Page 78 of Winning Match
“Joder,” I swear, fisting her hair.
“I got you.”
And on my next thrust, she grinds down, rolling her hips over me.
“Mi amor,” I growl as I fall over the edge and break apart. Pleasure flows through me in ribbons, in game-day confetti, in waves. It’s all sensation and want. Desire and need.
Strong, powerful, complex emotions I’ve never experienced before but they rattle me to my fucking core.
Mi amor.
A sunburst.
A winning match.
My everything.
I’m holding the handles of two coffee mugs and a Tupperware of leftover birthday cake when I rest my shoulder against the bedroom door. While I anticipated coffee and cake in bed, sweet Marlowe fell back to sleep.
I smirk, watching her for several seconds. She’s dressed in a barely-there bralette and lacy underwear I yearn to snap at the hip. Wake her up with my head between her thighs.
I sigh. If we start that up again, I’ll be late to practice and Javi will rip me apart.
Especially now that I’ve been given the opportunity to lead one of the teams in the upcoming charity match. An opportunity to show up for my team and demonstrate that I’m capable of more responsibility on—and off—the field.
I place our coffees down on the side table before perching on the edge of the bed. I watch Marlowe’s chest rise and fall before bending over to kiss her forehead.
Then, I force myself to stand, to shower, to get ready for a mid-morning workout and an afternoon practice.
On my drive to the fútbol field, I revel in the city as it wraps around me. The groups of kids kicking a soccer ball at the park, students reading outside cafés, their headphones drowning out the noise of the motorbikes, and the elderly taking a leisure stroll, their small dogs navigating the cobblestone streets.
I crack the windows for some fresh air and enjoy the scenery of the city as it passes. The ornate bridges, the proud palm trees, the brightly contrasting colored buildings.
I love my city. I love my home. And now, now I can’t fathom either of them without Marlowe.
I shake the thought away. I hate the anxiety that snakes through my thoughts on the heels of such a perfect—a fucking blissful—night.
How is this going to work?
Does she feel the same way?
Am I going to lose her?
I sigh, shutting the door on my mental spiral and reaching for some levelheaded coolness. Objectivity.
At some point, in the very near future, Marlowe and I will talk and sort things out. But things are different now. I’m different. And I won’t lose her or let her slip away.
Not when I’m making strides to be a man worthy of a woman like Marlowe, worthy to lead a team like League Valencia. Our arrangement may have started out as a mutually beneficial ruse, but that’s no longer the case. My feelings for Marlowe are deep and complicated and…life-changing.
All I have to do is stay the course. Keep showing up for Marlowe, keep showing up for my team, keep winning games, and everything will be fine.
Relieved by this conclusion, I turn up the volume on a throwback playlist and enjoy the rest of my drive to the stadium. Practice is smooth and fluid, the team gelling together, riding a wave of confidence for tomorrow’s game. And I surf that wave, feeling on top of the world.
Except the following day, League Valencia suffers our first loss.
And I can’t help but feel that it’s my fault.
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