Page 7 of Winning Match
“Maybe,” she murmurs but she doesn’t look convinced. She looks sad and lonely. Younger than her years even though her eyes hold a gleam of wisdom, of experiences, that speak to her maturity.
Do you love him? The thought flickers through my mind and I bite down on my tongue to keep from voicing it.
It’s none of my business whether she loves him. By tomorrow, or a few days at most, she’ll be back in America, and I’ll be a fun memory of a night in Spain.
A better question would be—do you want to forget all about him? Because if that’s the case, I can help her out.
My blood heats at the thought, at the idea of escorting Marlowe home, of laying her down in her hotel room, of making her forget the name of the cabrón she once referred to as her boyfriend.
We could have a night together. One she can recall as the little fling in Valencia. One I can savor as the night a woman trusted me for being Ale, the man, and not Alejandro, the futbolista.
It can be lighthearted and fun, with just enough emotional connection to take our physical coupling to the next level.
Marlowe will return to Rhode Island with higher standards than the poor excuse for a man she wasted five years of her life on. And I’ll start my season sated, without the usual distractions and temptations that crop up.
We can talk and laugh and enjoy each other’s company for one night without the expectation of more. In the morning, we’ll go our separate ways and the gratitude for what we shared will be enough.
As my fantasy takes shape, I can’t help but smile at the beauty sitting across from me. Dining with her makes me feel a thousand feet tall because she’s confiding in me as just Ale. And that’s enough.
Determined to enjoy this night, this time, with Marlowe, I take a sip of my drink and listen to every word she shares. She talks about sailing, her passion for the sport evident as her face brightens and her eyes sparkle. She speaks about her family and her Sewing Circle—a tight-knit support system that seems to be entirely comprised of senior citizens. Interesting yet endearing.
When she leans forward, as if to reach for me, my heart thuds in my eardrums. Before she can grasp my hand, our server appears and sets down the tapas.
A laugh spills from Marlowe’s lips as she takes in the various plates. “How much did your order?”
I smirk, feeling more like myself than I have all summer. “Bienvenida a Valencia, Marlowe.”
Welcome to Valencia.
3
Marlowe
“I can’t crash a stranger’s birthday party!” I exclaim as Ale leads me through cobblestone streets. Full on tapas and Agua de Valencia, with my mind calmer than it’s been since I arrived in Spain—which is miraculous considering I haven’t connected with my bank—I feel giddy and lighthearted.
Impulsive enough to take Ale up on his offer to go to his friend’s birthday party despite knowing it’s a terrible idea. I don’t know his friend; I hardly know him.
“Those are the best parties to crash,” he disagrees.
I stall, fishing for more information. “It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. What kind of party is this?”
“A Spanish one. It’s a good friend of mine. He’ll be happy I brought you along.”
“Are you sure?” I falter, not wanting to head back to Gerard’s hotel and hoping reception has another available room for the night, despite knowing it’s the right thing to do. The practical, sensible, responsible option.
“I’m certain. If you only have one night here, you should embrace it.” Ale’s tone is resolute. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders mid-shrug, as if to say, it’s up to you.
We stop at a pedestrian red light, and I shift my weight from one foot to the next. The heat of the evening wraps around me. Cars and cyclists whip past. And the city pulses with energy.
I can practically hear my college bestie, Hazel, cringing as she murmurs, going back to the hotel is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.
By the time Hazel returned to campus from her year abroad, I was dating Gerard. But before that…we used to have fun. Late nights out, dancing on bars with Hazel stealing hats from every guy she could swipe one from. Morning brunches, half hungover, sipping strong coffee and indulging in Johnny Cakes.
Standing on this street corner with Ale, I can feel the excitement buzzing in my eardrums. Adrenaline rushes through my veins. And endless possibilities shimmer before me.
The same way they did before Gerard. Before Dad’s diagnosis. Before I had to step into the role of de facto COO of Prescott Sail and full-time caretaker.
Before.
