I don’t say anything and rub my lips together, wondering if I need to reapply another coat of lipstick. I chose bright magenta, which isn’t like my usual brown and nudes. Another “turning forty” thing and all that, though I still feel twenty-nine in my head.
“She doesn’t want to jinx it,” Helen finally explains.
“Jinx what?” says Liz.
“I have an interview tomorrow,” I tell them, keeping my voice low and looking around. Even though the restaurant is fairly loud on this Friday night, I don’t want the wrong people to hear.
“For a job?” Kazzy asks.
I give her a tepid look. “Yes, for a job. I’ve been out of work for four months, Kazzy. I need a job. And I’ve been applying to teams this whole time. Apparently, being only one of two female sports therapists in the entire European league isn’t the greatest selling point, no matter my credentials.”
“So who is the interview for?” Liz asks. “What team? Arsenal? Chelsea? Manchester City?”
“Well, technically it’s the third interview. I’ve already done two over the phone, one with the general manager, one with the manager. Tomorrow the manager, you know, the coach, is coming out to meet with me. Honestly, I’m shocked I got this far.”
“Stop selling yourself short,” Helen chides me.
“What team?” Liz repeats.
Even thinking of the name makes my mouth twist into a smile. “Real Madrid.”
Liz blinks at me while Kazzy exclaims, “You’re moving to Madrid!?”
“Shhh. And no, well, maybe. Who knows. If I get the job, then yes.”
“Real Madrid? Are you serious? This is a huge deal!” Liz says. Then her eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because I don’t want to jinx it,” I explain truthfully. “Because it is a huge deal.”
“Huge,” Helen repeats. “Another reason to take it easy tonight. You don’t want to show up for your interview all hung over, especially since he’s come all this bloody way to see you.”
“Gee, no pressure,” I tell her dryly.
She shrugs. “Someone has to watch out for you.”
Sometimes I get annoyed at the way Helen bosses me around, but most of the time I’m grateful. I’ve been a complete hot mess these last six months and she’s been there every step of the way to hold my hand and keep me in line. I have to say, the only reason I’m a bit hesitant about working for Real Madrid — if it happens — is not having her so close. I didn’t realize how alone I would feel, how much I relied on my friends, until my marriage collapsed.
“This is just so bloody exciting,” Kazzy says, clapping her hands together. “I’m going to have to visit you every weekend, you know that. Oh, I hope your flat has an extra bedroom but you know I can make do on the floor.” Kazzy is the youngest of our crew at thirty-two. She’s happily married and the mother to toddler twins, and yet she still manages to live life her way. It helps that her husband works from home and is a total doll.
At one point that would have bothered me, that I wasn’t able to have that kind of life with Stew, but right now I’m so focused on the interview and the future that I feel nothing over it.
That’s progress.
“Again, nothing is final,” I remind them. “I mean, it’s Real Madrid.”
“And will you be the head of the physio team like you were here?” Kazzy asks.
“Pretty much,” I say, feeling more uneasy about my chances.
“You’ll get the job, Thalia,” Liz says. “You were the unsung hero of Manchester United.”
“No, that was Stewart,” I remind her.
“Stewart does shit,” she says.
“Shhh,” Helen hisses, glancing around her. “Do you want to start a riot in here?”
It’s no secret that Man U fans are crazy. I used to be a sports therapist for LA Galaxy and I had no idea what the soccer (sorry, football) fandom was really like over here. No one in the US seemed to care too much about the game (compared to the NFL, NBA, etc.) but here it’s a religion. When I got hired by Man United, they didn’t prepare me for the flack I would get for being not only a new member of the team but a female one as well, nor did they warn me that fans were nutty to begin with.
Stewart was the assistant coach at the time. I’ve been in this business since college and my number one rule was to never ever get personally involved with a member of the team.
I broke that rule with Stew.
And then he broke me.
Maybe we broke each other.
Anyway, Stewart is the head coach now and everyone either loves him or hates him depending on how the team is doing. Right now it’s July and there are only “friendly” non-competitive matches being played, so the fans have calmed down a bit. Still, I get paranoid that someone is going to recognize me every time I go out and it won’t help if I’m badmouthing the team, or Stewart. I was already dragged through public hell with the divorce and the scandal.
“Sorry, Helen,” Liz says with a look that means she’s not quite sorry. “I forget sometimes you’re still friends with Stewart.”
“We’re not friends,” Helen says, avoiding my eyes. “We’re just friendly.”
Hmmm. Even though Helen just had Stewart and his new lady whore over for dinner last weekend. I don’t bring that up though. Helen’s husband is Stewart’s best friend, which is how we met in the first place, and as much as I hate the fact that she still sees him, at least she never brings him up around me.
The waiter comes back with my sparkling water and Kazzy raises her glass to me.
“Well, I don’t care if I’m jinxing it or not. Here’s to you, Thalia. Happy birthday, happy freedom day, happy getting the job you want and the life you deserve.”
If I was on my fourth martini, I probably would have started crying over that. But I manage to hold it all together.
“Thank you,” I tell her warmly, and we all lean in and clink glasses. “Here’s to what’s next.”
