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