Page 81 of Winning Match
“That’s fine,” I bite out even though I want her to come home with me. To sit with my goddamn misery and feel as helpless as I do.
How is she working with a clear head? How is she going about her daily life? How is she making plans for the future—for her future back in Rhode Island—while I’m falling apart?
Because while everything is different now, she still accepts the end result. She knows what’s coming down the pipeline.
She hasn’t fallen in love with you.
The truth cuts as much as it numbs. It’s a fact I need to acknowledge. Need to accept.
I nod. “I understand.”
“I can postpone if?—”
“No,” I cut her off before she can offer to blow off work for me. “I’d never ask you to do that.” And I wouldn’t. Not aloud anyway. “Go to work. I’ll see you at home later.” I lean forward and kiss her cheeks.
“You sure?”
“Of course.” I tilt my head toward my SUV. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“That’s okay. Traffic is awful this time of day and Bianca is going to walk over with me since she has another job interview by the port.” She gestures over my shoulder and I half turn, noting Bianca standing by the stadium.
“All right. See you later.”
Marlowe gives a tiny wave, and I watch as she meets Bianca. The two of them link arms, their heads bent together. Marlowe laughs at something B says, and I feel it like a shove to the chest.
Sighing, I slide into my SUV and drive home. But when I get there, I’m restless. Frustrated. Hopped up on adrenaline and anger.
Then, it all compounds as I get a call from the police station confirming that Lucia Cesare was behind the break-in and destruction of Marlowe’s apartment. Another thing that’s my fault—another wrong I need to right. I promise to speak with Marlowe about pressing charges before I end the call and head to Turia park.
I need to clear my head. But even an hour walk does shit for my mental state, so I swing by Corcho to meet Andrés for tapas.
When I pop my head into my bedroom later that night and note Marlowe’s sleeping frame, her even breaths, and her angelic face, relief flows through me.
But I need to add distance and space between us. She’s leaving in three weeks, and I can’t blow up my entire career because I went and fell in love with a woman who was supposed to be nothing more than a means to an end.
I got myself in over my head and now—now, it’s time to dig myself out.
Over the next few days, I can barely meet Marlowe’s eyes as we navigate the situation with Lucia Cesare. Since home break-ins are considered public crimes in Spain, Marlowe may be called to testify in court. She accepts this with her usual levelheadedness, but I stew inside, horrified that I put her in this position.
Furious with myself, I pour my energy into my game. I’m the first player at the stadium each morning and the last to leave each night. I engage in additional conditioning, more time committed at the gym, and extra drills.
I consume reels of tape, meet with PT and the nutritionist, and home in on my diet.
I begin to look forward to away games because they provide organic distance between Marlowe and me.
Of course, I still check in with her. I hire extra security to ensure her safety. I inquire about her progress with José Costa and ask about her father’s health.
But I come home each night too physically spent to sink inside of her. Too mentally fucked up to dwell on the complicated feelings I have for her. Too realistic to hope for a happy ending.
As the days pass, I add an additional layer of space between us. And as we approach the eight-week mark, the words I resolutely spoke the night of her birthday—I won’t let you go—sound more like an echo, a memory, than a current conviction.
24
Marlowe
“I love you, Dad,” I say, biting my bottom lip as the word dad slips out.
I sense my dad’s confusion through the line and screw my eyes closed, praying it doesn’t send him into an emotional spiral.
