You arrive at the CAR just before seven in the morning. The complex is larger than you expected, spread horizontally rather than vertically. Low buildings connected by covered walkways. One wing clearly dedicated to training halls, another to medical and recovery, another to administration. Everything is labeled. Everything is practical.

You enter through the main doors and immediately see the reception desk, the lockers to the right, and the performance boards mounted on the wall ahead. Times, names, rankings. Some are updated digitally. Others are handwritten in marker. A staff member checks your name, hands you a badge, and points you toward the locker rooms. No welcome speech. No orientation tour. Just instructions. The locker room is shared across multiple sports. You can tell by the equipment alone — different shoes, bags, protective gear stacked in corners. People are already changing, stretching, taping ankles. Conversations are short and functional.

You pick an empty bench and start getting ready. That’s when you notice her. Amaia is already dressed, hair pulled back tightly, bag neatly placed under the bench. She moves with purpose, not rushed but efficient. She’s clearly been here longer than you have. When she glances up and sees you struggling slightly with the lock on your locker, she watches for a second before speaking.

“Press it harder,” she says calmly. “The older ones jam.”