Page 42 of Winning Match
The pressure on my chin increases as Ale swipes his thumb along my skin for one more pass before dropping his hand. “But we can’t cross a line.”
I, uh, what? His words pull me up short and before I can disguise my reaction, I feel my eyebrows pull together. The free fall stops and I slam into the ground, hard. It rattles my teeth and causes my bones to creak.
I stare at him, working overtime to school my expression so I don’t give my thoughts—my desperate, reckless, needy-as-fuck thoughts—away.
Ale rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Marli.” His voice catches. “You just got out of a serious, long-term relationship. You’re juggling a million things with your dad’s health, your family back home, and your work.” His words come faster, as if he needs to rush through his explanation. He needs to make me understand. To prove his point. “And I-I could lose myself in you. Too easily. But I can’t.” A pang of something I can’t read cuts through his eyes. “This season, I need to stay focused on my game, committed to my team, to earning the title of captain for next season. I can’t disappoint my father again. I won’t let my fans down. I just… I need to go all in. No distractions, no messy feelings, nothing complicated.”
Right. This makes sense.
His explanation is logical. Rational and sensible and level-headed.
All things I used to be before he turned me inside out. And hell, he wasn’t even trying to.
“I understand,” I breathe out, the words sticking in my throat. I clear it and work a swallow. “And I agree.” Even though I don’t want to. “It’s better this way.”
Relief floats through Ale’s eyes and he grins. “Yes. Great. It is better this way. We give everyone what they want, what they expect from us, and we both walk away with what we want too.”
I lean closer, waiting for him to sum that up.
“You close the account with Costa, and I’m named team captain for the following season.”
“Yes. Of course,” I murmur, even as my heart twists and my blood chills.
“Gracias, mi niña.” Ale bends down to brush a kiss across my cheek. “Come.” He grasps my hand and tugs me toward the door. “The pizza is probably cold by now and I bet Luca inhaled most of it.”
He steps toward the hallway, but I shake off his touch. Ale turns, a frown marring his lips as he looks at me.
“Just give me one minute.” I hold up a finger. “I need to check in with my dad.”
Understanding washes over his face and I feel terrible for lying. “Take your time.” He slips into the hallway and closes my bedroom door behind him.
I drop to the edge of my bed and suck in a breath as tears burn in the corners of my eyes.
Gah! What is wrong with me?
I don’t do this—cry over boys—until this weekend when it seems like I can’t turn off the waterworks.
Deep down, I know Ale is right. We shouldn’t blur the line between us when we both have so much riding on our arrangement. When he needs to mentally commit to training camp and his soccer season. When I’m here to save my family’s livelihood, to solidify my future.
But a part of me desperately wants him to want me. To kiss me senseless. To make my body yearn for things I didn’t know existed. To remind me that one day, I might find a true partner, a real love.
I loose an exhale and pull my hair away from my face. Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply until my emotions are tucked away.
Ale and I are friends. Can’t that be enough?
I’m not here to indulge in a romance; I’m here to do a job. To fulfill a purpose my family is counting on me to deliver.
Yes, our friendship is enough. Hell, right now, it’s practically everything.
Shaking off my hurt feelings, I realize Ale is right. If I’m this affected after a few days, imagine how torn up I’d be after ten weeks?
Gerard and I have been over for a mere seventy-two hours. Three days and he hasn’t reached out to make sure I’m okay. Nope, all Gerard’s done is send a hurtful text message accusing me of jumping into bed with Ale. Of being half out of our relationship before he even left for Spain. Of absolving himself of any guilt in our breakup.
I shake off the hurt that thinking about Gerard—of five years gone—causes. Maybe my feelings for Alejandro are compounded by Gerard’s betrayal. Maybe I’m just desperate enough to lose myself in anything that feels good right now.
A small swell of gratitude surges forward as I realize Ale must have my best interest at heart if he’s not taking advantage of the situation. He has to have realized that I would have served myself up to him on a silver freaking platter.
I stand from the bed and move toward the mirror in the corner of the bedroom. I take a few minutes to twist my hair back and secure it with a clip. To slather on some tinted moisturizer to hide the red splotches on my cheeks.
