The Younger Man: A Novel

by Halle, Karina

  I spot a little old lady teetering past the entrance to the gardens and practically accost her. Even though she doesn’t seem to speak English, she still knows what I’m referring to and I’m pretty sure she’s giving me the right directions back to my new place.

  Note to self: learn Spanish.

  You’re never too old to learn a new language, right?

  I thank her profusely then start a slow jog up the street. Once I make it to Plaza Mayor, I know how to get to my flat in La Latina, or the Latin quarter.

  To be honest, I’ve been running around since six am. It’s the best time to beat the heat here in the throes of August and I need to keep in top physical condition these days. But really, it’s because I have a shitload of nerves I need to burn off before my first official day.

  The nerves I had before my final interview with Mateo? Yeah, they weren’t anything like the literal pins and needles that are spiking up and down my body, and it’s not because I’m slightly dehydrated. I am nervous.

  The Real Madrid squad has taken on almost a mythical quality these last few years. They don’t win every game but even when they lose, it seems like they decided to lose for shits and giggles. Nothing seems like an accident or luck with them. They recently acquired a new player from Barcelona, which is causing huge controversy, but even so the team has moved like a skilled, single unit, effortlessly possessing the ball in every game, defeating team after team, rising up and up and up, year after year, winning cup after cup.

  I’ve never been intimidated by a team before. The LA Galaxy were sweet and I learned so much from them, and Manchester was rough around the edges, but I never felt like I was out of my league. But Real Madrid? The kings of Europe? Even with Mateo’s faith in me, I still don’t know if I’m cut out for this, and that’s not even considering how the team will accept me.

  Hence why I’m working up such a sweat this morning, hoping that my endorphins will kick in and bolster me with the confidence I know I have deep in me.

  But, hey, I guess having jitters about the first day on the job isn’t too unique, is it?

  The old lady’s directions were correct, and it’s not long before I end up at the expanse of Plaza Mayor, the sun shining down on the square, slowly populating with tourists taking pictures and shops setting up outdoor tables for the breakfast crowd. From there I’m able to recognize shops and make my way down narrow cobblestone streets, still asleep with the morning, until I find my flat.

  It’s not much bigger than my place in Manchester was, but it feels miles apart and not just because it’s in another country. Where my flat in Manchester was dark and damp and tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, this flat is in a cheerful yellow building above Esteban, a lively tapas bar. It’s on the third floor and though it just looks out onto the building across the narrow street, it has a small balcony where I can sit in the mornings with my first cup of coffee and get used to the vibrant sights, smells, and sounds of La Latina.

  This morning, though, there’s no time for that. I shower off the sweat and grime from the run and then quickly get ready. Mateo arranged for a car to pick me up at eight fifteen and time is slipping away as it does in the mornings.

  I don’t have a uniform yet since I’m the first female member of the squad ever (no pressure or anything), so I just wear a fitted black t-shirt and black yoga pants. Helen and I went shopping in London for a weekend before I moved, hitting up every Lululemon and Sweaty Betty apparel store and making sure I had a whole new athletic wardrobe for a whole new career. Even if I end up in uniform half the time, the purchases were symbolic.

  As if she could sense that I was thinking about her, she texts me just as I’m putting on a light dusting of makeup.

  Are you nervous?

  I let out an anxious laugh in exchange.

  What do you think? I text back. I feel like it’s the first day of school.

  You’re going to do great, love, she says. Just don’t look too sexy.

  I stare at the text for a moment. Too sexy? I look back at myself in the mirror. I’ve pulled my light brown, highlighted hair back into a high ponytail; the t-shirt is high cut and doesn’t show any cleavage. I probably shouldn’t wear makeup at all, but my skin could use a little help this morning, and I’ve always figured there’s something professional about looking like you put in some effort, anyway.

  Believe me, I’m not sexy.

  She doesn’t text back for a few moments, long enough to continue applying my mascara, then she says, Good luck!

  Hmmphf.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Even though Helen rarely speaks ill of Stewart (which, as petty as it sounds, kind of annoys me), she often says that it was my fault that we got together in the first place. She has some pretty old-fashioned views when it comes to women in the workplace, and I guess I was just too irresistible to Stewart or some bullshit, as if we weren’t two adults who approached our coupling with a lot of thought and trepidation.

  She’s probably just worried that you’re going to come across as someone they won’t take seriously, I tell myself.

  That, or she’s afraid that what happened with Stewart is going to happen again.

  Not on my watch.

  Speaking of watch, I glance at the time and realize I have to go. I grab my messenger bag and glance out the window to see a car waiting in the sliver of a street below, another car behind it honking for it to move.

  I slip on my sunglasses and head back out.

  The driver, Manuel, holds the door open for me, and as he zooms through the winding streets, tries to tell me all about his morning in broken English. I haven’t even met this man before but he seems to think I’m an old friend. Not that I mind since it’s nice to have so much friendliness in such a big city.

  Maybe making friends here won’t be so hard, I think, watching the grandiose buildings along Gran Via zip by, including the famous Tio Pepe sign. It’s kind of weird being older and knowing you have to go through the process of making friends again. When you’re young it just seems so much easier. You’re not set in your ways yet. The world is open to you, as are the people in it. Even though I know forty isn’t old at all, it’s old enough that little things like friendship are harder to come by.

