Which is a creature comfort sorely needed, considering my first week on the job was a lot tougher than I anticipated.
Not that everyone hasn’t been lovely. The players have been especially nice (aside from the goalie, but that might just be his personality), and the other therapists have been welcoming and helpful. If there’s been any weirdness or resentment that there’s a woman on the team in a very hands-on position, I haven’t noticed. Plus, Mateo has been such a doll with me, going above and beyond to make me feel more at home, even though I can tell he’s ruffled the primary physician’s feathers a little.
Dr. Julio Costa is a bit of a dick. When I first met him, he seemed fine, if not dismissive, but since I’ve shown up for work every morning this week at 9:15 (actually, I’ve been here at eight-thirty, just to put in the extra effort), he’s been watching me like a hawk. Granted, I haven’t been attending that many players yet, just assessing them and strapping up some ankles before practice, but the doctor is always there watching everything I do. It’s not only annoying, but it’s gotten under my skin a little, like he doesn’t trust me.
Mateo quickly took note of it and a few times I caught the two of them arguing out of earshot (not that I could understand them anyway). I can’t help but think Dr. Costa doesn’t think I belong here, and from the way the other therapists act around him, it seems he gets in everyone’s business.
But it wasn’t just hostility or doubt from Dr. Costa that made it difficult. It’s the fact that the team has their first real game of the season in a week’s time and as the head physical therapist, a lot of that pressure falls on me. I don’t have a feel for the players yet, what their strengths are, how their training is, what their past injuries have been. I’ve been staying in my office late every single night pouring over the medical records and training files of each player, and I feel like it’s going to take me forever to catch up.
So, yeah. There’s a lot to take in and I feel like I’m running out of time. I’m quite sure the team can go on to their first La Liga match and win without me even being here at all, but still. I have a lot to prove. Maybe too much.
Now, it’s Saturday night and I’m this close to getting in bed, even though it’s only seven o’ clock. We have a rest day tomorrow, which I think everyone sorely needs. I wanted to stay in the office late again, but Mateo practically forced me to go home.
Instead, I take a long, hot shower from the creaking pipes and then attempt to do some yoga in the middle of the apartment. I actually have my own private room at Valdebebas, the same kind as the players, though my balcony overlooks the players’ cars instead of the field. It’s like a five-star quality hotel with its own jacuzzi, sitting area, and a bed made from heaven (with all the million-thread count bedding done up with the Real Madrid logo), all accessed by fingerprint door controls. It’s all very high-tech and tempting, but since I foresee many nights in my future where I’ll be sleeping there, I figure I might as well use my apartment while I can.
Besides, it’s good to just put some distance between me and work. I’ve been so busy this week that I haven’t really had a moment to myself, just to take in the new situation, hell, even to appreciate being in Madrid.
And as my phone beeps mid downward dog, I realize I’ve been neglecting my friends too. Helen, Kazzy, and Liz have all been texting and messaging me, but I’ve barely had the time to respond and only with quick one sentence answers. Even my mother called me, but I wasn’t able to take it. Tomorrow I really ought to take the time to fill everyone in on my new life.
But when I glance at my phone, I see the Whatsapp message is from Mateo.
I groan inwardly. What could he want now? He’s the one who sent me home.
I sit down on my mat and access the message.
Buenas noches, Thalia. I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink with me and my wife tonight? You can say no, you won’t be fired.
I let out a laugh and really hope firing was never on the agenda. The truth is, I don’t even think I could have got through all my yoga moves. I’m that tired. And yet I know I shouldn’t pass up this opportunity. It would be good to talk to Mateo without being in a work environment, plus I know I need to meet other people, like his wife. I’ll admit, I don’t know that much about him off the field, just that he went through a bitter divorce maybe five years ago and remarried, but it would be nice to have friends.
I message him back and ask where and when.
9pm (ish?) at Bar Cock.
I hesitate for a moment, so close to texting him: Is it hard to get in?
But I manage to keep my giggles away and professionalism intact and tell him I’ll be there.
