Page 92 of Winning Match
Be safe.
The words echo in my eardrums like a memory. Like a past life.
“’Bye, Grandpa.” I end the call.
When I drag my head up, Bianca is staring at me with understanding in her eyes. “What can I do?”
I pass her my phone and credit card. “Book me on the next flight home.”
She takes both items from my hands and nods. I watch as she books my flight, her concentration on my phone screen and not any of the patrons trying to flag her down for a refill. A few minutes later, she passes me back my phone and credit card. “Done. You’re all set. You have to leave for the airport in four hours.” She turns and calls over her shoulder. “Joe!”
Then, she scurries away.
I take another pull on my margarita straw, frowning when I realize there’s literally no alcohol left.
Then, Bianca is back, wrapping an arm around my waist and helping me slide from the barstool. “Joe’s going to cover my shift. Let’s get you home and packed. Don’t worry about anything; I’ll take care of it.”
I stare at my friend, a fresh swell of tears rising. “Thank you, B. I don’t—I’ve never had a friend like you.”
“You’re not losing me, Mar. Chicks over dicks, you know?”
I snort, a bubble of laughter following, as I throw my arm around her shoulder. “Yeah, chicks over dicks.”
At least I have that. For my time spent in Spain, at least I made a true friend.
I check my phone every few minutes before my flight. I’m nervous about Dad and want every update about his hip, his lucidity, him, before I’m unreachable.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I want Alejandro to call me. I want him to call and admit he made a mistake and profess his love and show up at the airport. It’s laughable. Ludicrous. The ultimate fantasy that only involves romance book boyfriends because real men don’t make grand gestures like that.
Alejandro is probably asleep at Andrés’s house, his alarm set for an ungodly morning hour so that he can meet his team bus and head to Barcelona.
I made Bianca promise not to tell Luca or any of the guys until after their game. I need to extricate myself from Spain as delicately as possible and be present for my dad without Ale drama hanging over my head. Besides, I want him to want to check in on me. To do so because he’s sorry and misses me and cares. Not because he feels guilty.
Sighing, I stare at my phone screen, willing for it to light up with his name. Instead, a different caller appears.
José Costa.
Shit. Guilt spirals with shame as I think about the ruse Alejandro and I created to have this end result. The one where I end up with the hotshot sailing team owner as a client.
And Ale overhauls his reputation.
Well, that backfired for him…
I should be happy; I should be relieved. I don’t owe José Costa the truth. No one needs to know that Alejandro’s and my relationship was fake. Fraudulent. Born out of a different drunken night when I was emotionally reeling.
The phone vibrates in my hand.
I work a swallow, my guilt expanding.
What if it’s karma? What if the entire deal is going to fall apart now that Alejandro and I broke up? What if I spent my time in Valencia going after the right things in all the wrong ways?
Haven’t I learned anything? Haven’t I grown at all?
Sucking in a breath, I answer the call.
“José? Hi,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “I’m glad you called. I have something to tell you…”
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