“We’re done for tonight,” I bite out, pulling my sweaty shirt away from my frame. The cool air that catches underneath the material feels good. As I guzzle water, my temper cools too.
“What the hell is going on with you?” Carla demands, standing before me with a hand on her hip. “The last thing I need, DiBlanco, is another man telling me what to do and how to do it.”
I shuffle back a step, surprised by her anger. But then I pause and try to piece together everything she’s not saying. “Is the boys’ coach still giving you a hard time?”
“That’s not what this is about.”
I drop my head back and swear at the night sky. “Álvaro’s back in the hospital.”
“What?” she breathes, sitting on the edge of the bench as the fight whooshes out of her.
“I’m sorry for being shitty. My head is all over the place lately.”
“What happened?”
“He had a dizzy spell. Almost passed out. They’re running tests and…nothing’s conclusive, but the doctors have concerns. They’re keeping him overnight.”
Carla reaches out, her fingers clutching mine. “Sit with me for a second,” she says, tugging me to sit beside her on the bench. Surprisingly, Carla drops her head to my shoulder.
“I’m a sweaty mess.”
She snorts. “I’m hot mess express pretty much every day of my life.”
“Definitely hot. Mess, not so much,” I disagree, nudging her with my shoulder. “What’s going on with the boys’ coach?”
“He’s undermining me every chance he gets. It keeps me on edge at work. But I’m in a pissed-off mood because I had dinner with my family. Papá wants to know a million things and I don’t have answers for any of them.”
“Like what?”
“Am I going to settle into coaching now? Am I giving up on my dreams of playing again? What if I don’t make a team? What if I do make a team? Have I looked at clubs outside of Spain? Just a constant barrage of questions. And I don’t fucking have the answers,” she admits, shaking her head. “Right now, I’m focused on my girls, on the team I’m coaching. On training with you. Jesus, I don’t know how Ale stood it for so many years. Papá can be insufferable.”
“It was tough on Ale. He didn’t always keep his cool.”
“Yeah,” Carla agrees. “But now, he’s happily married and having a baby and even he…”
“What?”
She shrugs. “He’s echoing Papá. I’m not someone who buckles under pressure. The higher the stakes, the better I perform. But right now, it feels like there are no stakes. I don’t belong anywhere. Everything is up in the air and that uncertainty, the living in limbo, is unsettling. I don’t handle it well.”
“You don’t have to have all the answers all the time. Part of the fun, part of living, is figuring them out as you go.”
“Yeah. Tell that to Papá.”
“Ale’s tried.”
She snorts. Looks up at me. Her eyes are more blue than green, bright, and swimming with amusement. “I like that you don’t judge me, Luca.”
I shake my head, reaching for her hand and lacing our fingers together. I squeeze her hand in response and we sit like that, two players on the pitch, under the bright lights and night sky, for several minutes.
When I glance at Carla, she’s staring at me, her eyes solemn.
“What is it?” I murmur.
She shakes her head, averting her gaze.
“You can tell me anything.”
She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. “What if I don’t make a team?” Self-doubt swims over her words and I hate witnessing it when the woman I know exudes confidence.
