Guapo drops his teasing. “¿Estás bien?” You okay?
I nod. “I just need to…play.”
“Vale. Venga,” he agrees.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the guys divide into two groups. And then, we play fútbol. All out, messy, sweaty, pickup fútbol.
And I breathe a sigh of relief that I can still lose myself in it.
I don’t see Luca for the reminder of the week since he’s traveling for an away game on Friday. But, in all honesty, I barely have the time. After training sessions with my team, I either visit Álvaro or close myself in my office. At night, I spend hours at my kitchen table reworking our strategy, rotating the roster, and devising new plays.
As we approach playoffs, I want to give the girls every opportunity to win a title. To feel that unmistakable pride that fills your veins when you rise above and win.
On Saturday, I schedule field time. Again, when we arrive, the boys’ team has stolen our spot.
“This is getting ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath.
What the hell is Sergio playing at? He should want the girls to excel just as much as the boys because both are wins for the school. A solid program, for both the boys and girls, ensures more funding for the athletic department.
The fact that he’s so damn insecure as to prioritize his team by undermining mine is pathetic. But I know he’s threatened by me. I’m younger, have international experience, and played at a level he’s never achieved. Plus, he assumes I’m riding the coattails of my family name—something that has plagued me throughout my career. I’ve always had to work extra hard to prove that even though I’m a García, my place on the field is earned.
Sergio is short-sighted. Instead of using my credibility to bolster the program and strengthen the reputation of the school, he’s overplaying his hand.
“Didn’t know you’d be here, García,” Sergio lies as we approach the field.
“I reserved the time on the athletic calendar,” I say through clenched teeth. “You’ll have to wrap up.”
“Just started.” He shrugs. “My boys are already warmed up and playing.”
Behind me, I sense the girls’ restlessness. I feel their agitation, nerves, and worry.
“I’ll tell you what,” Sergio says in clipped Spanish, snapping his fingers and pointing at me. “Why don’t we have a friendly scrimmage? We’re already on the field, you’re all here…” He looks over my head. “How about it, girls? You think you can keep up with the boys?”
Anna coughs to cover her snarky reply.
I roll my lips together to keep from lashing out at him and turn toward my team.
“We’re game,” Julieta speaks up.
“Come on, Coach. We want to take them down,” Maria adds.
I look at the girls, noting the excitement and pride that filters over their expressions. They want to prove themselves. They need to.
Sighing, I turn back to Sergio. “Fine.”
He smirks. “Great. We’ll give you a few minutes to warm up,” he says, blowing his whistle to call in his boys.
The girls and I move to the visitors’ side of the field. “They’re going to do whatever they can to make sure they win,” I warn them. “The last thing these boys want is to lose to the girls’ team.”
“Which will make our victory even sweeter,” Julieta remarks.
“Justo.” Anna nods. Exactly.
I fight back my grin because I understand these girls. This was me at seventeen. Hell, this is me now.
Knowing I need to keep my cool—and my professionalism—I map out our game strategy, rattle off the names of the starters, and watch as the girls take the field.
“Vale,” Sergio says, clapping his hands together. “Two halves, twenty minutes each. Rolling substitutions.”
