Page 87 of Winning Match
Pushing out of the stadium, I swear when I note the few journalists waiting to ask players for comments.
I lift a hand, indicating I’m not taking questions today. I keep my head down, hoping to blow by the small group but of course, my plan doesn’t fucking work.
“You’re having an unlucky streak, Alejandro,” one of the journalists starts up. “Do you think your lucky charm turned on you?”
“Are you fighting with your girlfriend, Ale? Is that why you’re so distracted lately?”
I seethe with anger, clashing my teeth together to keep from responding.
“Come on, mate. Give us something,” a third guy calls out.
“Must be trouble in paradise. Maybe she’s fucking someone else,” a passerby hollers.
I see fucking red. Whirling around, I pounce on the unsuspecting cabrón with the big fucking mouth. Before I check myself, my hand is around his neck, my other fist in the front of his shirt and I’m hauling him against the side of the stadium.
“What did you say?” I spit in his face, my Spanish clipped, my anger raw.
“I-I’m?—”
“Don’t fucking talk about my girlfriend,” I fire off, shoving into him before releasing my hold and stalking to my SUV.
“Alejandro!” a journalist calls out. “Do you have?—”
“No fucking comment,” I yell back, relieved when I slide behind the steering wheel. I start the engine and pull out of the stadium as quickly as possible without colliding with another car or clipping a biker.
The closer I get to Abuela’s flat, the faster my rage leaks out of me, like water from a balloon.
Fuck. I know that was all captured on camera. I know the press is going to have a field day. Javi and Ricardo are going to be pissed. Callie will spring into damage control mode. Papá is going to flip out.
And still, not a goddamn thing has changed between Marlowe and me.
Callie calls before I make it to Abuela’s front door.
“I know, I’m sorry,” I say by way of greeting.
Callie sighs through the line. “It’s all over social media. The man can press charges. You can’t lose your head like that, García.”
Abuelita pulls open the door and when she sees my face, she holds her arms wide open.
I step into them, and she wraps her arms around my waist, her ear pressed against my heart.
I toss an arm around Abuela and listen as Callie loops Angela Torres in for public relations.
My phone buzzes with a slew of incoming messages.
Marli
Ale, are you okay? Are you coming home?
Rafa
Where’s your head at, tío?
Valentina
Is everything okay, Ale? I saw the social media posts…
Carla
