Page 53 of Winning Match
As we take the stairs to the fourth floor, Ale asks, “Did B message you to give you a heads-up?”
“No, she must be out,” I supply, not mentioning that she’s probably at work. Bianca accepted a position at Corcho a few nights a week.
Once we’re in my apartment, Ale turns toward me. “I’m sorry, Marli. I saw you tagged in a few photos around town, but I had no idea it was this intense for you.”
“It’s usually not,” I say truthfully. Other than a few encounters that felt off—long stares from strangers, a random woman following me home from a supermarket, and two men catcalling me in Turia, I’ve never encountered this many fans or paparazzi outside my home before. It’s never been anything I couldn’t handle.
Ale pulls in a deep breath, and steps closer, running his hand over my hair. “Promise you’ll tell me if you need more support. If anyone makes you uncomfortable or?—”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off. The last thing I want to do is add more to his plate when in eight weeks, I’ll be on a plane heading home. “Today was…” I pull in a deep breath. “Today was good, Ale.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, his fingertips pinching the ends of my tresses before he drops his hand. “Surprisingly good.”
“We make a great team, García. The next two months are going to be easy peasy.”
“I hope so.” He steps closer to kiss my cheek.
“Good luck at training camp tomorrow.”
“Gracias.” He leans to my other side and brushes a kiss against my other cheek. He lingers for a moment, his hand passing over the ends of my hair again. “Buenas noches.”
I walk him to the apartment door to see him out. Then, I watch from the window as he stops to speak with the paparazzi, signs shirts and notecards for fans, and poses for photos.
That’s why they let us through the crowd so easily, because Ale promised he’d be back to give them what they want—access to him.
14
Ale
The first week of training camp passes quickly. Each day is an endless stretch of drills, conditioning, video analysis, and team bonding. Other than nightly calls to check in on Marlowe, I barely speak with her.
Too soon, the second week arrives and with it, the team’s travel to Portugal.
“Not only on time for a flight but early,” Andrés feigns shock as I step onto the bus that’s taking us to the plane.
I flip him off and he snickers.
“Must be that new girlfriend,” Luca pipes up.
“I don’t know.” Our team captain, Carlos, shakes his head. “He looks too well rested.”
The guys laugh and I groan, but I’m fighting a grin. Their joking is easy and comfortable. It doesn’t contain the undercurrent of anger from past seasons.
When I was late and hungover. Or splashed across tabloids with women dangling off my arms. Or chugging electrolytes in the shower before a game to pull myself together.
They had joked then. They had teased relentlessly and slapped my back for being a player, for scoring off the field as frequently as I scored on it—but there was a thread of judgment, of frustration, I never distinguished until now. Because now, it’s absent.
I take a seat on the bus and smirk. “Marlowe’s a sweetheart,” I tell them truthfully. “You’ll understand when you meet her.”
“Díos mio.” My teammate Jorge gapes. “Who is this guy?” He points at me and stares at the rest of the team over his shoulder. “We’re actually going to meet her?”
The guys laugh louder.
“Quick, someone call Rafa to make sure family intervention isn’t necessary,” Andrés announces, referencing my cousin Rafa, a professional race car driver and, until late, my constant wingman.
Luca smacks my shoulder. “Go easy on him, ragazzi, Marlowe is a gem. She’s the only person keeping Bianca out of trouble.”
Carlos snorts and nods in agreement while Andrés shakes his head, aware of Bianca’s antics. Even when she was living in New York, Luca worried about her constantly.
