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