  Where would I even start? Where do people meet people? Are there expat groups in the city? Will I make friends with the football players’ wives? When I moved to Manchester it felt easier somehow, maybe because I was more open and hadn’t been hurt yet, or maybe because there was no language barrier. It was luck that I met Liz. I met Helen through Stewart and I met Kazzy through Helen.

  Here, I don’t know how it’s going to happen but I do know I’m going to have to get out of my shell a little bit.

  And just like that, even the thought of putting myself out there makes my body suddenly seize up, my chest feeling heavy and suffocating, like it’s filling with poured concrete.

  I close my eyes and drown out Manuel and concentrate on my breathing. Though I’m still on antidepressants, I’ve been weaning myself off of my anxiety medication, so panic attacks like to raise their ugly head at the worst possible times. It’s not just a mental thing either; it’s a full-blown physical attack that makes me feel like I’m spinning out of control, and my body is turning against me. It feels like I’m dying, and no matter how hard I try to convince myself that it’s all in my head and not real, I don’t believe it.

  This time, the breathing works, and I win. Control comes back to my body and my heart slows. I’ve been on antidepressants for the last four years, but the panic attacks only started once I suspected Stewart of cheating. I like to think, in time, I can kick them to the curb just as I kicked him. I know they do me good and I’m not ashamed to take them, but they just remind me of why I’m on them.

  Manuel heads through the manned gates of the Ciudad Real Madrid, the massive training and administration complex for the team, which is just north of the city. The car goes around the circular fountain and comes to a stop outside a sleek
glass building. I look to see Mateo come out. He spots me, waves, and strolls over.

  He opens the door. “Buenas días,” Mateo says as he smiles down at me. “Welcome to your first day.”

  I tell Manuel thank you and get out of the car, pulling up my messenger bag.

  “You nervous?” Mateo asks as I shut the door and the car pulls away.

  “Do I look nervous?”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up and he moves his head from side to side. “More or less.”

  “I’ve never been very good at first days,” I admit to him, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “The first job I ever had was when I was fourteen and working weekends at the video store. First day, I ended up outing my high school math teacher who had rented a whole bunch of porn from the adult section.”

  Mateo is staring at me with a bemused expression, brows raised. “I know you’ll do just fine.”

  He starts walking off toward the doors and I quickly follow, my face going a bit hot. Why did I have to mention that? Not exactly professional.

  I take in a deep breath and remind myself to relax. If Mateo thinks I’m nervous, I certainly don’t want to give that impression to the team, nor do I want to open my mouth and let verbal diarrhea flow out.

  “So, what do you think of Valdebebas?” Mateo asks as we step through the automatic glass doors.

  “Well,” I say, as I look around, taking it all in. “All I’ve seen so far of the famous Valdebebas is the massive fountain and a hedge that’s been clipped and trimmed to spell out Real Madrid, so I’m pretty impressed so far.”

  His dark eyes twinkle. “I know it doesn’t have the level of security you had at Carrington, which personally makes me think the English are paranoid, but I do think ours is better.”

  Everything is always a competition.

  But we do have to pass through two security checkpoints within the building, with Mateo flashing an ID that he then places around my neck. It says I’m a guest. I’m assuming that will change.

  As he leads me down a reflective hallway with glossy white walls, he explains that this section is for the young academy players, since the complex isn’t just for the main team but for the youth as well. There’s residency for players who live outside of Madrid and all their training facilities. The entire compound is set-up in the shape of a T, surrounded by many soccer pitches. Mateo explains that it works in a psychological way, so that the players are supposed to work up to being part of the team at the very top, which is where we are headed.

  “And here we are,” Mateo says as he takes me into the last building, the top of the T, and already this one has just a little more flash than the other. We take a left down the hall. Inside, the glossy white walls are interspersed with walnut doors, a little warmth to tone down the ultra-sleek look, the Real Madrid logos embossed in silver.

  “This will be your office,” he says, opening one of the doors. Inside is a sparse but streamlined room. It looks so clean that it’s hard to imagine anyone was using it before. “But we’ll come back to this after and give you time to settle in properly.”

  We walk back down the hall and he points out the offices of the three doctors who work for the team (one, Dr. Costa, who is always here, the others being on call), as well as the eight other physical therapists. It seems like a lot to have nine of us here each day, but believe me, with a team at this caliber, it’s needed. Every single player needs to be assessed and treated every single day before practice, which is probably what’s happening right now as I’m getting the tour.

  I’m starting to feel even more anxious at that. Even though I’m with the coach, who is pretty much my boss, I feel like I’m late for work already.

  As if Mateo can read it on my face, he says, “We won’t be much longer.” He takes me to the end of the T where the giant physical therapy room is. With the floor-to-ceiling frosted glass windows, it’s bright and airy and modern. The doors open out onto a pitch, and I can see the vague shapes of the players just outside.

  “And this is where the real work is,” he says to me. He reaches over and takes my messenger bag, putting it down on a shelf and letting me take in the room.