* * *
Despite my best intentions, the next morning I still wake up with a bit of a hangover.
“Is this what forty is like?” I groan out loud, reaching over to silence the alarm on my phone.
I lie back in bed for a moment and assess the damage. I have a headache, but painkillers and a vat of coffee should take care of that. It could be worse.
I slowly sit up so I don’t get nauseous and take stock of my room. It’s small and dark, reminding me of a cave or a tomb, with only a small window that looks right out onto a willow tree that blocks what little sun this area gets. When I first moved out of the house, I didn’t really care where I lived, I just knew I couldn’t be with Stew. Plus, I was out of a job. This place was cheap and as dark as my soul, the perfect place to curl up and drown in my depression.
Now, well, I have to say I’m looking forward to saying goodbye to this place. Even if I don’t get the job with Real Madrid, the settlement from the divorce will happen soon and I can take that money and move anywhere I want.
The thought brings a smile to my lips as I head to the washroom to get ready. For the longest time it scared me, shamed me, to go from being part of a couple, a partnership, to being on my own. I had been so independent before I met Stewart that I think I kind of lost myself when I was with him. Now, I have no choice but to find myself again, on my own, and I’m starting to be less anxious about the whole thing and more excited for whatever happens next.
Okay, well today I’m completely anxious. I’m a nervous wreck. The coffee does wonders for my headache but makes my anxiety surge through the roof.
I need this job.
More than that, I want this job.
Badly.
Real Madrid is arguably the best club in Europe, if not the most famous. Being the main sports therapist for the team would mean a cushy salary, a long career, a change of pace, and best of all, living a new life in sunny Spain. It would mean a second chance for me to keep doing what I love and to let this chapter of my life in Ma
nchester finally come to a close.
The worst part is that it’s kind of my last resort. Any available positions for teams around the world have been rare, and the ones I applied for, I didn’t get very far along in the interview process. I hate to bring up the woman card, but a lot of the time it’s definitely because I’m a woman. Sometimes the teams and this sport can be mighty archaic.
That’s why getting the job at Manchester United to begin with was such a big win for me. It gave me purpose and brought me joy and made me feel like I’d finally made it. In this highly competitive industry, once you find a good job with a club, you need to hang on to that job for as long as you can. Turnover is very, very low.
Which is why it still hurts that I ended up quitting my position with Man United. Lord knows Stewart wasn’t going to leave the team and I couldn’t stand to work alongside him anymore, let alone look at him. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do and I don’t know when I’ll stop feeling bitter over it. I’d spent so much of my life working up to that job and to have it gone because of a man, because I personally couldn’t handle working with him, because of something he did, sits deep within me like a festering wound.
Don’t get carried away. Stay positive, I tell myself, and mindfully push the cup of coffee away from me. It isn’t helping.
My interview is at a café around the corner from my place. It’s low-key and people seem to mind their own business there which is why I suggested it. It doesn’t take me long to get ready and head out. I’m a bit early, but since it’s such a gorgeous summer day, I’m hoping to get a good table outside before he gets there.
The “he” in question is Mateo Casalles, head coach of Real Madrid. Once upon a time he was the centre back for Atlético, the other Madrid team, before becoming their coach and taking the team to new heights. He was then poached by Real Madrid about two years ago. I’d already talked to him during the phone interview, and he seems pretty easygoing in that charming, ex-player way — far easier to talk to than Jose, the general manager, who was very curt and gave me nothing. In fact, I thought I bombed that first interview with Jose since he didn’t seem to warm up to me at all, but I still managed to get that second interview with Mateo.
And maybe, if luck is on my side, this will be the last one.
Steps away from the café, my hands begin to sweat. I need to uncover some of that confidence that’s been buried lately, find that badass, assured, skilled woman that I used to be, that I know I am deep down.
You got this, I tell myself as I quickly look around to see if he’s here. Being involved in the sport for so many years, I know what all the coaches and players look like, but luckily I don’t spot him yet.
I order myself a decaf latte and a scone and then score a table in the back patio beside flowering wisteria that tumbles over the brick wall. I close my eyes and take a moment to breathe, to try and find my center and stay there.
“Miss Blackwood?”
A familiar voice breaks through my mini-meditation and I open my eyes to see Mateo Casalles pausing at the foot of the table.
“Hi!” I say and smile, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, and get to my feet to shake his hand.
“Nice to meet finally meet you, Mr. Casalles,” I tell him, trying to give the firmest grip I can muster without trying to wring his hand. It’s amazing how many first impressions in this business are based on a handshake.
“Por favor, please, it’s Mateo,” he says, slipping from Spanish to English with ease.
“Then it’s just Thalia to you,” I tell him lightly, sitting back down.
He pulls out the chair across from me and immediately sits back in it, striking a relaxed pose, as if he’s known me for a long time. “Beautiful day, is it not? Every time I’ve come here, it’s been pissing, as the locals say. With rain, of course. Not actual piss.”
