Page 43 of Winning Match
My uneven heartbeat finds a steady rhythm. The swirl of emotions clears from my mind. I blink away the lingering burn of tears I didn’t allow to fall. Then, I smile.
I can do this. I know exactly why I’m here. I know exactly where Ale and I stand.
Luca, Bianca, Ale, and I sit in the living room, munching on pizza and talking. While Bianca and I enjoy a glass of wine, the guys stick to water.
“We’re going to get our asses handed to us next Monday,” Luca explains with a wink.
“Speak for yourself,” Ale shoots back.
“Ah, yes. Rubén’s been on you all summer, hasn’t he?” Luca asks.
Ale flips him off and Luca chuckles.
I frown, glancing between them.
“Alejandro’s father, Rubén, is the greatest futbolista of his generation,” Luca explains.
Even though I’ve read as much online, my gaze darts to Ale. He winces, averting his eyes, and I know speaking about his father is a sore spot.
“And he rides his ass to make sure he doesn’t forget it,” Luca mutters quietly as he reaches for another slice of pizza.
Bianca rolls her eyes, giving her brother a dirty look, before tactfully changing the subject.
We take turns sharing silly stories and embarrassing moments. We laugh hysterically over first dates gone awry, and the craziest things fans have done to get Luca and Ale’s attention—a flash mob on Ale’s birthday had us howling. Ale and Luca rib each other endlessly. Bianca teases her brother mercilessly. And I lean back in my seat and drink it all in.
For the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m on the periphery of my peers. I’m right in the center, along for the ride, and able to keep up.
As Ale takes a swig of his water, his eyes find mine over the bottle. They flash, golden flecks and mesmerizing green. He smiles warmly and I read the sincerity in his expression.
I’m glad you’re here. I’m happy we’re friends.
I grin back. Me too.
I put my desires for more, any daydreams I harbored from our night at the club, away. I close the lid on that box and tuck it into the recesses of my mind.
After pizza, I kiss Ale’s cheeks goodbye the same way I kiss Luca’s—quickly and casually. I don’t breathe in the scent of his cologne or linger by the apartment door.
I turn toward my bedroom, lift my hand in one final wave, and head to bed.
When I wake in the morning, I scan the tabloid headlines with glee.
Alejandro García Is Officially Off the Market
Marlowe Claire Prescott has Snagged the Heart of Our Center Forward
Who Is Marlowe Claire Prescott?
Is Ale Getting Ready to Pop the Question?
Because I know where we stand, I don’t overanalyze and question each headline. Instead, I walk into the kitchen and note Bianca sitting at the table.
“Is Claire part of your first name? Are you really Marlowe Claire?” she asks as I beeline to the fancy espresso machine Luca gifted us.
“It’s solidly my middle name.”
Bianca laughs. “I love how the press has made it part of your identity. Marlowe Claire. It’s so…French.”
I make myself a latte.
