Page 57 of Winning Match
“That’s Óscar.” Bianca points out the team’s mascot—a giant Valencian orange—as he dances on the sidelines.
“Oh, wow!” I laugh. I’ve never been to a soccer game before. Not even in the States and even with my limited knowledge, I know that in Europe the games are more akin to American football games.
The crowd is lively and jovial.
The field is a mesmerizing green, impeccable and immaculate.
The sky is a brilliant blue, the sun shining down even though it’s nearly six thirty p.m. Something I’ve adored about my summer in Spain is that the sun doesn’t set until nearly nine p.m., lengthening the day, the time at the beach, the hours of gathering and socializing. And then, once the sun sets, the day leisurely rolls into dinner and dancing.
It’s a far cry from my strict schedule as COO, sailor, and caretaker. In fact, I’ve never enjoyed myself more or felt as at ease as I have the past three weeks in Valencia.
“Hola!” a woman calls out.
I jump to my feet as Abuela appears beside me.
“Hola, how are you?” I say, kissing both her cheeks.
“Bien, bien.” She smiles warmly, patting the side of my face. She greets Bianca while I say hello to Ale’s parents.
“You look wonderful in Alejandro’s number,” Paloma whispers conspiratorially as she kisses my cheeks in greeting.
I laugh and hug her before she’s pulled away by a friend. Everyone mingles in the family box, helping themselves to catered tapas and beer and wine. The atmosphere is laid-back.
“It’s really your first game, ever?” Mr. García asks, his brow furrowed.
“It really is. Hard to believe, huh?”
His eyes cut to the field where we see number nine, Alejandro, warming up. “Sí, I never pictured Alejandro with a woman who wasn’t a fan.” His eyes are surprisingly warm when they catch mine. “But I think it’s for the best. You keep him humble.” He pats my shoulder as he passes, waving hello to someone.
“Damn,” Bianca mutters as I take my seat beside her. “Rubén García never smiles at anyone. He must really like you.”
I shrug and try not to grin at the praise. I want Alejandro’s family to like me, to embrace me. It’s going to hurt big time when Ale and I go our separate ways but on days like today—when our paths are bound to cross—why can’t we enjoy each other’s company?
I turn my attention back to the field as the game begins. And then, for the next forty-five minutes of play, I barely blink. Beside me, Bianca cheers and calls out streams of swear words in Italian if the horror crossing Paloma’s face is anything to go by. Abuela laughs boisterously as Bianca gestures whenever the referee makes a call in favor of League Bilbao.
It’s hard to tear my eyes away from Alejandro. He moves with a fluidity, an ease, that seems to blend the sport with dancing. His body is lithe, his muscles strong. But it’s his mind that is truly impressive. His ability to anticipate his opponents’ moves before they give the slightest indication of what they’re thinking. His creativity and the way he maneuvers around defenders, kicking the ball between their legs, pulling off a spin in the middle of the play, heading the ball into the net as it sails overhead with a quick jerk of his head.
Alejandro is a sight to behold and for the first time, I realize how massive his fame—his success—is. I understand why he has legions of fans—both male and female. Both soccer fans and general sports enthusiasts. He’s a phenom on the field.
In fact, the only bad press I’ve ever found of him was that he was a serial dater who loved to party. And even then, Bianca assured me, the women always knew it was a one-night thing. He never made commitments he didn’t keep.
Pride fills my chest as I watch him play the game he loves. Bianca moves to the bar right before halftime, but I wave off her offer of a drink. I’m enjoying the game too much to miss even a minute of play.
“He’s something else, isn’t he?” a man says beside me.
I turn in surprise that he spoke to me in English and flash him a smile. “He really is. It’s my first game.”
“For League Valencia?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Ever.”
Surprise ripples across the man’s expression, but he resumes watching the game beside me. “Well, you look like a true fan, hardly able to tear your eyes away.”
“That’s a relief to hear,” I admit. “I’m trying to blend in.” I gesture around the box and the man lets out a chuckle.
“If you’re not a fútbol fan, which sports do you enjoy?” he asks after a beat.
I glance at him again, noting the genuine curiosity on his face. He must be in his late sixties, but he’s dressed impeccably. In navy trousers, a V-neck shirt, and a pistachio-colored blazer, the man embodies a sophisticated, classic style blended with a fun, trendy vibe. “Sailing,” I say. “I love to sail.”