I pour myself a glass of Tempranillo that I’ve had sitting on the table all week and haven’t had a chance to dip into yet, and proceed to get ready. I’ve been living in the tracksuit uniform, so I decide to put on something more sexy. Not that I have anyone to impress (certainly not Mateo or his wife) but I know from personal experience that with this job taking over my life, my femininity will get buried if I don’t make an effort.
I put on skinny jeans and a simple silky white tank top and silver jewelry, blow drying my highlighted hair straight. I go heavy on the eyeshadow and light on the lip, and when I’m done, I don’t look half bad. A lot of women often ask me what my secrets are for looking young but honestly it’s just a good diet, lots of exercise, and I wear sunscreen every single day (and yes, a hit of Botox every four months, but that’s par for the course at this point).
Then I’m grabbing my purse and heading out the door and into the hot and humid Madrid air.
I can already feel my hair starting to frizz and poof out. Oh well.
Since I’m running a little late (not sure how much leeway I have with “nine pm-ish”), I opt to get an Uber instead of the metro, which is just as well since the last time I attempted to take it I got lost and flustered. I honestly can’t learn Spanish fast enough.
Bar Cock is actually styled more like a swanky English pub with wood beams and tables and at 9:20 p.m. (ish) the place isn’t all that busy. I spot Mateo tucked away at the back at a four-person table.
“Thalia,” he says to me, walking over. “Como esta? You look hermosa.”
“Gracias,” I tell him.
Like me, he seems to be relishing being out of his coach’s uniform, dressed in a sharp grey suit and black shirt. Suddenly I feel underdressed.
He leans in and kisses me on both cheeks, the standard greeting here between friends, and then grabs my arm, bringing me over to the table.
“Thalia, this is my wife Vera,” he says proudly.
A girl (and I mean, she has to be in her mid-to-late twenties) stands up and gives me a big smile before pulling me into a light embrace. She kisses me on both cheeks, my nose filling with the scent of some sweet, heady perfume.
“So happy I finally got to meet you,” she says. She’s not even Spanish — she’s American or Canadian according to her accent.
But that’s not the only surprise. She’s curvy plus-size, with boobs and hips perfectly displayed in an off-the-shoulder purple dress, her wavy, shiny hair down to her ass and dyed blonde with rose-gold ombre. On her feet, she has Golden Goose high-top sneakers in black sequins, and every single inch of her seems to be covered in tattoos.
This is totally not who I saw being married to Mateo. That said, it makes me admire Mateo a little more because his wife already seems like a lot of fun.
“Nice to meet you too,” I tell her, taking a seat beside them.
“What do you want to drink?” Mateo asks me.
“A glass of red wine would be fine,” I tell him, thinking it best to just stick to one thing tonight.
“And you, Estrella?” he asks Vera.
“Surprise me,” she says, beaming at him.
He walks off and I look at her. “Estrella?” I question. “Doesn’t that mean star?”
She raises her arm and shows off a constellation tattooed there. “Astronomy is a h
obby of mine. Mateo gave me that nickname pretty early on.”
I have a lot of questions for her. I want to know how on earth they met and how long have they been married. But it seems too personal for now so I just look around the bar. “Nice place. Would you believe this is my first night out in Madrid? Though honestly I thought I would see more people on a Saturday night.”
Vera lets out a musical laugh. “They have a saying here, nobody goes to bed until they’ve killed the night. Actually, I think it was Hemingway who said that. I don’t know, he said a lot of things. Anyway, people have a late start and they don’t go home until morning. Hope those heels of yours are comfortable. I’m always prepared.” She leans back slightly in her chair and lifts out her leg, showing off her sneakers like a vaudeville dancer.
I glance down at my heels, which I admittedly chose because they made my short legs look miles long, not because I was planning on going dancing or bar-hopping with my boss and his wife.
“Though I suppose if anyone can wear heels like that all night and still live the next day, it would be someone like you,” Vera adds, giving me a coy smile. “I really admire you, you know.”
