“Beat him at his own game,” Enrique murmurs, dropping his chin so I can note the severity of his expression. Then, he steps into the meeting room and I’m left to grapple with the meaning behind his words.
What the hell is Sergio playing at?
Luckily, it doesn’t take long to figure it out.
The head of the athletic department, Juan Ramon, begins the meeting by highlighting the expectations of the fútbol program. He speaks in measured Spanish, interspersed with English, so the international coaches can understand him.
“Our fútbol program has been strong for several years. We’ve won regional and national titles and this season, there’s no doubt that we have the talent, the grit, and the coaching expertise to do it again.”
“I agree,” Sergio speaks up, leaning forward in his chair. “The boys have worked hard to earn the recognition and accolades that they have achieved. Now, the girls’ team was excelling under Madeline’s guidance, but Carla is new. She might have played abroad, but this is her first year coaching, am I correct?” He turns toward me, lifting a questioning eyebrow.
My cheeks heat from the not-so-subtle dig. He’s putting me on the spot on purpose. “That’s correct,” I agree as pleasantly as possible. Before I can add anything else, he continues.
“With all due respect, Carla, coaching a team isn’t the same as playing. Do you really have the experience to lead them on your own?”
Enrique lifts an eyebrow in my direction.
My stomach twists and a wave of nausea, of nerves, rolls over me. I’ve never had a hard time standing up for myself. In fact, drawing boundaries is something I excel at. But right now, I want to crawl under a rock. “I understand your concerns,” I say slowly. “But I’ve trained groups of girls for several years through summer camps as well as my advocacy for girls in sports in Chicago and other major American cities.”
“I think the experience you’re adding to the program, and to the school, is wonderful,” the girls’ swimming coach shares, smiling warmly at me.
“Thank you.” I smile back.
Sergio clears his throat.
Juan interjects before he can. “We still have playoffs ahead of us. Why don’t we focus on that for now and then see if any additional support is required for the boys’ or the girls’ teams.”
Juan moves on to discuss a fundraiser the tennis program is hosting, but Sergio mutters under his breath, his eyes boring directly into mine.
“If she were really that good, Chicago wouldn’t have dropped her.”
My stomach pitches at the cruelty behind his words. He wants to humiliate me. In fact, I’d even argue he wants to embarrass me more than he wants the school, or the sports programs, to succeed.
“Watch your back, Carla.” Enrique whispers the warning.
I nod, knowing he’s right.
Whatever issue Sergio has with me, it’s personal.
The following evening, after a pickup game with El Tanque, Risitas, and the boys, I relax into a hot bath and sigh in relief. It’s been a long week and I’m exhausted. I’m having dinner with my family tonight and need a few hours to decompress before I face my papá and his questions about my training as well as my team’s chances of winning the regional championship.
The ringing of my phone forces me to open my eyes and reach to the side of the tub.
“DiBlanco,” I answer Luca’s call. “Miss me much?”
He grunts though the line, a poor attempt to conceal his chuckle. “You sound chipper.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I’m actually exhausted.”
“Same,” he admits, and I hear the fatigue in his voice.
I sit up straighter in the tub, bending my knees. “Is everything okay? You’ve bailed on me twice.”
“I know. Mi dispiace, Carla.” I’m sorry.
“What’s going on?”
“Álvaro, an old and very good friend of mine, had an accident,” he says, his voice gruff.
