With your talent, they would be crazy to turn you down.
Carla
Don’t jinx me, DiBlanco.
Luca
Relax. That job is yours.
“From your lips to God’s ears, Luca,” I mutter to myself.
This coaching opportunity feels bigger than it is in my current emotional state. The thought of being rejected, again, fills me with dread and anxiety. I need the direction, the commitment, as much as the girls need a coach who will put them first.
Besides, as Papá pointed out—again—if I want a shot at a club team in Spain, I need to get my ass in shape. No more wallowing around, directionless. It’s time to restart chasing my dream. Coaching the girls’ team would put me back in the headspace to train hard, manage my nutrition, and work on my game.
In fact, it’s something I want to float by El Tanque and Risitas. I know they’ll push me to hone my skills and sharpen my play in case I’m invited to train with a club or the national team.
I’m not holding my breath…but fuck if I’m not hopeful and praying for a miracle. International breaks occur at the end of the month so there’s a small chance I could be invited as early as this month or April. If that happens, I need to be fully prepared to take my shot.
Changing into leggings and a T-shirt, I head to the gym.
Over the next few days, I dive back into my old routine—training, running drills, eating clean. I run in the early mornings, force myself to sleep early, and substitute my wine for water.
At the end of the week, an email from the concertado, Santa Isabel’s semi-private school classification, hits my inbox, inviting me to come in for an informal interview. And my world opens up again.
I vow to secure the coaching position. I’m ready to prove to myself that I haven’t peaked at twenty-five. I’m not washed up. Instead, I’m ready for my second act.
“We’re celebrating, Joe!” Ale announces as he slides onto a barstool at Corcho.
“Congrats on the win, Ale,” Joe replies, grabbing two pint glasses. “That was some bicycle kick.”
“Thanks, man. But we’re celebrating something else,” my brother replies, winking at me.
“Oh? Is Marlowe pregnant?” Joe asks, dropping his elbows to the bar top and assuming a very chatty stance.
Ale drops his head, chuckling. “Who told you?”
“Er, sorry,” I murmur as Joe points at me. I give him the stink eye. “You didn’t have to call me out!”
“But it’s so easy,” he whines. “Besides, without Bianca here…I’m bored.” He points to someone behind me. “Don’t tell her I said that; I’ll deny it.”
I swivel on my barstool as Luca steps in front of me. My throat dries. He looks…delicious. Dark eyes, chiseled jaw, full lips. His curly hair has been buzzed short, making him look…mature and sophisticated.
My stomach twists, and I cross one leg over the other. “DiBlanco.”
He grins slowly and I nearly avert my gaze. “Cucciola.”
Ale snorts and slaps his friend on the back. “We’ll take three shots of tequila, Joe. My sister just became the head coach for Santa Isabel’s juvenil feminino.” He mentions the sixteen- to eighteen-year-old girls’ squad that represents the concertado.
“Ayyy.” Joe grins, congratulating me. “¡Ola tú, Carla! Enhorabuena.”
“Gracias,” I say, blushing. Turning toward Ale, I ask, “You sure you want to drink with Marlowe feeling so poorly?”
“She practically pushed me out of the flat. Said she needed space without me hovering over her,” Ale replies, shrugging.
Luca and I exchange a look and a quiet laugh.
Luca slips onto the barstool on my other side, sandwiching me between him and my brother. “I knew you’d get the job.”