His English is fluent but his accent and delivery is charming. Then again, he’s a charming man. He’s in his mid-forties with thick black hair that’s greying at the sides and tanned skin that stands out against a light grey suit. He has an easy smile. He’s wearing aviator glasses, but I know his eyes underneath are kind and dark.
Except when he’s on the field, of course. Real Madrid has played Manchester United enough times to see the real Mateo come out, especially when they’re losing or there have been some unfair calls. He becomes hot-tempered and explosive, much like Stewart does in the same situation. Only difference is, Mateo seems to recover. Stewart never really did.
“Yes, it’s normally pissing,” I tell him. “We don’t quite get the summers up here like you do in Spain.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he says as the waitress comes by to bring me my latte and scone as well as his coffee, which he starts to pour sugar packet after sugar packet into. I stare as he stirs it methodically with a spoon. “You were in born in Seattle, yes?”
I nod. “I should be used to the rain but when I got the chance to move to LA to work with the Galaxy, I was more than happy to leave the Pacific Northwest.”
“So I’m guessing you’ll be more than happy to leave this weather behind,” he says idly, raising the cup to his mouth and having a sip. He frowns at his drink and then shrugs. “The coffee, it’s not quite like it is at home, but it will do.” He smiles at me. “Forgive me, I can’t remember if we discussed this over the phone or not, but you’ve been to Spain, yes?”
“Many times, but only briefly. Barcelona, Seville, and Madrid for the matches. I didn’t see any of the cities. The real Spain.”
“That’s a shame. But I understand. This is perhaps the most of Manchester I’ve seen.” He pauses and I want to tell him he’s not missing much. “So without knowing the city, you have no problems uprooting your life here and moving there?”
I give him a tepid smile. “You know I don’t.”
In this industry, nothing is a secret. Even if Stewart’s affairs hadn’t been splashed all over the tabloids, news travels fast. When it comes to the leagues, everyone knows everything about each other’s business. Call it strategy, call it gossip, call it what you will.
He shrugs with one shoulder. “Some people are sentimental.”
“Not me.”
Not anymore.
He nods at that with an agreeable sound and then finishes the rest of his coffee in one go. “You know I’ve already made up my mind about you.”
“In what way?”
“Well, if you’re going to get the job, of course.”
I still. This surprises me.
“When?”
“Just now,” he says with a bit of a smirk. “Of course I already had a good idea or I would have not come all this way.”
Oh jeez. Am I going to have to pry it out of him?
“It’s not up to Jose?” I ask.
“Jose gave me the final word.”
“I got the impression he didn’t like me.”
“To be fair, he doesn’t like anyone. Including me. And yet he still gave me the final word, which means he at least trusts me. Would you like to hear it?”
I breathe in deeply through my nose and then flutter my fingers along the table. “Lay it on me.”
“Lay it on you?” he repeats, frowning.
Right. I forget English isn’t his first language.
“I want to hear it,” I clarify.
He smiles. “Of course you have the job.”
My heart thuds against my ribs. “Are you serious?”
“Almost always,” he says. “Though perhaps I should be more professional about it. Jose is always, how do you say, harping on me about that. That’s what I get for still feeling like a player sometimes and not a leader.” He clears his throat. “It would be a pleasure if you accept this role as the head physical therapist for Real Madrid. I think you would do an excellent job.”
He pauses and studies me. I’m in shock.
“So,” he says, brows raised. “Do you accept?”
“Yes,” I blurt out, and it feels like I�
�m accepting a marriage proposal. “Yes, yes, absolutely.”
“That was the answer I was hoping for,” he says, extending his hand again.
I reach across the table and shake on it, completely stunned at what just happened and unable to stop smiling.
After that, Mateo doesn’t stay long. We talk about a few logistics, like if I need help finding a flat (which I do), signing paperwork, when I’ll start (in a month). Right now is the team’s off season so there are a few friendly matches that Real Madrid is doing and then the official season starts at the end of August. Until then, there’s a hell of a lot of catching up to do.
I watch as he leaves, grabbing a cab on the street to take him to the airport.
I decide to stay in the café and order a mimosa to celebrate before I call everyone I know and share the good news.
Maybe, just maybe, this decade won’t be so bad after all.
Chapter 2
Thalia
Madrid, Spain
“Excuse me?” I say to a twenty-something couple who is strolling hand in hand outside the botanical gardens. “Which way to Plaza Mayor?”
They both shrug and give an apologetic smile and keep walking. Either they’re tourists or they don’t speak any English. Or both.
I sigh and look for the next victim to flag down.
I’ve been living in Madrid for five days and to say the city has me confused is an understatement. I’ve been trying to run the same route every day and yet keep finding myself in different parts of the city. Normally I at least have my phone to guide me once I realize I’m lost, but this time it died mid-run because I was taking too many pictures.
It's Madrid’s fault. The city is ridiculously pretty.
The times I’ve been here before with the team, I never saw any of it. I was either on the field or sleeping in a hotel outside of the city, near the stadium. That was it. You’re in and out with that kind of travel.
Now, I’m finally exploring it. They say there is no better way to get to know a place than to get lost in it, but they probably didn’t have to be at work at a certain time.
The Younger Man: A Novel Page 2
