in my veins is unbearable. Finally, I can trade my car for my motorcycle. I crave the release, the control, the open, winding backroads. The freedom.
Needing a break from my depressing fucking thoughts, I yearn for the slap of the wind, the shimmering sea under the beating sun, and the infinite kilometers of road ahead of me. I want adventure.
Donning my leather jacket, I slide into boots, stuff my hands into gloves, and pull on my helmet. Then, I flip the ignition and head out of the city. And for the first time in days, I take a deep breath.