Page 88 of Winning Match
Not to steal your thunder but the German and I broke up.
Valentina
Were the pretzels the final straw?
I snort, grateful for my two sisters.
“Callie, let me call you back,” I say, noting the concern in Abuela’s eyes.
“Fifteen minutes, García.” She hangs up.
I tuck my phone into my back pocket.
Abuela studies me, her gaze curious yet careful.
“I messed up, Abuela,” I admit, dragging a hand over my face.
She shakes her head, a slow smile crossing her face. Her eyes glimmer as she lifts a hand and pats my cheek. “Falling in love is never a mistake, Alejandro.”
I close my eyes, feeling the blood drain from my face. “How do you know?”
“Because I have two eyes,” she claps back.
I open my eyes and snort. “I nearly punched a man, most likely a fan, for speaking about her.”
Abuela shrugs. “Then he deserved it.” She turns toward the kitchen. “Your papá is here.”
I stop short.
She smirks at me over her shoulder. “He’s having horchata and fartons in the kitchen. Venga.”
I sigh, following Abuela into the kitchen and dropping into the chair beside my papá.
He doesn’t say anything, and the silence eats at me.
“Did you see the news?” I ask finally.
Papá dunks a farton into his horchata before taking a bite of the pastry. He nods, his eyes studying me, his expression strangely thoughtful. It’s disquieting and I turn my attention to Abuela.
“What are you going to do about Marlowe?” she asks.
“Abuela, it’s not that simple. I have to let her go. I need to end this between us so she can go back to America. We were never—this wasn’t supposed to…” I trail off not wanting to admit to my octogenarian grandmother and my overbearing father that I engaged in a fake relationship to improve my standing with my team. “Things are too complicated now. It can’t last.”
Abuela places a glass of horchata in front of me and gestures toward the tower of fartons. By the look in her gaze, I know that she knows more than she’s letting on. But neither of us says anything for long moments.
“Have you talked to her, Alejandro? Really spoken to Marlowe and told her what’s in your heart?” Abuela asks.
I shake my head.
She smacks the back of my neck, half scolding, half affection. “That’s where you should start, mi nieto.”
I snort and bite into the pastry, the glazed sugar topping falling to her pristine tablecloth.
She taps the table with her index finger. “I have something to show you.” She turns toward her bedroom.
Papá clears his throat. “She’s right, you know? You need to talk to Marlowe. Be honest with her.”
I arch an eyebrow at Papá.
