Page 80 of Winning Match
“It’s not your fault,” Luca mutters.
And yeah, it’s not entirely my fault. But it mostly is.
“My finishing was shit,” I retort.
Luca grunts.
“I missed at least three scoring opportunities,” I tack on.
“Four,” Carlos corrects.
When Andrés glares at him, he shrugs and looks away.
“Four,” I bite out. “And I was fucking offsides twice.”
“What’s going on?” Andrés asks.
I shake my head and drop onto the bench to remove my cleats. What’s going on is Marlowe.
Marlowe is going to leave and I’m…I’m fucking in love with her. Consumed by her. Tortured by her presence and by the fear of her impending absence.
But I can’t say that. Can’t admit it.
Shame eats at me that I’m so twisted up over her that I can’t think. Can’t perform. Can’t do my fucking job.
“Fuck if I know,” I offer.
Andrés arches an eyebrow as Luca narrows his eyes. Neither one of them says anything. I move toward the showers, throwing myself under the hot spray as I try to scrub off the stench of loser that clings to my skin.
After a meeting with Javi, who lets me know I better get my shit together, I storm out of the stadium.
Marlowe’s waiting for me and I groan internally, unable to meet her eyes. I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want her to witness me falling apart.
“It’s one game,” she says sympathetically as I breeze past her. She quickens her steps to keep my pace.
“It’s four games,” I clip out, feeling my jaw pulse with anger.
Marlowe sighs and places a tentative hand on my arm. My eyes close, her touch feeling like both a salve to my pain and a brand to my being.
I’m all over the fucking place and I don’t know what to do, how to manage the intense feelings that course through me. I’ve never felt like this before. Never been this twisted up over a woman. Over anything.
“I’m sorry,” Marlowe whispers.
My eyes snap to hers. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
She studies my eyes, searches my expression, before sighing and removing her hand. “Do you want to talk about it? About anything?” And it’s the kindness in her words, the thoughtfulness of her offer, that scrapes against my soul.
But what do I say? How do I even start?
I’m failing my team, my fans, my legacy.
“Nothing to say,” I clip out. “I just need to focus more. Train harder. Spend more time at the stadium, on the field, and mentally lock in.”
“Okay.” Her voice sounds small and tinny. Hurt.
I blow out a breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let’s go home.”
She nods, following me to my SUV. But then she stands there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and tossing me a sheepish look. “I need to swing by José Costa’s office. We’re going over some contracts and…”
