Tomorrow, I board a flight to Valencia and then, once I’m locked in Mamá and Papá’s apartment, I’ll break down.
A knock at the bathroom door forces me to look up as one of my best friends and teammates, Raia, enters. “You ready?” she asks softly. The empathy in her bright blue eyes shines and it hurts.
“Mm-hmm,” I manage, clearing my throat.
“Ah, fuck, Carla.” Raia throws an arm around me. “This sucks.”
I snort, hugging her back. Tightly. “I know.”
“You’re going to be okay, Car. This will all work out, somehow.”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t see how. Soccer is the foundation of my identity. I’m a García—daughter to Rubén, the greatest futbolista of his generation, and little sister to one of Spain’s standout players, League Valencia’s captain, Alejandro. If I’m not a soccer player, I don’t know who I am.
“Come on. You’re almost up.” Raia takes my hand and leads me out of the women’s bathroom.
Right before I clear the door I glance over my shoulder. My reflection in the mirror shines back and I hate how I look.
Downtrodden. Shaken. Fragile.
The door swings shut and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Just get through the speech.
Applause rings out as I ascend the stage. A lump forms in my throat as I settle behind the microphone. Looking out into the crowd, the clusters of tables, each seated with ten impeccably dressed guests, I find my teammates. Raia flashes me a thumbs-up, and I breathe a little easier.
“Good evening,” I say, relieved my voice doesn’t tremble. “My name is Carla García and for the past four seasons, I’ve had the immense pleasure of playing soccer, a sport that I love with every fiber of my being, for the Chicago Tornadoes.”
I manage a smile.
Be strong. You can do this.
I grip the sides of the podium tighter as I lean closer to the microphone. I wrote and rehearsed my speech a week ago. I know it by heart and left my notecards in my purse at my table. But now, I go off script.
“Many of you may know my family name in the soccer world. My father, Rubén García. My brother, Alejandro García. Or even my brother-in-law, Avery Callaway, if football is your sport. But tonight isn’t about them. Tonight is about the women—the incredible and resilient women in sports who shaped me, who gave me a place to call home, who changed my life. Tonight, we’re here to celebrate those women and I would be remiss if I didn’t share the stories of how they made my dream career possible.” I note the tissues several of my teammates pull out. Giving them a quick grin, I share heartfelt, personal, true stories of how being an athlete, being a soccer player, changed my life for the better.
“When I first arrived in America, a division 1 collegiate player at a competitive program in North Carolina, I felt like a fish out of water. My English was rusty, it was my first time living away from home, and I didn’t know anyone. But my team captain, Kate, stepped up for me. When she saw me staying late at the field, she started staying behind too. Through her guidance and support, I honed my skills, but I also made my first real friend on campus. When I signed with Chicago, Kate had a deep-dish pizza delivered to my apartment in Chapel Hill to congratulate me.” I pause as the crowd releases a chuckle. “When I think of my teammates, I think of my sisters. The group of women who took bus and plane rides that crisscrossed the country. We would fill the time playing random games—Uno, Wordle, ones we would invent on the fly. They became my chosen family who brought me into their real families. I’ll always be thankful to Raia and the Callaway family for hosting me at Thanksgiving dinner.” I smile at my friend.
“Being a female athlete transcends the sport. It’s about tenacity, commitment, and grit. But it’s also about belonging, personal growth, and leadership. Women in sports changed the trajectory of my life. They carried me here, to Chicago, where I made a home among a team I adore, and a community I value more than words can say.
“I’m not sure what my next chapter looks like. Tonight, I stand before you, writing the last paragraph of my time here…and it’s scarier than I thought,” I admit, pausing as my voice wavers. Come on, Carla, you’re nearly there. “But…” I release a shaky laugh. “I do know this: the girl who moved to Chicago four years ago is not the woman standing before you tonight. And that is because of you. This community, this team, these women”—I extend my hand toward the table of my teammates—“have given me the opportunity of a lifetime. I’m so grateful to be here tonight to witness the continuation of that support. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Tornadoes, for being my home.”
I release an exhale as I conclude my speech. My final farewell.
The clapping is instant and enthusiastic, ringing in my eardrums. Beginning with the table of my teammates, people stand. Tears spring to my eyes as emotions, raw and unfiltered, crash over me. I blink rapidly as the crowd blurs. And then, I’m pulled into Coach Hunter’s arms for a hug.
“We’re gonna miss you, Seven,” he mutters, calling me by my number.
I nod, blinking against his shoulder. “Me too, Coach.”
“You’ll be making headlines in Europe before you know it,” he adds with more confidence than I feel as he escorts me off the stage.
But I don’t reply. Because, right now, playing in Spain feels like a long shot. Belonging to any team but this one feels like an impossibility.
Coach gives my arm one final squeeze before releasing me. I offer a watery smile. “Excuse me,” I murmur, tilting my head toward the ladies’ room.
I’ll just lock myself in a bathroom stall and sob my eyes out.
Coach offers an understanding nod. I force myself to take measured steps toward the women’s room, but as I push open the door, I hear the laughter of women inside.
