Page 17 of Winning Match
“You didn’t have to come to dinner and dancing with me either.” I lift her suitcase and set it up on the luggage rack.
“Give me a few minutes,” Marlowe says, digging into the suitcase for a pajama set and some toiletries.
I sit in a chair near the bed and drop my face into my hands.
What the hell am I doing? I’m not going to try to hook up with Marlowe the same night her ex-boyfriend cheated on her. And certainly not when she can barely keep her eyes open and has been downing tequila shots and vodka-based beverages with Bianca.
The last thing I want is for her to think that this night was somehow transactional. That my motives were rooted in the desire to sleep with her. Which, fine, they partially were. I’m not a fucking saint.
But I’m also not an asshole. I’m nothing like Gerard, and if I try to get with Marlowe, that’s who she’ll compare me to when she wakes up in the afternoon.
Dios mío. I nearly bite my fist as she comes out of the bathroom. She’s changed into a soft pink satin pajama set—tiny sleep shorts and a camisole with straps so thin I could snap them. With her skin still damp from a quick shower, her hair pulled back, and her face washed clean of the bit of makeup she wore, she looks younger. Her freckles stand out across the bridge of her nose, and I have the irrational desire to run my finger over them, connect them like a constellation of stars as they fan out over her cheeks.
I need to go home, throw myself into a cold shower, and get my head screwed on right for my upcoming season.
I had my fun. I had my night. I got to be Ale for a handful of hours and wine and dine and dance with a gorgeous woman. It’s time to end this.
Standing from the chair, I pull back the comforter of the bed and tilt my head, indicating that Marlowe should slide under the covers.
“Are you leaving?” Her voice is soft as she slips beneath the sheets. She braces an arm behind her and her back arches. My eyes narrow at the sight of her pebbled nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her camisole.
“Madre mía,” I mutter, exasperated. Marlowe could tempt a saint and have no idea. And I’m no fucking saint.
I pull the comforter up to her chin to put myself out of my misery.
“Sí, yes,” I answer her question, dropping back into the chair. I hunch forward, leaning my elbows against the tops of my thighs. “I have to get going.”
She yawns, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. “Tonight was one of the best nights of my life.”
My chest tightens at the admission. How does she do that? Make herself so vulnerable to a man she hardly knows?
It’s probably why that cabrón played her the way he did. I can’t comprehend how any self-respecting man could intentionally hurt a woman as pure as Marli.
Marli. What is wrong with me? I hardly know her and here I am, giving her an affectionate nickname.
Hell, maybe Andrés was right. Maybe I’m in a mess of my own making—for confusing decency with mixed signals.
I sigh heavily as Marlowe drifts off to sleep seconds after her head hits the pillow.
Her breathing evens out and her nostrils flare slightly on each exhale. She’s beautiful when she’s awake. Her expressions are animated and her eyes lively. But she’s angelic when she sleeps.
I hate that I have to walk away, but what other option is there?
I gave her the most I can offer—a night out to escape her heartache. A short stay in a luxury hotel to call her bank and rebook her flight home. And the respect she deserves so she can raise her fucking standards for men going forward.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. I hate the idea of her with another man. It’s irrational and insane.
Obviously, she’s going to date.
And it can’t be me because I’ve never had a serious relationship in my entire life. I’m married to fútbol. League Valencia is my life and everything else is a mistress of sorts—a temptation I can’t fully commit to.
Especially now when I need to prove that I can be a leader. That I can be responsible and dependable and keep my name out of the tabloid fodder.
I stand from the chair and move to her bedside. Leaning over her, I drop a kiss to her forehead. It’s a light brush of my mouth over her skin and still, a tiny smile curls her lips. My eyes close as I recall our kiss from the dance floor—brimming with passion and possibility. A groan sounds from the back of my throat as I force myself to straighten.
Marlowe sighs and my chest aches, hating that this is my final goodbye.
I move to the desk and scrawl a note, dropping the remainder of cash in my wallet, seven hundred euro, beside the note. While I’m sure her bank issues will be resolved when she calls tomorrow, a part of me can’t help but wonder if she’s in more financial straits than her declined card suggests.
