Page 83 of Winning Match
But Alejandro doesn’t come home.
I watch two episodes feeling my favorite girlfriend’s devastation at seeing her man get busy with one of the single women. Tears well in my eyes as she sobs on camera, conversing with the host television personality, that her heart is breaking.
For the first time, I wonder if Ale and I could make it on a reality TV show like this. Back when we were solidly in a fake relationship, friends more than anything else, I would have wholeheartedly said yes.
But now that we blurred the lines, developed complex feelings and shared moments of sheer intimacy, I doubt us.
I question the words we exchanged.
I got you.
I won’t let you go.
This changes everything.
And the last one rings true. Everything is different now.
But not in the way I hoped.
With twenty seconds left on the clock, Ale takes a shot on goal.
The entire stadium draws in a breath, collectively holding it, as the ball clangs against one of the goal posts and bounces out of bounds.
Swears, jeers, and frustration leaks from the overwhelmingly Valencian fans present for today’s home game.
The game ends a few seconds later with another League Valencia loss.
Rubén swears, his expression a hard mask of anger and disappointment. Paloma touches his shoulder gently and indicates that they should head home. Abuela holds my eyes, her gaze sympathetic and understanding.
Bianca blows out a breath between her puffed-out cheeks, knowing that the team morale is currently in the toilet and Corcho will be filled with furious fans tonight.
I say goodbye to Ale’s family and wave goodbye to some of the other friends I’ve made in the past two months.
“You want to grab a drink?” Bianca offers.
“Nah, you go ahead. I’m going to wait here for Ale.”
She nods, hugging me tightly, before slipping from the family box.
I remain seated for long minutes, watching as the stadium empties. I note the empty beer bottles, flittering empanada wrappers, and discarded bags of popcorn.
Twenty minutes ago, the stadium pulsed with life and possibility. And now, it’s empty and…deflated. Defeated. The same way I feel.
The emptiness wraps around me, squeezing like a vice.
I watch as workers begin to clean up the mess the disgruntled fans left behind. Sighing, I shoulder my purse and head toward the locker room, determined to make things right with Ale.
With only two weeks left, I need answers. I need to know where we stand. I need…him.
I knock lightly before pushing into the locker room.
The space is quiet, empty, and mostly dark with only a few lights still turned on. The players are gone—back to their families or heading to a bar to drown their loss in a beer.
But when I turn the corner, one figure sits hunched over on a bench.
“Ale,” I murmur.
Slowly, he lifts his eyes to mine. I suck in a breath when I read the heartache and utter failure that shades his usually glowing eyes.
