Page 67 of Winning Match
“Fine! Yes,” I laugh.
“What did you hear?”
“That this show places five men in a house with a group of single women and places their girlfriends in a house with a group of single men to test the strength of their relationships.”
“And?” He dips his head, gesturing with his hand for more.
“That it gets wild! Like really wild. And there’s a game about passing an ice cube.”
“Pasar el hielo,” he says, groaning. “It’s when someone has a big chunk of ice in their mouth, and they have to pass it to the other person’s mouth but of course it’s slippery and so…the temptation of a kiss is there.”
“Ah,” I say, nodding. “It’s like suck and blow.”
“What?” His eyes widen.
“Why do you look so traumatized? The American version is suck and blow where you suck in air to keep a playing card against your lips and then you press it to the other person’s mouth, and they have to suck in air to hold it and pass it on. But if it drops…there could be a kiss.”
Ale’s eyes are ripe with amusement as they hold mine. “And did you ever play this game, Marlowe?”
I roll my eyes. “In college. Before Gerard.”
“Hm.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Why? Did you ever pass ice?”
He snorts. “Of course, I did. Rafa always managed to get it incorporated at high school parties.”
“Does Abuela know what she turned you two into?” I ask innocently.
He groans and snatches an olive from the tray on the coffee table. “No! She was mortified the first time Rafa and I caught her watching La Isla. She made us swear we would never tell our mothers. But, of course, we were curious and so we started watching it and teasing Abuela mercilessly. As we got older, it just became the norm. Now the three of us have a text thread and gossip about the contestants like we know them in real life.”
“I love everything about this story. It reminds me of Gladys, Dorothy, and Judith’s obsession with The Bachelor. They used to steal wine from the priest, Father Thomas, every Sunday at Mass so they would have it for their Monday night episode.”
“Dios mío. I pray Abuela never meets your Sewing Circle, Marli.”
“You should.” I pick up the remote control and turn my eyes toward the television. “Are you ready?”
“We’re really watching this?”
“I need to know what I’ve been missing.” I press play.
Alejandro shakes his head, but he snuggles deeper into the sofa, his knee pressing into my thigh. As we munch on tapas and watch the show—the partying, the beautiful women in bikinis, the attractive men indulging in wicked games—I become more aware of Alejandro’s presence.
To be honest, it shows more than I anticipated—the behind the scenes that American television leaves up to the viewer’s inference is offered on screen. Couples are shown images of their significant others getting busy with the singles in the houses. And as I watch other people let loose and have fun, an irrational desire to do the same rises within me.
I glance at Ale from the corner of my eye. His jaw is tight, his eyes glued to the television. For weeks, I’ve respected the line he drew in the sand.
We’re friends. We’re partners in this agreement. That’s it.
But now that we’re living together, forced to share space and see each other first thing in the morning and before bed each night, things between us are blurring. The separation of our first weeks as a fake couple has disappeared.
Now, I check Ale out when he pads out of his bedroom in nothing but tight boxer briefs. I note the way his eyes drop to my chest and zero in on my hips before I meet Bianca for a run in Turia.
When we step out together, we always hold hands or link arms or touch in some way. Even when we’re in Ale’s car, his hand settles on my thigh, or my fingers reach for his.
Our conversations are natural and easygoing. Our lives have melded together seamlessly.
When I presented my pitch for José Costa to him, Alejandro took notes, asked serious questions, and gave thoughtful feedback.
