Page 58 of Winning Match
“There’s a lot of wonderful sailing here,” he agrees. “Especially in the north, near Barcelona.”
“Yes,” I agree. “I watched the American Cup there. Ages ago.”
“So, you’ve been a fan for a long time, then? I too am partial to sailing.”
Surprise rocks through me at that. What are the chances of meeting a sailing enthusiast at a soccer game?
It’s a small world, Dorothy’s voice sounds in my mind.
Six degrees of separation, Gladys adds.
“I love the feeling, the sense of freedom it offers,” I share. “Being on the water at daybreak, or sunset, there’s this golden window when everything in my mind clears and I can just…be.” I chuckle at myself and shake my head. “I’m sorry, I’m probably not making any sense?—”
“You’re making perfect sense,” the man cuts me off, his eyes warmer than the polite friendliness he showed a moment ago. “Please, continue.”
I shrug. “I’ve been on the water all my life. In Rhode Island, mostly. There’s this…sense of possibility that opens up when I’m sailing. An opportunity to be simultaneously focused, locked in, yet also part of something bigger. Something cosmic.”
A yell rings out, the sounds of drumming picking up in tempo, and my gaze snaps back to the field just in time to witness Alejandro kick the ball over the goalkeeper’s shoulder. The ball slams into the net and the fans jump to their feet, arms raised, heads thrown back, and a war cry of a cheer drowning out conversation.
I jump up and down, turning to the man and throwing my arms around him in a hug. Caught off guard, he laughs but wraps an arm around me, patting my shoulder.
“Oh, wow! What a goal!” I yell.
The man beams, surprise etched into the lines of his face. “You know, I think it’s not that much different than sailing.” He points toward the field.
Understanding his meaning—the focus, the dedication, the possibility, the being part of something bigger than the individual—I nod. “Passion for a sport, any sport, is a true gift.”
“A blessing,” he agrees, holding out a hand as the cheering dies down. “I’m José Costa. I own?—”
“Ultimate Sailing Club,” I whisper, shaking his hand. The blood drains from my face and I stare at him in surprise. “Your team has a 68% win percentage and an 84% podium finish rate in Europe.”
His grin broadens. “You certainly do your homework. I heard you were trying to get in touch with me.”
Knowing I can’t squander this moment, especially after I just hugged him, I blurt out, “My name is Marlowe Prescott. My family owns a sailboat building company in Providence, Rhode Island, Prescott Sail. I’d love to set up a time to speak with you about plans to expand into Europe, Mr. Costa.”
“I’d like that as well,” he agrees, passing me his card. “Send an email to that address and we’ll get something on the books in the next few weeks.”
On the field, the play resumes and my eyes dart to Alejandro before I force myself to look back at Mr. Costa.
Mr. Costa watches me with amusement and understanding in his gaze. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marlowe.”
“You too, Mr. Costa.”
“Please, call me José.” He dips his head slightly. “I look forward to continuing our conversation soon.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze and then he’s moving through the private box, leaning down to exchange a few words with another man.
When I look up, Mr. García’s knowing look catches my eye.
I arch surprised eyebrows at him. He tosses me a wink before looking back to the field as the whistle sounds for halftime.
My heart rate accelerates frantically.
This wasn’t a case of small world. Or even right place, right time. Mr. García orchestrated this for me. And Alejandro must have reached out to his father for guidance because I never mentioned my desire to connect with José Costa to Ale’s father.
But Alejandro promised me a meeting within the month and…my boyfriend delivers on his promises.
I bite my bottom lip to keep from freaking out. In the next few weeks, I’m going to pitch to José Costa, just like I promised Grandpa I would.
I mull over this turn of events until the game resumes.
