1
Carla
“You will not cry.” I glower at my reflection.
Bracing my palms on each side of the sink, I pull in a breath. My hair is twisted away from my face and looped into a low knot at the base of my neck. My makeup is, surprisingly, intact and the midnight blue of my gown skims over my frame like a second skin.
I wanted to wear black, but my sister, Valentina, thought it would be too depressing. So? I countered. It feels like I’m in mourning.
Standing alone in the women’s bathroom at the swanky downtown Chicago venue for this year’s Girls-in-Sports Charity Gala, a gala I’ve helped orchestrate, feels like premature grieving.
In a few minutes, I’ll leave the bathroom, glide across a stage in a large room where several hundred of Chicago’s most influential people will stare at me, and I’ll say goodbye.
Goodbye to my career, to my team, to the city I’ve called home for four years. Farewell to my lifelong dream of playing professional soccer. At least, in America.
I skim my hands over my hips and suck in another shaky breath.
Two years ago, I attended this gala with my entire family. Last year, with my sister. Both occasions were fun and carefree, with the new year stretching before me, filled with promise and opportunity.
This year, I’m alone, being forced to leave the country, and on the verge of tears.
“You got this. Don’t cry,” I remind myself.
At least, not yet. Not here. Not now.
Hold it together until after the speech, after the goodbyes, after tonight.
I release the breath I’m holding and pull in another. Slowing my racing heart, I force my shoulders to drop.
I can do this. It’s one speech. My last speech.
And no one in my family is here to see it.
But my closest friends, my teammates, ahem, former teammates, are. There are even some fans in the crowd.
I think that’s what hurts the most. Everyone—the team owner, the club director, Coach Hunter and the front office staff, the community, the entire fucking city of Chicago have been so empathetic. Understanding. Apologetic and caring and loving.
And that’s made the ordeal worse. Nearly unbearable.
I’m not leaving because I didn’t perform well. I’m not leaving because I don’t have the heart or stomach for the competition. Or because I didn’t make an impression on the fanbase.
I’m leaving because of logistics! Because the Tornadoes lost an international spot when they decided to invest in younger, more affordable talent.
My entire life I’ve lived by the motto: Do the work.
And I did it. I did it so damn well.
I always believed that if you want it, it’s yours. You just have to take it.
I trained hard, showed up, and showed out. And in the end, my contract wasn’t renewed.
My stomach tightens as sourness creeps up the back of my throat.
I’ve been in America, playing soccer with these women, in these circles, since my freshman year of college. It’s been eight years in the States and now…I’m moving home to Valencia, Spain. But it feels wrong because America feels like home.
I blink rapidly, willing my body to reabsorb my tears before they have the chance to fall.
Just get through the damn speech and say goodbye.
