Page 56 of Winning Match
And I’m falling in like with my fake girlfriend.
“Qué tal?” I answer Papá’s call after my yoga session.
“How’s training?” he asks by way of greeting.
I move to the balcony off my room and plop down in a chair, stacking my feet on top of the railing. “Good. We have two friendlies set up for Wednesday and Friday.”
“You feel good about it?” Papá presses.
“Sí.”
“I think this is your season, Ale.”
My feet drop from the railing as I sit up straight in my chair. “Perdón?” I inquire, sure I misheard him.
“This is your season,” he repeats. “Carlos is going to retire in a season or two. This is the perfect opportunity for you to step up and start leading the team. You’re different since Marlowe.”
I shake my head, drinking in the fútbol fields that stretch below me, comprising most of the training facility. “You always told me to steer clear. Not to tangle up with girls and?—”
“Marlowe isn’t a girl,” Papá cuts me off. “She’s a woman. A partner. As you are to her. You’re more serious, Alejandro. You’re locked in in a way I’ve never seen before. Not just in fútbol, but in your life.”
“Papá,” I sigh, uncertain what to say. He’s never spoken to me like this before—straightforward and father-to-son, rather than mentor-to-player.
“You’re on the precipice of something great. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t mess this thing up with Marlowe. Keep your head in the game.”
I sigh. There it is. He’s back. It always comes back to fútbol. To winning. To our family reputation and legacy.
“I won’t,” I murmur, exhaustion hitting me full-on.
“This is your season, Ale,” he repeats for the third time, like a mantra. As if his saying it over and over will make it true. “Make it count.” Then he hangs up.
I sit for a long time, staring at the night sky, lost in my thoughts.
What does Papá truly want from me? And will I ever achieve it?
I think about my family, about my father’s legacy, about Rafa’s comments. I think about Abuela and the love she’s poured into all her grandchildren—wanting us to become good, decent people more than elite athletes. Maybe that’s why Valentina is her favorite grandchild. She followed her passion of ornithology over the call of the fútbol pitch and the sound of the racetrack the way my father and my tío pressed into Carla, Rafa, Sebastián, and me.
Did Marlowe inherit her love of sailing the same way? Half by osmosis and half by expectation?
My chest aches at the thought of Marlowe. We exchanged a few messages, but I miss her. Can’t stop thinking about her.
What do I want for myself?
An image of Marlowe—big blue eyes, bright smile, and adorable freckles—flickers through my mind and I sigh.
Standing from the chair, I go inside and call it a night.
15
Marlowe
“Olé, Olé, Olé!”
The cheers of thousands of soccer fans have me perched on the edge of my seat, drinking in the view and reveling in the atmosphere, as excitement pulses through my body.
“Get ready! It will be like this the whole game,” Bianca warns.
I grin at the scene outside of the private box we’re seated in. The stands roar with fans of all ages. Everyone is dressed in a jersey or League Valencia team colors—orange and blue—and many people have their faces painted. There are pompoms and noisemakers, signs and waving scarves.