That takes me by surprise. “What?”
“Well, how can I not?” she says. “You’re like the only female sports therapist in the world.”
“That’s not true,” I quickly interject but Vera doesn’t seem to be listening.
“And you did such a good job at Man U. Believe me, I may not look like I follow the game, but I do. I mean, I have to. Ever since Mateo started coaching, I’ve been immersed like whoa, and I loved seeing you at the side of the field during the games.”
“Well, thank you,” I tell her. I know I shouldn’t feel uncomfortable at the praise, but I do. “But really, I’m not a trailblazer. Sue Falsone was the first in America — she was the physical therapist for the LA Dodgers. And Isa Lundquist was a therapist for the Swedish national team long before I came over here.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Vera says, waving her hands, her glittering nail polish catching the low light. “You’re the bomb, that’s all you need to know. So how are you liking Madrid so far? Oh wait, don’t answer that. You haven’t had a chance to see it yet.”
“But I do like what I’ve seen so far,” I tell her. “La Latina, where I live, is really cute.”
“And they have a ton of good bars, though I told Mateo we should meet here first. It’s low-key and classy, and he never gets bugged by all the Madridistas angry about Los Blancos.”
Los Blancos is a nickname for Real Madrid and I’m assuming Madristas is the term for the fans.
“I’m guessing that happens often?” I ask.
She shrugs and tosses her hair over her shoulder, the air filling with an intoxicating scent. “Almost always. He’s the coach, you know, so he gets all the mierda.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Sí,” she says. “But it took me forever. Chloe Ann didn’t speak any English when I first met her so it was either learn the language fast or never bond with her.” When Vera sees that I have no idea who Chloe Ann is, she explains. “Chloe Ann is my step-daughter. She’s ten now but only five when I met her.”
I’m about to ask her more when Mateo comes over with our drinks, carefully balancing three of them. He sets them down on the table for stability then hands me my wine.
“For the hardest working physical therapist the team has ever had,” he says as he sits down beside Vera.
I laugh. “Oh, come on. All I’ve done this week is wrap a few ankles.”
“You’re doing more than enough,” he says to me and then raises his glass of wine. Vera raises what looks to be a dirty martini. “Here is to you, Thalia, for your first week at work.”
“And here’s to your proper introduction to the city of Madrid,” Vera says before she clinks her glass against mine and takes a hearty sip.
I do the same and immediately know that Mateo probably bought me the most expensive wine in the bar. It’s a big, bold, smoky red, and it’s divine. My eyes flutter closed momentarily, my taste buds dancing, my body immediately relaxing.
“Vera was just telling me that you get a lot of shit when you go out,” I tell him, starting to feel really good.
He gives me a lopsided smile. “I do. That comes with the territory. Real Madrid territory. Back when I coached Atlético — even when I played for Atlético — I wasn’t hassled often. Maybe for autographs. But the fans…the Madridistas? They’re…what was that saying you taught me?” He looks at Vera.
“As crazy as an outhouse rat,” she says.
“Sí,” Mateo says with a grave expression. “Crazier than an outhouse rat.”
“Sounds a lot like Man U,” I tell him. “Stewart couldn’t go anywhere without someone yelling at him over something.” The moment Stewart’s name leaves my lips, I immediately feel awkward. Like it’s a word I should have erased from my vocabulary, like it means something more than just my ex-husband’s name. It’s a word that still hurts.
Mateo seems to pick up on whatever vibe I’m giving off because he nods slightly, a sympathetic look shining in his eyes. “Luckily, there are some spots where we’re given some privacy,” he says. “And I don’t happen to go out all that often as it is.”
“Which means I often have to go out by myself,” Vera says.
Mateo smirks at her. “By going out, do you mean watching Netflix by yourself?”
“Well, maybe Thalia and I will paint the town red whenever you feel like staying in.”
Mateo glances at me, raising an eyebrow. “Please don’t let my wife talk you into anything. She knows how important you are to the team.” He sits back in his chair, taking a sip of his drink while resting his hand on Vera’s knee.
