I hold up my hand, cutting her off. “We’ll make a training plan for this week. I need to know when your team has games and also, I’m in Sevilla this weekend.”
“Right,” Carla says, unlacing her boots. “That’s a good idea.”
I don’t admit that I already downloaded Santa Isabel’s game schedule. I don’t admit that I just want to spend more time in her presence, soaking up moments together. Instead, I keep my mouth shut, shoulder her practice bag, and fall into step as Carla fills me in on the little details about her day, her new job, her life.
Over the next two weeks, Carla and I fall into a seamless routine. My life revolves around my one true passion—fútbol. I train with my team, I dial in my nutrition, I spend hours stretching and conditioning.
Fallas celebrations come and go and still, Carla and I train. Desperate to help her believe in herself again, I throw myself into training her to maximize her potential. Which, from where I’m standing, is endless.
It’s partly why I ride her as hard as I do.
But at the start of our fourth week working together, exhaustion creeps in. League Valencia suffered a loss against Barcelona. It was a tough defeat as we were playing a solid game up until the last three minutes when things went to shit. We ended up losing by two and team morale took a hit. The bus ride back to Valencia was long and heavy with silent anger and disappointment.
When I make it home, all I want to do is collapse onto my bed and pass out. But it’s still too early so I call Bianca to check in, take a shower, and drop onto the couch to watch some mindless television.
I must drift off to sleep because the next thing I know, the ringing of my cell phone is cutting through the air. I wake up in a panic, momentarily reliving the nights when I slept with my phone next to my pillow, worried Bianca would call to tell me that Mamma’s health took a turn.
That same sheen of anxiety clings to my skin, intensifying when I note the name of the hospital on my caller ID.
“Hola.”
“Buenas,” a woman says, her Spanish clipped. “Is this Luca DiBlanco?”
“Yes.”
She sighs. “I’m calling on behalf of Álvaro Gomez. He took a fall earlier this evening and shattered his hip and pelvis. You’re his emergency contact.”
I tip my head back and silently swear, wondering how long Álvaro was alone before someone called an ambulance. How long has he been in the hospital before they called me?
“I’ll be right there,” I say, scrambling to jot down the relevant information she shares. My skin is still coated in a sticky sheen from the panic of waking up disoriented. I quickly brush my teeth, wash my face, and pull myself together. Then, I jam my feet into sneakers, grab my wallet and keys…and my helmet catches my eye.
With nerves still ping-ponging through my body, the open road, empty at this hour, beckons. I reach for my helmet and ride to the hospital.
The clarity and relief I felt on my motorcycle dissipates the moment I enter the hospital. The sterile environment wraps around me, causing my mind to time travel.
Spoon-feeding Papa in his final weeks, his frail hand wrapped around the side rail of his hospital bed. His bony fingers trembled, the back of his hand bruised from so many blood withdrawals.
Dotting Mamma’s hairline with a cool compress in a New York hospital. Her hair was gone, her lips cracked and parched.
The helplessness of those experiences slam into me, causing me to sag against the wall of a hallway and suck in ragged breaths.
Álvaro is going to be fine. He’s going to leave this hospital and make a full recovery. I’ll make sure he has everything he needs—the care, the support, the financial means to retire, the way he should have years ago.
Sighing, I tuck my helmet under my arm and approach his hospital room.
I knock twice on the door before pushing inside.
“They shouldn’t have called you,” he greets me in gruff Spanish.
“Good to see you, too, old man.”
He smirks. “I do feel old.”
“Are you in pain?”
“I can handle it.” That means yes.
“Álvaro—”
