Page 55 of Winning Match
Shaking my head, I shove my feet into sandals, and head toward the showers. After rinsing off and dressing in comfortable shorts and a tank top, I walk to the cafeteria. Most of the team is already present and I load my lunch tray with grilled salmon, steamed vegetables, and a handful of olives. I move to sit with the team when my phone rings.
I settle at a table alone, pulling it out. I ignore the flicker of disappointment that it’s not Marlowe.
Answering the call, I greet my cousin. “Qué pasa, tío? Where are you this week?” I lean back in my chair and shovel a bite of food into my mouth.
“Just arrived in Milan. I’m testing at Imola,” he explains, naming the legendary circuit in Italy.
“Nice,” I murmur. “I’m in Portugal.”
“I know. Abuelita told me you left your pretty girlfriend all alone in Valencia.”
Abuela is such a gossip even though she would be horrified to know it. “Marlowe’s fine.”
“Marlowe, huh? When did the Garcías all start falling for americanos?”
“Watch out or you’ll be next.”
He chuckles. “No way, tío.” Instead of calling me bro, or dude, he uses the Spanish word for uncle as slang. “I’m not tying myself down to one woman. Not when there’s such beautiful variety in life. I’ll be in Singapore next month.”
“Yeah. That’s what we all say.”
He’s silent for a moment. “So, it’s serious then? You and this—Marlowe?”
I pause, placing my fork down.
For all the lies I’ve been projecting lately, no one has asked me outright about my intentions, my future, with Marlowe. And the fact that it’s my cousin—the closest person I have to a brother—pulls me up short.
We’ve been through too much together. We’re too damn close.
We’re both the eldest sons in our families, professional athletes, and have had each other’s backs since we were in diapers. If I tell him the truth, I know he’ll keep my secret. But I also made a commitment to Marlowe.
My feelings for her are new and exciting. I never hoped for a woman to text before, unless I was banking on a booty call. I never looked forward to seeing a woman after a long day of practice. Or wondered what she was doing while I ate lunch. Or genuinely wanted to introduce her to my family.
Even Papá likes—no—respects Marlowe. That’s some divine energy shit right there.
“Dío,” Rafa murmurs. “It is serious. Tío, you’re speechless.”
I heave out a sigh, throwing up a prayer to the Virgin Mary for saving me from having to answer.
“You’ll understand when you meet her,” is all I say.
Rafa clicks his tongue, but his tone is more respectful as he replies, “I look forward to it, then.”
“Me too. I gotta finish lunch and get to video analysis.”
“Good luck, Ale. We’ll catch up at Abuela’s over horchata and fartons soon,” he says, referencing the refreshing beverage and sugar-glazed pastries Abuela always had on hand when we were kids. It’s been ages since we sat around her kitchen table eating and talking.
“Sí,” I agree, chuckling. “I’m holding you to it. Adios.” I disconnect the call.
Does Rafa feel the same pang of nostalgia that cuts through me? Our family has always been close. Even with the frequent travel and professional commitments, we’ve managed to stay tight. And this past year, things are changing.
Valentina married Avery and lives in Tennessee.
Carla is settled in Chicago and has no plans to return to Spain.
Rafa’s career is taking off and he spends more time out of the country than he does in it.
And I…I’m trying to be a leader for a team, to earn my father’s respect, to be a man.
