Page 65 of Winning Match
She nods. Clears her throat. Exhales. “Yes. Of course. I’m fine.”
He smiles at her, but I know he doesn’t believe her. Neither do I. And my questions from earlier are confirmed. Marlowe’s never not been fine because she’s never had the opportunity to fall apart. To let someone else share a burden with her. She doesn’t buckle because with so many loved ones relying on her, she can’t.
“You don’t have to give a statement if you’re not ready,” I reassure her, standing.
“No.” She shakes her head. “No, let’s just get this over with.”
I pull her up beside me and place a hand on the center of her back. As we walk out of her bedroom to meet with the police, I glance over my shoulder and note the scraps of her mother’s clothing.
The lump in my throat expands and I work to swallow around it. But an idea takes shape in the recesses of my mind. I toss out a question in Spanish to Luca who looks surprised but nods.
Then, I focus on Marlowe, on translating for her as she speaks to the police. Ramón, Luis, and I relay as much information as we can about past incidents and specific fans, about Lucia keying my car, about flagged social media posts. Once the police leave, I bundle Marlowe in my arms and pull in my first deep breath since we crossed the threshold into her flat. Pressing my lips to her temple, I silently vow to protect her, to show up for her, to put her first.
18
Marlowe
I sleep fitfully, my mind uneasy, my body restless. In the early morning hours, I’m pulled from a night terror and I jolt up in bed, crying out. My surroundings are foreign and panic lashes through my limbs as my heart races.
“It was just a dream,” I pant, as I realize I’m in Ale’s guest bedroom.
But the dream was so real—so visceral. The effects of it cling to my skin, an icy film that chills me to my bone. Reminders of last night flood my mind and I squeeze my eyes shut, placing a hand over my heart to regulate my breathing.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Ale bursts into the bedroom and my eyes fly open, meeting his wild ones.
I groan, shaking my head. “It was just a bad dream. I’m sorry I woke you.”
He drags a hand over his face and approaches the bed. He sits on the edge, one of his large hands resting on my ankle through the comforter. “Don’t be sorry. Are you okay?”
I nod.
Ale tilts his head, his eyes studying me. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
The sweetness in his tone makes me want to cry. It’s what Mom asked when I woke from a night terror as a little girl. It’s what I ask Dad when his screams echo through the house on the really bad nights.
He rarely remembers but I still ask, recalling the comfort of sharing my burdens with Mom when I was young.
I roll my lips together, feeling childish and out of sorts.
Ale squeezes my ankle.
I meet his eyes in the dark bedroom, noting the compassion and concern in his gaze. He doesn’t try to hurry me along but waits patiently as I choose my words.
He’s bare chested, clad in only black boxers and a gold chain necklace with a number nine pendant I never noticed before. It must always be tucked underneath his shirt.
It distracts me from my nightmare, and I tentatively reach for it. Ale follows the trajectory of my hand, sitting stock-still as I finger the pendant.
“Do you always wear this?”
He clears his throat and nods. “It was a gift from my abuelo. He gave it to me after my first championship win when I was nine.” He snorts and drops his gaze. “I think it drove Papá mad. He thought Abuelo was too soft on me, on my training. But I think Abuelo showed up for me in ways he couldn’t for Papá. I think grandparents try to apply the wisdom they’ve learned, to fix the mistakes they made with their children, with their grandchildren.”
I think about Grandpa. He adored my dad with every part of his being. But he was always tender and understanding with me in ways that he wasn’t with his son. He has more patience with me. Dad used to grumble and Mom would laugh and tell him I had Grandpa wrapped around my finger—and rightfully so.
“I think so, too,” I agree, pressing his pendant between my thumb and forefinger. “I used to wear an anchor pendant,” I admit, biting my bottom lip at the painful reminder that I lost it. “My dad gave it to my mom on their first anniversary. Anchors are steadfast, you know?”
Ale nods, his jaw tense but his eyes are tender. “What happened to it?”
“It fell off one day while I was on the docks and…I never found it.”
