I snicker and leave Álvaro to rest as I feed the cats, clean up the kitchen, and rummage through the new assortment of baked goods Gladys insisted on leaving behind.
Taking a bite of a walnut brownie, I think of ways I can help support Marlowe and Ale through this trying time.
“B, I can’t talk too long,” I tell my sister as I stow my shoes in my locker.
“I know. Good luck today!” my sister replies. “I wish I was there.”
“Me too,” I say, meaning it. It’s the first time in a decade that League Valencia has advanced to the quarterfinals of the Champions League. Under Alejandro’s leadership, we have a chance of being named the top club in Europe.
Energy crackles through my limbs and I pull in a breath. “Everything okay in New York? You good?”
“I’m great, Luca. Honestly,” B replies and I hear the lightness in her tone. She sounds good…whole. “I’ve got some photoshoots lined up this week for brand collabs and I’m meeting friends for brunch in a few.”
“Okay, have fun.”
“You too! This is your season, Luca. In all things, not just fútbol.”
“Hope so, B.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say, disconnecting the call and handing in my cell phone.
I move through my pregame rituals. Looking at my parents’ pictures, saying a series of quick prayers, having a moment of gratitude, and murmuring the refrain to Mamma’s favorite song—Gino Paoli’s “Sapore di Sale.” Taste of Salt.
When I open my eyes, I note Andrés patiently waiting off to the side. Having witnessed my random collection of rituals for years, he cocks his head. “Ready?”
I suck in a breath and nod. “Andiamo.” Let’s go.
Our team forms a huddle before we take the pitch.
“This is our game today; our pitch,” Alejandro states. “We’ve waited a long time to play at this level, in this championship. Leave it all out on the pitch, everything you have. We do this big today.”
My teammates nod in agreement. A tense silence, filled with nerves and expectations, hopes and years of dreams, stretches between us.
Our coach, Javi, lists last-minute reminders. The trainers move from player to player, double-checking wraps and tape-ups. And then, League Valencia steps onto the pitch.
Hundreds, no, thousands, of fans surround us as the stadium erupts with cheers and our club chant. Scarves wave, foam fingers jostle, and the cheers are deafening. I freeze, standing still as I take it all in.
I’ve been playing professional fútbol, calcio, since I was nineteen years old and this moment has never gotten old. Witnessing the support of thousands of people is something I will never take for granted. This sport has seen me through the best and worst moments of my life and has shaped every aspect of the man I am.
Pressing a kiss to my two fingers, I lift it to the crowd and am rewarded with louder screaming. Alejandro tosses an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, tío. Let’s do this.”
I fall into step with him and run through warm-ups. When I look up into the stands, to the family box the Garcías always occupy, I note the Sewing Circle, clad in visors and oversized sunglasses; Alejandro’s polished parents, Rubén and Paloma; his fun-loving Abuela; and Carla.
I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face when I see her in the stands. And even though I knew she’d be here today—Alejandro is her brother—I can’t help but feel like she’s also here to cheer for me.
It’s been years, eight to be exact, since a woman showed up for me. I didn’t realize how much I missed that. Having someone to count on, experiencing that extra zip of excitement, trusting in another’s presence. Rolling my lips together, I pull in a breath and vow to make this one of my best games.
Today, I’m playing for Carla.
The game starts and I lock in. Keeping my body loose and limber, I scan the pitch for opportunities and seven minutes in, spot my chance. As Carlos moves behind the defense, I dribble the ball and maneuver to thread him a pass. He accepts it beautifully and takes a shot on goal. He aims for the top left corner and even though the goalie dives, he isn’t able to save it. The ball crosses into the goal and we score!
Relief unspools through my limbs as the fans jump to their feet, cheering.
“Hell yeah!” Andrés shouts.
“Bel gol!” I call out to Carlos. Good goal!