“I also know how important it is to rest,” Vera says adamantly. “You always talk about how rest is as important as the work. I mean, hello, the whole country is built around siesta.”
“Siesta and rest is one thing,” Mateo says. “Going out with you is something else entirely. I’m barely man enough to survive it myself.” He smiles at me. “But, since we are about to go into the new season, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying ourselves for tonight.”
“Are you this strict with the players?” I ask him. I hate to keep bringing Stewart into my mind but I can’t help with the comparisons. Stewart was pretty relaxed with the team, which may have been his downfall on more than one occasion. A few times players showed up either drunk or with hangovers and the whole team suffered.
“I have to be,” he says. “I’m involved in every aspect of their lives. Even if I didn’t need to be, the boss would make it so. Jose believes in control, even though the players are free to do whatever they want. They aren’t slaves. But if it were up to Jose…”
“So what exactly do you know about them?” I ask.
“Their sleeping patterns. They are supposed to log their sleep details into an app every morning, though half of them forget. Their diet. What they did in their spare time.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re asking them about their sex lives,” Vera says with a scowl.
“No,” Mateo says hesitantly. “But they also know that, uh, if there has been…more…fucking than normal, it could aggravate an injury.”
I’m trying not to laugh at the way he said “fucking,” but yeah, this is way more intense than my last job was. I guess if it creates champions for the most part, then it works.
“Poor guys,” Vera comments, munching on an olive from her drink. “They’re all young and in the prime of their lives, with all this fame and money to burn, and my husband has to make them cut down on all the fucking.”
“I didn’t say that,” Mateo says. “I just mean…”
“So what do the players do on a Saturday night, since we normally don’t have matches on Sunday anyway?” I ask him.
“They’re at home. Most of them live close to Valdebebas. They’re with family. Wives, kids.”
“I feel so s
illy,” I admit. “I feel like I should know all of this by now. Like I should know every player and who they are, you know? Like, deeply.”
“Oh. Cut yourself a slab,” Mateo says.
“A slab?” Vera asks with her brows raised.
“Yes,” Mateo says testily. “Cut yourself a slab. Like a slab of ham. Give yourself a break. Eat the ham.”
Vera stares at him for a moment with wide eyes until she breaks into a grin. “I don’t know if it’s the dirty martini, but, baby, you just made a lot of sense.”
I can’t help but laugh at his version of cut yourself some slack. “Okay, yes. I will eat the ham.”
After that, I change the topic away from work and to how Vera and Mateo met. It turns out they met when Mateo went to learn English at a business camp of sorts and Vera was an instructor. I want to know even more but then Vera changes the subject and suggests we go to one of her favorite bars, which is actually around the corner from my place.
It’s only eleven and the night is young as far as Madrid is concerned. We take an Uber there, to this tiny little bar that’s covered in Marilyn Monroe photographs and memorabilia. It’s dark and crowded but no one pays us much attention and we’re able to stand near the bar and snack on bread and olives and aioli. I can tell Vera is in her element in this divey sort of place, though Mateo sticks out like a sore thumb.
I have to wonder about them a little. There’s a major age gap between them — she’s all wild and he’s refined — and yet they seem completely and totally in love, in that way that makes you just a tiny bit nauseous. It gives me hope, actually, that maybe there’s still a chance for me out there.
But looking around the bar, I don’t feel all that hopeful. Yeah, a lot of guys are smiling at me, giving me the eye. But they probably don’t know how old I am, and more than that, I know they’re just in it for a fling. Not that I’m not — lord knows I desperately need one — but I still feel this emptiness when I think about the prospect. I feel like a brand new being. On shaky legs, unsure of where she stands in this world now. I never thought that Stewart could have done so much damage to my self-esteem and self-worth, but he did. He took all my pride and confidence and power, and he removed them from me, brick by brick, until I crumbled.
The Younger Man: A Novel Page 4