Page 36 of My Spanish Love Affair
I blink, caught off guard. “Digging?”
“You know, research,” he says, his tone laced with amusement. “Have you found anything else interesting?”
“You make it sound like I’ve been building a dossier on you,” I say, deflecting slightly.
His nose crinkles at that. “Dossier?” he repeats.
I smile softly. Usually, it’s me who needs the clarification since his English is exceptional.
“Like, lots of papers and documents.”
“Oh. Well - have you?” he asks, leaning in with a mock-serious expression. “Because if you have, I want to know what you’ve uncovered.”
My eyes narrow slightly, but I decide to play along.
“Just the basics,” I say, my lips pulling up into a smirk. “Big-shot rugby player, national hero, man of mystery.”
He smirks too. “Anything juicier?”
Our conversation might be playful, but I can’t shake the feeling that Santi is subtly trying to gauge just how much I’ve uncovered about him.
The truth is… quite a lot.
I’ve spent more time than I care to admit trawling through social media and reading every article, interview, and blog postI’ve been able to find. It started innocently enough - I was just trying to get a better sense of who he is, what makes him tick, and why on earth he’s interested in me - but curiosity quickly spiraled into a full-blown deep dive.
And because I couldn’t stop there, I’ve even tried to learn a bit more about rugby itself, just to understand the world he’s immersed in. I’ve watched highlight reels of matches I don’t fully grasp and I’ve read articles breaking down league standings and team rivalries.
None of it makes me an expert, but I now know enough to realise how respected and high-profile he really is.
But there’s one thing I’ve deliberately avoided as much as possible.
Rumours about his love life.
Even though those articles have been the hardest to ignore - complete with glossy paparazzi photos of him with various different women over the years and cryptic “insider” quotes - I’ve actively avoided them.
“Well,” I say, pretending to think, “there was that one article about you rescuing a dog during some flooding.”
“True story,” he says with a shrug. “Though it was nothing, really.”
“How noble,” I tease.
“Thanks,” he says, flashing me a grin. “It’s weird, no? The sort of things you can find out about me on the internet.”
“Honestly?” I say, my brows raising a little. “I… yeah. I agree. If I’m honest, I try not to actually read too much stuff. It makes it… I don’t know. Just feels weird if I know a lot about you that you’ve not actually told me. Sorry - am I making sense?”
He smiles warmly. “You are,” he nods. “So - now it’s your turn.What’s the most embarrassing thing I’d find if I looked you up?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. Perhapstooquickly.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing worth sharing, anyway,” I clarify, laughing.
Note to self: delete all embarrassing old photos from my social media, ASAP.
Our food arrives in waves - crispy patatas bravas, grilled calamari and creamy croquetas - and serves as a distraction from the conversation. Between bites, we trade lighter stories about our lives: Santi’s chaotic schedule during rugby season and classroom antics with my students.
At one point, I notice him watching me with an intensity that makes me falter mid-sentence.
