Page 46 of Winning Match
I swear. That’s six days from now. Does that mean she has no intention of seeing me this week either?
Jesus, didn’t I tell her that this would be low-key? Didn’t I say we shouldn’t cross a line? That I needed to focus on fútbol and today was my first captain’s practice? Wasn’t I the one who encouraged her to explore the city and enjoy her life while she’s here?
And now, I’m wondering what she’s up to and messaging her like a lovesick teenager.
I toss my phone on the center console before I send any more text messages. After hanging up my new shirts—of course, they’re a perfect fit—and putting away my new shoes, I grab some workout clothes.
Needing to clear my head, and the confusing thoughts of Marlowe that swirl there, I lace up my sneakers, give my bodyguard Ramón a call, and head to Turia for a run.
The wide stretch of greenery, of tranquility, cutting through the center of the city calms me. I pop AirPods in my ears, start a playlist, and begin a slow-paced jog. Something easy to stretch out my muscles and clear my head.
Around me, families and friends gather. Some talking in clusters, others taking walks, or enjoying a bike ride. There are rollerbladers and people hosting picnics. Some practicing acrobats or yoga. Kids climb the famous Gulliver attraction from Gulliver’s Travels and the skate park is full.
A few fans recognize me, even with a hat pulled low to my brows. They lift a hand in greeting or flip their chin in acknowledgement, but no one stops me, and I’m grateful. As a precaution, Ramón trails behind me.
I breathe in the humid air and keep my sights on the City of Arts and Sciences as it rises before me—a modern, almost extraterrestrial looking cluster of buildings surrounded by reflecting ponds filled with cool, sea-green water.
The scenery distracts me from the heat pumping through my veins every time I think of Marlowe. I jog until I reach the end of the park, where I turn left and continue toward the beach.
I push myself until sweat is dripping down my back, pooling in the base of my throat, and dropping from my wrists. But my head is quiet, my mind empty, and for that, I’m relieved. When I arrive at the beach, I toe off my socks and sneakers, remove my AirPods, strip down to my underwear, and plunge into the sea. The shock of the cool water is refreshing, and I settle into it, allowing the sea to envelop my body.
I need to keep my wits about me and stick to the plan. Marlowe is doing a fantastic job holding up her end of the bargain. After next week’s paella, I’ll figure out how to connect her with José Costa and we’ll be one step closer.
I just can’t get twisted up over her. I need to stick to the rules, keep my priorities clear, and remain focused on the end goal.
Which, for me, will always be fútbol.
I’m nearly desperate to see her when I buzz up to her apartment the following Sunday. Yeah, we talked throughout the week—an exchange of text messages, two phone calls, and some random updates I got from Luca via Bianca.
But with my training sessions accelerating ahead of camp starting tomorrow, fútbol demanded every ounce of my energy and every bit of my mental focus. As such, our conversations were surface level at best.
In addition to what Luca shared with me, the social media tags and random photos of Marlowe out and about kept me informed of what she and Bianca got into this week—some time spent at the neighborhood bar where I first met her, Corcho, morning runs in Turia, and several afternoons at the beach in Malvarossa.
Marlowe told me she even joined a game of beach volleyball—and she practically burst with excitement as she relayed serving an ace.
Knowing that she was enjoying her time in Valencia, and had hit it off with Bianca, was a gift I didn’t know I needed. It allowed me to mentally commit to my training and to prepare for the official start of camp tomorrow.
The building door clicks, and I enter, taking the stairs up to the fourth floor. When I arrive, Marlowe’s already cracked open the door to her flat and I knock once before entering. “Hola.”
She walks into the small foyer a moment later, securing a stud earring into place. I pause, drinking her in.
She’s wearing a silk maxi skirt. It’s navy and printed with luscious flowers in various shades of purple and pink. On top, a form-hugging, white tank hugs her curves. The straps are thin and delicate. Her hair has been blown out and is full and wavy as it falls to just past her shoulders. Her makeup is simple and natural. But her eyes sparkle and her smile is genuine, and holy shit, I can’t believe this is the woman I’m bringing home to meet my parents. To meet Abuela.
Since high school, Marlowe is the first woman I’ve ever brought home. Part of me swells with pride at the opportunity to do so.
“Estás guapísima.” I shake my head. “Stunning.”
Marlowe blushes and bites that bottom lip. “You look really nice, too.”
I don’t repeat that she looks a hell of a lot more than “really nice.”
Instead, I close the space between us, place a hand on her waist, and lean down to kiss both of her cheeks.
When I pull away, a flicker of heat flares in her eyes, but it’s gone in the next blink. Wishful thinking on my part? Probably.
“You ready?” I ask.
“Yes.” She moves toward the refrigerator and pulls out a large pastry box. “Let me just get this.”
