Page 19 of Winning Match
Papá is silent for several moments. With my coffee in hand, I lean against the kitchen island, my eyes cutting to the photos.
My fingers brush over one image and I study it closer, lifting the paper to my face.
The snapshot highlights Marlowe’s beauty. She’s smiling widely, naturally, her eyes glancing over her shoulder to hold my gaze.
Our fingers are hooked loosely together.
And I’m looking at her as though she is the answer to every single prayer I’ve ever had.
Dios mío. I’m staring at her, drowning in her, in a way that I’ve never looked at a woman before.
It’s impossible. We’re impossible.
She just got out of a relationship—literally last night. And she’s flying home—to a country that isn’t Spain—in the next twenty-four hours.
And yet, as I drop the paper, my eyes roving over the other images, one thing is certain. We can’t take our eyes or hands off each other.
Papá continues to lament his existence as my father as well as the state of my fútbol career, but my mind spins with other thoughts. Dangerous ideas.
“What do you think your coach is saying?” Papá continues. “Team management? Your agent?”
I look happy. Relaxed.
“Your teammates can afford these distractions because they don’t have your potential. Your legacy,” Papá adds.
Tonight was one of the best nights of my life. That’s what Marlowe had said.
Mine too. Last night was one of the most carefree, thrilling, and fun nights I’ve ever had with a woman. There were no expectations to live up to, no pressure to act or say a certain thing. There was just the moment.
Just us.
Papá sighs heavily before asking, “Who is she? What type of damage control do we need to do?”
I polish off my cortado and set down the small glass. “None,” I admit, laying my palms flat on the countertop. “Her name is Marlowe. She’s American. And she’s—” Before I can admit that she’s leaving to return home, Papá’s phone rings and his eyes widen.
He holds up a hand, cutting me off, as he lifts his phone to his ear.
I narrow my eyes as he speaks in clipped Spanish, his face turning redder by the second, at whatever the caller is saying through the line.
“Mierda,” Papá swears.
“What? What is it?” I take the seat across from him, my concern spiking—is it Mamá, Abuela, one of my sisters?
Papá ends the call and tosses down the phone. It skitters across the table, and I catch it before it can clatter to the ground. Not that Papá gives a damn. He’s glaring at me like he’s about to jump across the table and ring my neck.
“What’s wrong?” I ask again.
“A news story just broke. That you didn’t sleep at the hotel with this woman last night. That you left only fifteen minutes after you checked her in. That you paid for three nights total,” Papá rattles off these facts as though they’re the truth.
And for once, whoever broke the story is correct, because it’s all true.
I don’t reply. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and wait. Papá’s nostrils flare and his eyebrows recede into his hairline.
“Who is this girl, Alejandro?”
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