Page 93 of Winning Match
Ale
Barcelona destroyed us, securing a 3–0 win.
Team morale is in the gutter as we board the bus to head back to Valencia. My teammates are quiet, most wearing headphones to drown out their thoughts as well as the jeers and taunts from Barcelona fans.
But the loss barely registers for me. Instead, I’m consumed by thoughts of Marlowe. The image of her, wild eyes brimming with hurt and disbelief, have haunted me from the second I closed my flat door and walked away from her.
I thought it was for the best. I thought I was doing the right thing. But with every kilometer that separated us, my panic grew. By the time the team bus pulled up to the hotel in Barcelona, I felt frantic by the outcome of my decision. It was a mistake.
I should have talked to her, like Abuela, like Papá, recommended. I should have told her my true feelings and my fears. I should have done right by her, for her—not what I thought was right, and therefore, easier for me.
“García,” Coach Javi calls out.
I snap my neck up as he walks down the aisle and slides into the seat beside mine.
“Coach,” I mutter.
Javi looks at me for a long moment. “Today was a tough loss.”
“It was,” I agree. But losing Marlowe is harder. Feels a million fucking times worse.
“We’re going to have a team meeting on Monday, talk through some things. I’m going to be making some changes.”
“Vale. Okay,” I agree, wondering what changes he’s inferring but knowing he won’t tell me shit if I ask. I remain silent.
“You’re coming to the charity event tomorrow.” He pulls up the Notes app on his phone and his eyes narrow as he reads something over. “You’re in charge of the blue team. You need be at the stadium at two p.m.”
I clear my throat and nod. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.” He stands and taps my shoulder. “Team’s counting on you.”
I nod in understanding, even as my throat tightens. I try to read between the lines—in charge, team’s counting on you, making changes. But what? He can hardly move me into a leadership position when I’ve been playing like shit. My head’s been twisted up over Marlowe more than it’s been focused on fútbol. What is Coach thinking?
Between Coach’s cryptic message and Marlowe’s radio silence, I’m ready to burst out of my skin by the time the bus arrives at the stadium in Valencia. I can’t wait to go home, to apologize to Marlowe, to fix things with her and finally tell her the truth.
I love you. I’m an idiot. I made a mistake. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay and be with me and together, we’ll figure everything out. Prescott Sail and fútbol. Your dad’s health and my commitment here. All of it. Together.
I race home from the stadium, blowing off Luca as he hollers my name. The closer I am to my flat, the more desperate I feel to see Marlowe, to drop to my knees and apologize for the shitty things I said, for the way I fucking left.
“Marli.” I throw open the door to my flat and rush inside, dropping my bag on the ground. “Marlowe!”
I rush into the living room, my eyes zeroing in on the empty couch. She’s not there, with her feet propped up, a spread of food on the coffee table, and La Isla de las Tentaciones on television.
No, the room is quiet. Empty.
I check the bedrooms next.
Is she out with Bianca? Meeting with José Costa?
But the space feels wrong. It’s…too quiet.
My blood pressure kicks up, adrenaline unfurling in my veins. I look around the space again, with a more scrupulous eye. Her hairbrush isn’t on the bathroom vanity. There’s no paperback on the table. And…no shoes stacked by the front door.
Striding to the closet, I pull it wide open and swear when empty hangers greet me.
She’s…gone. She left.
Because I fucking pushed her away.
