Page 6 of Winning Match
“It’s made from the Valencian orange—that’s what we’re known for.”
“Dorothy requested I fill my suitcase with oranges,” she quips. “What else?”
I chuckle. “Cava, vodka, and gin.”
She sucks in a breath, biting her bottom lip. “I’m going to warn you now—I may be truly tipsy after this.”
I point to the bottle of water. “Pace yourself, it’s still early.”
She laughs and gestures with her glass in my direction. “You know, officially meeting you in the women’s bathroom has turned an awful afternoon into a bright spot. Now, I can say I tried real Spanish food and drinks with a local Valencian, even if my trip only lasts for twenty-four hours.”
The words are spoken genuinely. Easily. Like she’s used to sharing her innermost thoughts with strangers without fear of repercussions. Without wondering how they will be twisted and used against her.
I clear my throat. “I’m glad. Salud.” I clink my glass against hers and take a gulp of my drink.
“Cheers,” she murmurs, doing the same. She smacks her lips together appreciatively, grinning at me. “This is good. I needed this after today.”
“So, what happened?” I press, sounding just as nosy as Abuela.
“I flew to Valencia?—”
“At Gladys’s urging,” I interject.
Marlowe laughs lightly. “Yes, at Gladys’s urging, to surprise Gerard. He’s here for work and has been putting in long hours. The past few months have been…challenging for us. I wanted to surprise him, to support him.” Her eyes take on a faraway sheen, as if she’s lost in thought. A moment passes before she blinks, clearing the memory and straightening in her seat. Her cheeks heat but her eyes are dry as she admits, “He was in bed with another woman.”
“Cabrón,” I spit the vulgar word. My anger spikes and I grip my thighs under the table to control the surge of rage I feel on her behalf.
What a bastard. A man has a woman like Marlowe in his life and he risks that for a one-night stand on a business trip? But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t experienced worse. Hell, there are married men on my team who have done the same thing to their wives.
“That’s not even the worst part,” Marlowe whispers before draining her beverage. I refill it but also pour her a glass of water. I want her to tell me every single thing the hijo de puta said to her, but I also don’t want her to not remember doing so tomorrow.
I arch an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue.
She fiddles with the edge of her linen napkin and my anger swirls into concern.
Did he hurt her? Touch her? “Did he lay a hand on you?” I press, my voice deceptively calm.
As a professional athlete, I’m very aware of the shit guys pull with women and hope to get away with. As a brother with two sisters, I don’t stand for any of it. Ever.
“What? No, of course not,” Marlowe says quickly.
“Tell me the truth,” I demand. If he hurt her, I’ll?—
“He didn’t hurt me. Not physically. He just…he spoke to me so cruelly. He’s never been so dismissive, so callous, before.”
I pull in a breath and relax my hands. “Maybe he’s finally showing you his true colors.”
She snorts. “We’ve been together nearly five years. What does it say about my judgment if I didn’t pick up on these glaring character flaws sooner?”
I bite the corner of my mouth. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know. I just feel…hurt.” She presses a hand to her heart, as if her ex-boyfriend’s actions physically pierced her. “And confused.”
“About what?”
“About everything. Life.”
I offer a small, understanding smile. “I think everyone feels like that sometimes.”
