“I do,” I say solemnly. “And I would have told you earlier but?—”
“But your loyalty belongs to Carla now,” Ale finishes for me, nodding. “And it should. I meant what I said, Luca. You’re the best guy I could have picked for my sister.”
“Gracias,” I murmur.
Andrés looks between us, his expression unreadable.
“What?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Nothing. Just wondering who you would pick to date Bianca?”
At the absurdity of the question, I burst out laughing. “I don’t know, mate. B is a man-eater. Whoever she ends up with is going to have to be tough as nails to put up with her antics. But,” I admit, “she’s fiercely loyal and easy to love so he’ll be a lucky motherfucker too.”
Ale chuckles.
We finish our breakfast before we meet with the rest of the team for a mid-morning meeting. Then, it’s physiotherapy and massages, a lunch break, an afternoon nap, a pre-match meal, and finally, time to travel to the stadium and play for the Copa del Rey.
The stadium roars with energy as I step onto the pitch. Thousands of fans chanting our names, wearing our colors, and praying for victory. I’ve played hundreds of games, but there’s something about the Copa del Rey that fills my body with nerves.
The history of the Cup is rich and long. The pride and the glory and the legacy are steeped in tradition. It swims in my veins like shots of adrenaline, propelling me forward as I run through the warm-up with my teammates.
Coach Javi huddles us up for one last set of instructions, a pep talk, and then—it’s kickoff.
We play hard, all of us determined to secure victory. Both teams, Valencia and Bilbao, dig in and I know it’s going to be a battle until the last second.
Even though it’s late, the heat still hangs in the air, causing me to drip with sweat within the first fifteen minutes of play. Bilbao scores first, in the eighteenth minute, and I feel their joy, the shouting of their fans, the energy that bursts forth in the stadium, like a throat punch.
Andrés hangs his head and I know he’s mentally berating himself.
Shaking it off, I resign myself to stepping up my game. Playing harder. Faster. Giving more.
It’s right before the half when the opportunity presents itself. It’s as if I can see the trajectory of the ball before my opponent kicks it. Darting forward, I cleanly steal the ball and note Carlos cutting diagonally behind the defenders. I send a long, arcing pass that drops in stride for Carlos and he chases the ball inside the box for a shot on goal that…succeeds!
Grazie a Dio. I thank God, glancing heavenward in gratitude.
We play the remainder of the stoppage minutes with no advancement until the half is called.
I drop onto a bench in the locker room, guzzling water mixed with electrolytes. Andrés throws me a towel and I use it to mop up the sweat on my forehead and around my neck.
I nod as Coach throws out feedback.
“Stay tighter on #8. Lock him down. And look for the openings. Keep your mind sharp.”
Alejandro gives us one last pep talk and we jog back to the pitch, ready to take on the second half.
I suck in a breath and throw back my shoulders. As much as I wish Carla was in the stands, I hope she’s resting at home, watching the game.
As I take the pitch, I vow to win this match for her. To bring the Cup home, to her. To make this the most focused, all-out play I’ve ever brought to a game before.
“Andiamo!” I holler, dragging my hand through my hair. Let’s go!
“Amore, Carla, we’re bringing home the trophy!” I yell into the phone once I’m back in the locker room. Champagne sprays behind me, music blares, and my teammates mill around, some in kits, some in towels, several making their own video calls.
“I know! I’m so proud of you! You were amazing, Luca,” she gushes, beaming at me. But I note the fatigue that clings to her expression.
“I wish you were here.”
“Me too,” she admits, her smile slipping.
