He sucks in a breath. “We had this conversation already. You know, I’d never?—”
I cut him off before he can explain anything because I already know whatever he says will make sense. And I don’t want to hear it right now. I just want to end this conversation, sob in my pillow, wake up, and play fútbol. Earn a spot on a professional team and regain the equilibrium I lost. “I was invited to train with Squad Alicante Atléticas.”
“You were?” he breathes. “Of course you were.” The pride in his voice makes my tears fall faster.
Fuck. I dash my eyes with the backs of my knuckles and suck in a breath.
“I have to give it my all, DiBlanco,” my voice wavers. And he hears it.
“You haven’t called me DiBlanco in a minute.”
I hate myself for putting up walls between us. But right now… “I need to focus on my game. On what I worked for. And I can’t have this drama spinning out of control on social media. I can’t have people wondering if you’re fighting my battles for me. Or if I’ve given up on my career to cheer on yours. I need this. I need to prove it to myself and see it through, all the way.”
“Carla…” His voice cracks on my name. “You can have both.”
“I don’t know how, Luca. I can’t…fuck, I can’t do this with you right now. I want a break.”
“A break?” His voice hardens. “What the hell does that even mean?”
I don’t know, my heart screams.
But I voice my twisted logic. “It means, I need to focus on my game. And on my team. And you should be focused on yours. That has to come first right now, our professional careers, not our relationship.”
“So, you want to end things between us? For real?”
My heart stutters in my chest and I feel like vomiting.
No, of course I don’t.
“I think that’s for the best,” I say instead.
Luca’s quiet for a long moment. My heart hammers in my temples and my stomach roils.
“Fine,” he clips out. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want,” I breathe.
“Then I wish you every success imaginable. I hope you get everything you want.” He ends the call.
I want you! The words scream in my mind, but I swallow them back on a sob.
I stare at the screen for several seconds before I toss down my phone and rush to the bathroom. Then, I do vomit, emptying the contents of my stomach. The back of my nose burns and my stomach feels even worse. Leaning back against the shower door, I bend my knees and wrap my arms around them. Dropping my face, I rest my forehead against my knees and sob. Big, ugly tears. Until I’m too fucking exhausted to cry.
Turning off my phone, I crawl into bed and beg for sleep.
Of course, it doesn’t fucking come.
Instead, my mind spins all night long, ensuring I look like shit when I wake up in the morning and drive to the fútbol pitch to prepare the girls for their upcoming match, the final game of the season.
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.”
