Page 66 of Winning Match
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over my hair. We’re quiet for several moments and then he asks, softly, “Do you want to tell me about your nightmare?”
“I was a little girl, maybe six years old, walking through my mom’s closet. My arms were stretched out, my fingers brushing past the dresses, skirts, and blouses that hung there. Silk and satin. I wrapped myself in my favorite skirt—a pleated Cornwall blue maxi skirt that billowed around Mom’s legs when she twirled. It hung around my shoulders, practically touching my ankles, and I imagined I looked like a princess.
“And then, out of nowhere, shears were going through the skirt, line by line, pleat by pleat, it was being destroyed. Torn apart. Ruined.
“And I felt the agony, the pain of each cut, throughout my entire being.” I pause, my emotions swelling as I recall my mother’s beautiful clothing, torn apart and lying in clumps on the floor of my wardrobe, in my bedroom. “Why would someone do such a thing?”
Ale shakes his head and moves closer. He slides beside me on the bed and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his body. Into his warmth. I rest my cheek on his chest and listen to the soothing sound of his heartbeat.
He kisses the top of my head. “I don’t know, Marli. But I am sorry, so unbelievably sorry for what happened tonight. I feel responsible and?—”
I look up sharply. “It’s not your fault.”
He runs his fingers through my hair. “It is. That never would have happened if you weren’t linked to me.”
I place my head back down on his chest and curl my arm around his waist, using him like a personal pillow. “Is this what you meant when you said parts of this, of our arrangement, won’t be easy?”
He hums out a noise but doesn’t respond. Instead, he plays with my hair and slowly, sleep beckons once more.
“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Ale vows in the darkness.
Shadows dance along the opposite wall as the sun begins to rise. But my eyelids grow heavy. Ale’s arm is strong as it curves around my back. His other hand passes over my hair—steady. Safe and soothing and here.
An anchor. Steadfast whenever I need him.
“Sleep, mi niña. I got you.”
My eyes close and I drift off.
Alejandro García is the first unrelated male that I’ve ever lived with. And it is an experience.
While I’m used to early mornings, days spent out of the house at work, and a cleaning routine—Ale lives and breathes by his fútbol schedule. It varies by the day—depending on if there’s a game, multiple practice sessions, or team meetings.
As such, he could be napping at two p.m., during the local siesta, or boarding a bus to Barcelona.
What is consistent is the presence of his lovely housekeeper Sandra who appears every morning at ten a.m. to clean, cook, and start a load of laundry.
Through Sandra, I learn a little more about Ale’s preferences. Churros con chocolate are his favorite Sunday morning breakfast tradition. He prefers wine to beer but rarely drinks during the season. He wears the exact same socks in white and black so they’re easy to pair. And his biggest guilty pleasure is a Spanish reality television show called La Isla de las Tentaciones—Temptation Island, the Spanish version.
On Sunday night, after Ale returns home from Madrid, having secured another win for League Valencia, I have an assortment of tapas ready and the television primed to watch an episode of his favorite show.
“You’re joking!” He laughs when he notes the opening credits. His hands grip the sides of his head as he drops his head back and laughs. “Who told you? Rafa?”
“Your cousin watches this too?” I gasp. “What is this, a dirty family secret?”
Ale shakes his head, his eyes crinkling in the corners from his laughter. “No, well, I mean, kind of.” He toes off his sandals and sits on the couch, wrapping an arm around me to pull me close and kiss my temple. “You can’t ever admit this.”
“I promise.”
Ale chuckles. “It’s Abuela’s fault.”
My mouth drops open. “No way! I heard?—”
“From who?”
“I’m not giving up my sources.”
Ale rolls his eyes. “It was Sandra.”
