Page 62 of Winning Match
In fact, after some urging on my part after security flagged two suspicious-looking tourists one afternoon, Marlowe joined my family for Sunday paella while I was in Sevilla for an away game. As soon as I returned, I took Marlowe to dinner to catch up.
“We’re trending on socials,” I tell her.
“I heard,” she laughs. “Dorothy is very invested in our social media footprint.”
I tap my shoulder against hers as we near her apartment. We’ve spent the night out having dinner, sharing stories from the past week, and enjoying our time together. The bond between us is real and easy. Is it supposed to be this way? Or is it only natural because we know it’s not real? That we have an exit strategy?
The fact that I have nothing to compare this to—no past relationships that lasted more than three dates—confuses me. Is this what I’ve been missing out on all these years? Could I have had more—a true partnership with trust and concern and love—if I had been open to it? Are these the feelings that spurred my sister Valentina to marry Avery in a matter of weeks? Did she just know?
I glance at Marlowe, noting the freckles on her cheeks. How can you tell if it’s love or lust? When do you know it’s real?
When Marlowe meets my gaze, I feign a chuckle, feeling unsettled by my thoughts.
“When do you meet with José Costa?” I ask as we turn onto her street.
“Next Wednesday.” She beams. “I’ve been working on my pitch while you were traveling.” She pulls in a breath and looks up at me. “Do you want to hear it? Give me some feedback?”
I stare at her in surprise. No one has ever asked me to weigh in on anything—anything that wasn’t related to fútbol before. I’ve never been considered smart or savvy or business-minded. My entire identity is tied to fútbol and the fact that Marlowe cares what I think, that she would seek out my opinion at all, humbles me.
I must be silent for too long because she blushes. “Forget it.” She shakes her head. “I know you’re busy and?—”
“No!” My hand darts out to touch her arm. “Not at all. I’d love to hear your pitch, Marlowe. I’d love to listen to anything you’d like to share.”
“Really?” Her voice is almost shy.
“Absolutely.”
I lift my hand in greeting as paparazzi and fans loiter in front of Marlowe’s door. Ahead of us, Ramón sweeps the entrance to the apartment building and signals that we’re good to enter. Luis remains half a street length behind, assessing the small crowd, as Marlowe and I pause for photos. I answer a few questions as she fishes her keys out of her purse.
Before we enter the building, I look up and note that all the lights in her and Bianca’s place are off. “What time does B arrive home from work?”
“Oh.” She shrugs. “Not until almost five.”
While I get a kick out of Luca’s spunky little sister pouring pints and passing out cocktails, my friend hates every second of it. Even Andrés grumbles about it, worrying about guys getting too handsy or pushy with Bianca. But I’ve seen that firecracker in action—standing up to angry fans and referees over unfair calls. She can hold her own.
“Are you all right by yourself?” I hate the thought of her sleeping alone, given that her place is on the corner of such a busy party street. “You can come home with me or?—”
“I’m fine,” she answers easily as she starts climbing the stairs. She always says this flippantly and I wonder if she’s ever asked for real help in her life. If she’s ever had someone she could count on, someone who would show up for her, while she’s busy taking care of everyone else.
I narrow my eyes as I study her face, but it’s bathed in darkness as she moves up the stairs.
I follow her up to the fourth floor when Marlowe stops and tosses out an arm as if to keep me behind her.
Sensing her alarm, I step in front of her and swear when I note that her apartment door is slightly ajar, pulled shut but the latch never clicked into place.
Bianca left hours before our dinner, and I clearly remember Marlowe locking up before we left.
I glance over my shoulder, but Ramón and Luis are on the ground floor. Instead of waiting for them, I place a hand on Marlowe’s forearm and squeeze lightly. “Stay here,” I murmur before I push into the apartment, my neck swiveling as I scan the space.
But it’s dark and quiet and…nothing seems amiss.
I flip on lights and move from room to room, scanning the space, checking behind doors and under beds. With each room I clear, my confusion mounts. Nothing is out of place and yet something feels off.
When I enter Marlowe’s room at the end of the hallway, disbelief slams into me and I freeze. It takes entire seconds to fully comprehend what I’m seeing. My body locks down and my eyes widen in horror.
“Mierda,” I swear, slapping the light switch until the hallway and Marlowe’s bedroom are bathed in light.
Her bedroom—neat and tidy and hers—has been trashed. Ripped apart and destroyed. Rifled through and ruined.
