I love every second of working with my girls. They’re smart, strategic players and they have heart, a true love and appreciation for the game. And for each other. We work well together, moving the ball up field.
We have a one goal lead against the boys. Julieta scores, making it a 4-2 game.
And that’s when things turn nasty.
Sergio is all over me, pressing me hard.
I accept a pass from Maria, dropping low like Luca taught me to shield the ball. I use my body to protect the ball as I look for an open player. As I begin to dribble, Sergio reaches out and twists the back of my shirt. He grasps the end of my ponytail as well, pulling my head back before shoving me forward.
Not expecting the physicality, or the strength he uses, I falter. My ankle stays frozen as my body propels forward and I go down hard, hitting my elbow and ribs at an unnatural angle.
“Oof,” I breathe out, feeling the wind get knocked out of me.
A moment later, a hand appears in my line of vision. It’s one of Sergio’s players. “¿Todos bien, Carla?” I note the genuine concern in his expression as he pulls me to my feet.
My body screams in protest. My elbow smarts and my ribs are going to sport a massive bruise. But my ankle, while tender, is okay. And there’s no way in hell I’ll lose face in front of Sergio, in front of my girls, after he pulled a stunt like that.
“Sí, gracias,” I murmur, thanking the player.
I dust off my hands and tighten my ponytail.
“You’d get a yellow card for that in a real game,” Julieta mutters to Sergio.
He holds up his hands in a faux apology. “Perdón, García.” Sorry. What a crock of shit. “If you want to call in a sub…”
“I’m fine,” I bite out. “Let’s finish this.”
I make it through the remainder of time, managing to set my girls up for one more shot on goal. I pass the ball to Maria who scores, securing our win at 5-2.
“Buen partido, chicas,” the boy who helped me up congratulates the girls, holding up his hands to high-five them. Good game, girls.
“¡Sois unas cracks, tías!” another boy calls out, grinning at them. You’re legends, girls. He points at me. “You too, Coach.”
The girls grin and I dip my head in thanks. His calling me coach, showing me genuine respect in front of his incredibly disrespectful coach, speaks volumes about his character. It means a lot to me.
“Muchas gracias,” I reply. “Bien jugado, chicos, de verdad.” Well played, boys, really.
I round my girls up, congratulating them on a well-earned win. I don’t bother exchanging words with Sergio. What he pulled was shady and everyone on the field—the girls and the guys—know it.
My team beams with pride, throwing their arms around each other and replaying portions of the game. I hang back with them, reveling in their joy, even though my body screams to be thrown into an ice bath.
Instead, I take my team out for ice cream to celebrate. By the time I make it home, I’m slightly limping. I manage a cold shower and make some toast and tea for dinner. Grabbing a frozen bag of vegetables, I rest it on my elbow. Then, I place a bag of frozen blueberries on my ribs and ease back on the couch.
Ah, relief. The icy compresses feel good against my bruised skin. I close my eyes, relieved to finally relax, when the doorbell rings.
12
Luca
She looks dead on her feet when she pulls open the door to her flat.
“Luca.” Her eyebrows pull together. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you,” I admit, looking her over. Her face is pale and she’s holding her frame gingerly, leaning to the right, as if protecting herself. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she murmurs, holding the door open wider.
I step over the threshold and note the bags of frozen fruits and vegetables on her coffee table. A mug of tea, a plate of half-eaten toast. Carla’s hurt.