  It’s state of the art, that’s for sure. Not that Man United was anything to sneeze at (we had our own hospital, after all) but maybe because the equipment looks newer or flashier, it just seems so much more…expensive.

  “Next door is the gym and training room — beyond that the pool,” Mateo goes on.

  “The hydrotherapy pools and steam rooms that you’ll be using are downstairs in the basement. Upstairs are the players’ rooms when they’re here before a game, the movie theatre, the game room, and the dining room and kitchen. But I don’t want to overwhelm you right now with all of that.”

  Too late. I’m already overwhelmed.

  “Are you ready to meet your new team?” Mateo asks.

  I can only nod and give him a stiff smile.

  He opens the glass doors and we step out onto the field. I immediately shield my eyes, the sun blinding me.

  The team is before me, over twenty of them running back and forth doing drills while what I assume is the assistant coaches and the rest of the therapists look on.

  “Hola a todos,” Mateo says, and his voice suddenly goes from smooth to booming. It’s loud enough to make everyone stop mid-stride and look over at us.

  I straighten up, raise my chin, trying to look approachable and serious all at once. Only a bit of a smile. It’s all about balance in this world.

  “Esta es Thalia,” he announces, gesturing to me, and then clears his throat, giving me a sheepish look. “Perdona. Until your Spanish improves, I will speak in English around you.”

  I’m about to tell him that he doesn’t have to make any exceptions for me, even though my Spanish is fairly nonexistent but he goes on with a wave of his hand. “Everyone here speaks English, más o menos. Perhaps I am the worst, but it is good practice.”

  And just like that, I’m introduced to the team.

  No longer Thalia from Manchester United, I’m on their side now and meeting them up close for the first time. At least I already know who they are, so I won’t have trouble remembering their names.

  I mean, you can’t forget the team captain, the handsome and charming, Portuguese Luciano Ribeiro. Nor their striker, Marcos Hermosa, who has the biggest smile you’ll ever see and is a total menace on the pitch. There’s the Brazilian Marcelo, who has been with the team the longest and is one of their greatest assets.

  So far, everyone seems really nice and welcoming. Well, aside from the Slovenian goalie, Victor Oblak, who is still staring at me like I’ve got two heads. I prepared for this, especially since I heard there was a lot of male bravado in Spain, but I know I can definitely deal with a guy who seems to be living in the stone age. There’s always a few.

  “¡Lo siento!” a voice calls out from behind us, and we turn to see a player running out of the doors, slipping his jersey over his head. All I see are an insane amount of tanned abs, until the shirt is pulled down and then I’m staring at the most captivating eyes I’ve ever seen.

  “Alejo,” Mateo grumbles, but the attempt to sound annoyed is half-hearted. “You’re late.”

  I blink and try to look away from Alejo’s blue eyes, but it’s not working. Coupled with his mess of black hair, his olive skin tone, and full lips, his face is holding me hostage.

  So this is Alejo Albarado.

  Number 28.

  A forward and sometime striker who started off with the academy when he was fifteen.

  And though I’ve seen him play on the field and seen his face on many a magazine cover, I guess I didn’t expect him to look like he does.

  And by that, I mean, fucking gorgeous.

  “I know, I know,” Alejo says in English. “I overslept. My alarm didn’t go off.”

  One of his teammates snorts, not buying it.

  Alejo looks at me. “I’m sorry I missed the official introduction. My name is Alejo.”r />
  He extends his hand and gives me a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts, including mine.

  These thoughts aren’t professional in the slightest. You need to get a grip.

  I swallow and smile right back.

  “I’m Thalia. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Ah, the new physical therapist,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze. “You used to work for one of our biggest rivals.”

  “Who beat us the last two times we played them,” Luciano interjects from behind us.

  “I did,” I tell Alejo. “But I’m here now.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll be a good luck charm.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I’m still shaking his hand.

  I need to drop his hand.

  I do so quickly and give him a quick smile.

  He looks amused, pursing his lips slightly. “Well hopefully you’ll find us a lot more fun. Cris told us that the weather up there makes everyone pretty miserable and we’ve got nothing but sun here.”

  By Cris, I assume he means Cristiano Ronaldo, who used to be with Man U, as well as Real Madrid.

  “Your English is very good,” I can’t help but say.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” he says with a wag of his dark brows. “I watch a lot of YouTube.”

  And at that he runs past me to go join the rest of the team in their drills, Luciano slapping him on the back in a greeting.

  Mateo yells something at the team and then at Felipe, the assistant coach, and then looks to me. He nods back to the building. “Now that you’ve met the team, let’s continue the tour and get you settled in.”

  I follow Mateo, looking back over my shoulder at the team again before we disappear into the physio room.

  Settled?

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt so unsettled.

  Chapter 3

  Thalia

  I have to admit, one of the best parts of my job is the fact that I go to work in the world’s comfiest clothes. My uniform for Real Madrid is a cozy black Adidas tracksuit with the CR badge on the front and a sponsor’s logo on the back, and, paired with my new Adidas trainers, it’s like working in your pajamas.