“It feels like everyone I know has moved forward in their lives. Weddings and babies and big milestones.” She half shrugs. “And I’m just here.” She glances at me. “Alejandro would say I’m being dramatic, but I feel depleted. Just…going through the motions. I didn’t realize that entire portions of my life are missing. But at the same time, I miss soccer and being part of a team.”
I’m taken aback by her honesty. The Carla García I remember is a ballbuster. She’s brash and outgoing and shimmering with vitality. I hate seeing her look forlorn, hearing her sound dejected.
And yet, a part of me recognizes that she’s confiding in me when she normally doesn’t let her guard down. Ooh, she’s friendly and inviting, but not with her inner thoughts or feelings. There’s always been a wall protecting those.
“You’re not being dramatic.”
She gives me a soft smile. “You’re a good big brother, Luca.”
“I’m not saying it as a big brother,” I assure her. “You’ve suffered a huge career setback.”
“Thanks.”
I huff out a snort. “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, cucciola. I’m just calling it like I see it.”
She waves a hand, giving me permission to continue.
“Losing your spot with your team is devastating. You lived in the States for years. You solidified your reputation with your squad. Your life was built around it. That’s normal. Hell, I feel that way here. But that’s not the reason why you haven’t found a partner or settled down romantically.”
“It’s not?” she widens her eyes, silently calling me out for my lack of a romantic commitment.
“No.” I shake my head. “I know you dated and had a life. The last guy, if I remember correctly, was German.”
“There were a handful of dates after Jonas Schmidt,” she murmurs. “Nothing serious though.”
Surprise slams into me and I gape at her. “Jonas Schmidt…the fútbol player?” Schmidt is a powerhouse of a player, having won a handful of national titles, before finishing his career in the Premier League. He’s also a serial dater with a lavish lifestyle, and more than a decade older than Carla.
She shrugs. “He didn’t like pretzels. Can you believe that?”
“He’s…forty.”
“Thirty-eight. And should you really be throwing stones at a glass house?”
I shake my head, rattled by her dating Schmidt. And, if I recall correctly, there was also a doctor in New York, an entrepreneur from London, and a real estate mogul in Tulum. But they were always mentioned in passing, as ellipsis in Carla’s life instead of exclamation points.
I glance at her as she takes another turn around the falla. In my mind, she’s still the kid I watched grow up. But she’s all grown up now. She’s a woman who dates and puts herself out there and makes mistakes. She’s a woman who truly lives life.
Like Bianca.
And it’s my fault for not recognizing it sooner.
“Were pretzels the deal-breaker?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
Carla grins, the slightest shadow of a dimple appearing in her cheek. “Basically.” She laughs. “But Jonas wasn’t as bad as one guy I dated in college. He didn’t like puppies…” She wrinkles her nose. “That was a one and done.”
Sighing, I toss an arm around her shoulder when she reaches my side. We continue our walk to her home. “You haven’t fallen behind,” I say, returning to our earlier conversation. “Fútbol is not your entire identity. You don’t have to make it your whole personality, Carla. You have so much to offer outside of the game.”
“Do I?” Her voice is smaller than it should be.
“Yes. It’s only been two months. And it’s tough when it seems like everyone around you is moving forward while you feel stuck.”
“I’m happy for my friends. For Ale and Marlowe.”
I hug her closer. “I know. You can be happy, ecstatic even, for the ones you love and feel a little bit sorry for yourself at the same time. Trust me.”
She tilts her head back. “Trust you?”
I nod, staring into her bottomless eyes.
