“The interview was hardly an interview,” I admit. “It was more of a chat, an opportunity to discuss pay and the team’s schedule.”
“I figured as much,” Luca replies. “Hey, Joe, can I get a beer as well?”
“Sure thing, man,” Joe replies, filling a pint glass with a draft of Turia, a local amber beer.
“How’s the team?” Ale asks from my other side.
I scoot my barstool back so I can include them both in the conversation. “Pretty good,” I admit. “The program is solid, having made it to playoffs the last two years. I think they have a shot at winning the regional league championship this year. Two of the girls—Anna and Julieta—are powerhouses who have the potential to play professionally. I only met them briefly but…” I grin at my brother and Luca. “I’m really excited. It feels good to be invested in something again.”
“Happy for you, Carlita.” Ale bumps his shoulder against mine and passes me a shot of tequila.
“A te, campionessa,” Luca says, lifting his shot glass. To you, champion.
I beam, clinking my glass against theirs, and toss the shot back. The tequila burns my throat, but I smack my lips together, relishing the chance to celebrate.
“You guys are already making me cheat,” I say.
Ale lifts an eyebrow, questioning me.
“I gave up drinking,” I explain.
Ale scoffs. “Since when?”
“She’s a coach now. She’s gotta set an example,” Luca says.
“True,” I agree. “And I’m back in training.”
Ale arches an eyebrow. “You want to play for a club here?”
“Yes,” I admit, lowering my voice. “Maybe the national team.”
Surprise crosses my brother’s face. Pure admiration bleeds from Luca’s eyes. I take a breath before sipping my beer.
Now that I’ve admitted it aloud, it doesn’t sound as delusional as I feared. Why shouldn’t I take my shot? Why shouldn’t I give it my all?
“I need to train,” I admit. “I’ve taken a lot of time off, slacking.” I bite the corner of my mouth. “But I want to go all in.”
“I’ll train you,” Luca offers.
Ale shakes his head. “No way, Carlita. He looks all nice and dad-like?—”
“I’m not that old,” Luca interjects.
“It has nothing to do with age, tío,” Ale refutes. “It has to do with characteristics.” Ale turns to me. “But he’s a tough fucking coach. He’ll have you up at the crack of dawn running and spending your weekends, your days off, doing yoga. You’ll start sleeping with your foam roller.”
I snicker.
“I’m serious,” Ale continues. “I attended his summer camp three years ago. It was brutal.”
“Two of those boys just made Italy’s U-19 team,” Luca adds, cracking his knuckles. “I produce champions. You in, cucciola?”
My heart rate ticks up at the carrot he dangles. But…is he serious?
“If we do this, no pet names,” I reply, swiveling toward him.
“If we do this,” Luca counters, “you show up. No excuses. Rain or shine.”
I glance at my brother. “You’re right; he does sound like Papá.”
