“Carla,” my brother sighs. “Can you get dressed?” he asks gently, moving around my room and grabbing random articles of my clothing. He pushes the bundle into my hands.
“Sí. Of course.” My voice sounds hoarse.
“Get dressed and we’ll go to the hospital together,” Ale says, moving toward my bedroom door. “He’s going to be okay, Carla. He has to be.”
He has to be.
Oh, God, please, please let Luca be okay.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. There’s no time to cry. Not right now; not when Luca needs me.
Numbly, I dress in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. When I exit my bedroom, my brother has my sandals and purse in his hand. “Grab your phone,” he reminds me. “Vamos.”
I do as he says, following Ale out of my flat, and wait for him to lock up. We drive to the hospital in silence, but my mind whirls with thoughts and memories.
The image of Luca in a tailored suit, sexy and suave, and holding me up as I fell apart in an office at the venue in Chicago.
I remember how his presence ate up the space in the room.
Luca’s promise to help me and the way he followed through, encouraging me to apply for the job at Santa Isabel.
Luca’s commitment to the people he cares about. The way he built me up over the past few months and helped me find my confidence again.
Luca training me on the soccer field, pushing me to be the best version of myself.
His whirling me around on a dance floor, his eyes bright, his grin dazzling.
The sound of his voice when he tells me he loves me.
The way my heart races and a happiness I’ve never known rolls through me when he enters a room.
The connection that flares to life every single time my eyes meet his.
My Luca. What the hell was I thinking pushing him away?
Turning to look out the window, I admit that getting to this point in my career, in my life, has been hard-earned. Moving countries, learning a new language, trying to prove to everyone that I am more than my family name.
But it was Luca DiBlanco who helped me believe in myself when I was at my lowest. It was Luca who made my move back to Spain feel like a homecoming. Like a win instead of a failure.
And now, I don’t want to sacrifice our hard-won victory. Our love. I don’t want to envision my future without him in it. I can’t.
I close my eyes against the onslaught of tears and hold Luca’s image in my mind. I love him. With everything I am, I love him.
Sucking in a breath, I send a frantic text message. Then, I bow my head and pray.
32
Luca
I hang my head in shame as the doctor walks me through my injuries and the recovery time.
“You’re very lucky,” he explains.
He’s right. Given the severity of motorcycle accidents, walking away with a busted shoulder, road rash on my legs, and bruised ribs is nothing. Well, it’s a warning—but nothing that will ruin my life or career.
But it means League Valencia will be short a player for our finals in the Champions League and Coach Javi is going to fucking lose it when he learns the reason why. I know I’ll be hit with a huge fine, possibly even a team suspension.
Closing my eyes, I focus on the good news—my recovery time is short.
