“Luca,” I warn.
He swears. “Fine.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow night?”
His expression softens as he nods. “Get some rest, Carla.”
“I will.”
Then, I end our call, start my car, and drive to Abuela’s house. She is, as always, understanding. And after fixing me a light supper, she shoos me into her guest bedroom for a good night’s rest.
But when my alarm rings at six a.m. the following morning, I’m too sick to move. My limbs feel like dead weight, my head swims, and my throat burns.
“Cuarenta.” Abuela reads my temperature. Forty degrees Celsius. One hundred four degrees Fahrenheit. Her cool hand rests against my forehead and she swears colorfully, letting me know she’s getting me medicine and calling the doctor. “Lo siento, Carla, cariño. Hoy no hay fútbol.” I’m sorry, Carla, darling. No fútbol today.
I’m too ill to muster a response. Instead, I close my eyes and, sick and defeated, let sleep claim me.
26
Luca
“Carla’s not coming,” Ale says when I meet up with him and Andrés for breakfast the following morning.
“I know,” I reply, glumly. “I spoke with her and I feel fucking terrible that she’s so sick.”
“Abuela will take good care of her,” Andrés offers.
I drag a hand through my curly hair and nod in agreement. The three of us take a seat at a back table in the hotel’s restaurant and rattle off an order.
“I’m also pissed as fuck about the shit Sergio keeps putting her through,” I admit, once I have a cortado in hand.
At that, Ale’s head snaps up. Andrés narrows his eyes.
“What shit?” Ale presses.
Damn. I close my eyes. If Carla didn’t tell her brother, I don’t want to go and gossip to Alejandro. But he’s one of my best mates and if Carla wasn’t his sister, I already would have vented my frustrations to him.
“You can’t leave us hanging,” Andrés tacks on.
“He’s a fucking dick,” I mutter before launching into all the shit Sergio has done to undermine Carla—the snide comments, making her look bad in front of authority figures, stealing her pitch time, bruising her up during the fake friendly, and the latest, not filing her players’ paperwork to flag their eligibility to play.
When I’m done, both guys are staring at me in shock…and blazing anger.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ale swears. “Why didn’t she say anything?”
“What a piece of shit. Have you handled it yet?” Andrés glares.
I sigh. “She asked me not to?—”
Ale narrows his eyes.
“And I’m trying to respect that,” I continue. “But now…I can’t leave this unchecked. Especially when she’s so sick and has a big game on Monday. Even Álvaro warned me about the guy.”
“This is insane,” Ale murmurs, thanking the server for our food.
“I know,” I agree, chomping on a piece of toast. “I can’t wait to play this game and get home.”
Ale’s expression softens. “You really care for her, don’t you?”
