Page 59 of Winning Match
Luca scores a goal and the stadium erupts. I jump up and down before Bianca barrels into me from the side, wrapping me in a tight hug.
I squeal, laughing breathlessly as I wrap an arm around my friend’s shoulders.
For a blink, in this private box, watching a soccer match, I feel the same way I do on the Narragansett Bay—free and centered and open to possibilities.
My heart is full, my mind is clear, and I feel at home.
16
Ale
The chanting, drumming, and cheering of the stadium erupts as the clock runs out. League Valencia wins 4–2 and the stadium pulses with energy, with excitement, with pride.
“We did it, lads!” Andrés hollers, hooking an arm around Luca’s neck.
“Nice game, well played,” Carlos calls out.
The team is jubilant, forming a huddle with our arms around each other, our bodies swaying from side to side as Carlos leads us in a chant. Team morale is at an all-time high after securing our win for the first game of the season. It’s made even sweeter knowing that League Bilbao is fierce competition. In fact, we lost to them twice last season.
As the huddle breaks apart, my eyes swing to the stands. While my parents prefer to watch games in the family box, Papá always makes his way down to the sidelines after our home games. Usually, Abuela is in tow, chatting with any fan who stops to speak with her.
Sure enough, when I look over, I spot my parents, Abuela, and my Marli. My girlfriend is right there, clad in my jersey, my name and number nine on her back, and my throat dries. I blink, unable to tear my eyes away. She looks utterly gorgeous—her hair pulled away from her face and tied in a bun with an orange bow.
Her smile widens as she tosses an arm in the air and cheers for me. For my team. For my city.
And before I can stop myself, I’m rushing toward her.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the high of the win, or just seeing her—and knowing that she’s here for me—but I don’t stop until I’m at the sideline.
Fans reach for me, screaming my name, shoving hats and shirts in my direction for my signature. But I don’t take my eyes off Marlowe. I jump to where she’s standing, in the first row of the stands with my family. Wrapping my hand around the metal post separating us, I catch my feet on the metal rung, and I lunge over the divider, wrapping one arm around Marlowe and pulling her closer. My hand grasps the back of her head, my fingertips grazing over the bow in her hair.
She gasps in surprise, her expression beaming with pride, my name on her lips.
“You did it!” she squeals.
And her genuine joy on my behalf is my undoing.
Before I can check myself, before I can warn her, I lean over the railing and kiss her. Hard.
I wait for her to shove me away but instead, she returns my kiss, her eyes fluttering shut. Her hand fists the back of my jersey, pulling me closer so I don’t slide off the ledge. My fingers tighten in her hair, and I cup the side of her face as I slant my mouth over hers.
My tongue slips into her mouth and a soft moan escapes from Marlowe’s lips. Among the roar of the crowd, I hear that moan—breathless and needy—down to my core. My blood heats, my desire spikes, and I kiss Marlowe with abandon, riding the natural high of the day.
She melts into my frame, the metal bars separating us nothing more than a nuisance as I deepen our kiss.
When she pulls away, she’s breathless. Her eyes are wide and clouded with the same want that pumps through my veins.
“You look good in my number, Marli.”
“You look good, period, García,” she tosses back.
And Abuela howls at the exchange, pulling me into a hug and kissing my temple. “You’re a good boy, Alejandro,” she whispers in Spanish, tapping the back of my neck. “A very good boy.”
I laugh as my family, my fans, sweep me into hugs.
But it’s the pride in my papá’s expression that pulls me up short. And I know that for as well as I played today, he’s happier that I’ve claimed Marlowe. I’m not sure if it’s because he truly believes that this is my season and Marlowe is the key, or because of his genuine affection for Marlowe, but the realization twists something in the pit of my stomach.
He can never learn that Marlowe’s and my relationship is fraudulent; no one can. It would hurt Mamá, crush Abuelita, and destroy my papá’s trust in me. But as I turn my head and glance at Marlowe, her blue eyes bright, her smile beatific, I can’t imagine letting her go.
