Page 18 of Winning Match
Sighing, I make a mental note to call the hotel in case she needs more funds to see her safely home.
Then, I cast one last look at the woman who gave me a rare gift—the chance to be myself—and leave.
My driver gives me a ride home to avoid the paparazzi even though I’d prefer to walk. Outside the SUV window, I watch as guys head to the gym for a morning workout, as mothers stroll babies in their prams, as shopkeepers wash the sidewalks in front of their stores.
The rest of the city sleeps peacefully. It’s still another hour or two before the streets are busy with the usual bustle and commuter traffic.
I let myself into my flat, take a quick shower, and collapse into bed. In a few short weeks, my season will begin and nights like these will become a distant memory. It’s good that I have last night to savor for the long, arduous training ahead.
Buenas noches, Marli. Good night.
The banging on my door jars me awake.
“Qué?” I yell, sitting up. My housekeeper, Sandra, has a key and never intentionally disturbs me. Who the hell is it and what do they want?
A sharp knock rings out again.
“Alejandro!” Papá hollers through the door.
Mierda. Shit. I sigh, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
Papá continues talking in angry Spanish as I stride to the door and pull it wide open.
He stops speaking and glares at me.
I raise an eyebrow.
He holds up a stack of printed screenshots in response.
Fuck. My eyes close in resignation.
Because splattered across each page is Marlowe and me. Holding hands. Dancing bachata. Kissing. Checking into the fucking hotel together.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Papá explodes, his voice sharp, his Spanish rapid. “You are supposed to stay out of the gossip blogs, not end up trending on them. And who is she?” He enters my flat, striding past me and into the kitchen. He tosses the papers down on the kitchen island, so they spread out. Every photo of Marlowe and me on full display.
“One night out to celebrate your friend’s birthday and this is the result?” Papá continues. “I swear, I’m going to end up in an early grave from the grief you children cause me. At least Carla doesn’t test me like this. And now, Valentina is married. But you?” His eyes snap to mine, his expression severe. Papá gestures toward where I stand, clad in only boxer shorts. “You are the eldest and the biggest headache of my life!”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He’s clearly on a tirade, even though he isn’t saying anything I haven’t heard before.
“Your grandmother thinks the woman is beautiful.”
I snort. Abuelita for the win.
“Your mother wants to know where you met her.”
At a bar.
“And I want to know why you are so hell-bent on ruining your career.”
Well, that’s dramatic. I’m one of the highest-paid fútbol players in Europe. I even scooped up several lucrative endorsements in America over the past year after signing with a powerhouse, American agent, Callie James. But the failure of not being named League Valencia’s captain hangs over me, looming with my papá’s shadow into something that often feels insurmountable.
Papá collapses onto a barstool at my kitchen island and drops his face into his palms, as if asking a higher deity for patience. Or wisdom.
“Would you like a coffee?” I offer.
He lifts his head and narrows his eyes.
Shrugging, I set to fixing myself a cortado.
