I whirl toward her. “What happened?”
“It’s not a big deal; I’m fine,” she forces out. “¿Qué pasa? How was your game?”
“We won. Three to two. I just got back to town,” I say. My jaw tightens as I note the way she leans to one side. She walks toward the couch slowly and I know she’s fighting against the pain. As she sits down, she winces.
Fuck.
“Did you take anything for the pain?” I keep my voice low. If I don’t, I’ll fucking lose it. What the hell happened?
“Paracetamol.”
“This from the guys you play with? They rough you up?”
Carla sighs and closes her eyes for a long beat. “No, they would never do that.”
“Carla.”
“If I tell you, will you let it go? I don’t want or need you to run interference for me.”
I scowl, hating what she’s asking of me. Basically, to hear her out and then do fucking nothing about it. “Fine.”
“The boys’ coach at Santa Isabel?—”
“Sergio.”
“You know him?” Her eyes widen in surprise.
I know he’s a piece of shit who thinks he’s better than others. Álvaro never liked him. He’s always talked down to Álvaro, thinking he’s beneath him because he’s a maintenance man. He has no idea that a stronzo like him doesn’t hold a candle to a legend like Álvaro. “I know him. He did this to you?”
I’m going to wring his fucking neck.
“He’s been…challenging to work with. Undermines me every chance he gets, keeps stealing my time on the field. He did it again today and in a fake show to be amicable, suggested that the girls play the boys in a friendly. That way, we could both use the field.”
I sigh, averting my gaze. I know where this is going.
“The girls played hard. They felt like they had something to prove. We were tied at the half and then, we took the lead. Sergio felt threatened. He suggested the coaches jump in. There were only twelve minutes left and the girls asked me to say yes…”
“He got rough with you? Put his fucking hands on you?” My voice is deceptively quiet. Controlled. But my anger mounts, causing my nostrils to flare as I stare at Carla.
“Yes,” she whispers. “One of his players pulled me up and I finished the game. We won.” She attempts a smile.
But I don’t buy it. I gesture toward the hem of her shirt. “Let me see it.”
“What?”
“Let me see your injury.”
“It’s nothing; there’s nothing to see.”
“Carla, por favor, don’t bullshit me. I know you’re hurting. Let me help you.”
“Luca,” she says, almost breathless. “I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m fine. I can handle this.”
I swear and shake my head, my patience slipping.
“Why are you here? What’s wrong?”
I pace in front of her coffee table. “I need to ask you for a favor. I need your help.”
