Page 94 of Winning Match
Panic blazes in my chest as I look around my flat, unseeing. Pulling out my phone, I call Luca.
“Ale—”
“Where is she?” I growl.
He swears. “America.”
“What?”
“She went home, fratello. She’s gone.”
I hold the phone to my ear as he explains that she had a family emergency, that she needed to go home to care for her father. He admits that Bianca is furious with me for hurting her friend, who sat at Corcho drinking tequila like the first night I met her.
“I’m coming for you, García,” Bianca yells in the background.
I don’t blame her. I hurt Marlowe and now, she’s gone. She left to take care of someone she loves, but…who is taking care of her? Who is showing up for my Marli?
I shake my head, thanking Luca for the information and disconnecting the call.
Then, I call Callie and beg her to book me on the next flight to Rhode Island. I pack a quick bag, leave Javi a voicemail bailing on tomorrow’s charity event, and drive to Abuela’s.
She grins the moment she sees me. “I knew you’d come to your senses eventually.”
“I fucked up.”
“Language.”
I narrow my eyes; her smile widens.
“I have to show you something,” she says, reminding me that she wanted to show me something the last time I was here.
“Abuelita, I have to go. I don’t have time,” I remind her.
“Trust me, Ale, you have time for this. You should always make time for the woman who holds your heart.” Then, she pats my cheek, leads me into her bedroom, and pulls out something exquisite.
Something important.
Something made with love and memories and hope.
“I’m going to Rhode Island,” I say, picking up the small package Abuela wrapped.
“As you should. Good luck, Ale. I hope she takes you back,” Abuela says, her eyes warning me that Marlowe might not forgive me. That I haven’t earned shit.
“Me too,” I murmur, kissing her cheeks. And then, “I’m going to call Papá from the airport…”
She sighs and pulls me in for a hug. “Venga, mi nieto. Go.”
Three hours later, I’m in the airport lounge with Abuela’s package carefully nestled inside my carry-on.
I help myself to a coffee and snack and kick back in front of the windows that highlight the planes landing and taking off. I’ve already spoken with Papá and his understanding—his encouragement to go and be the man he raised—rings in my eardrums.
It was the last thing I expected him to say and now that we’ve said our goodbyes and my phone is tucked into my pocket, I realize I needed to hear it. For years, I’ve needed his acceptance of the man, more than the athlete, that I am. Right now, maybe more than ever. And he gave it—his support, his understanding, his love. He gave it all freely.
My gratitude for being Rubén García’s son swells, and I sip my coffee, thinking about my father in an entirely different light. For the first time, I consider the sacrifices he made and the challenges he confronted during his illustrious career.
After a few minutes, a man sits beside me and clears his throat. “I was wondering if I would see you here.”
I turn, my eyes widening as I take in José Costa. “Mr. Costa?—”
