Page 17 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Marlowe

“Your parents live out here?” I ask as we pull up to a beautiful home on the beach, about forty minutes outside of the city.

“Not full time,” Ale explains. “They’re in the city during the week, but they love to escape here on the weekends, especially in summer.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, noting the lush greenery, the bursts of colorful flowers and hot pink oleander bushes, the soothing sound of the sea, just visible from the street.

“Does it remind you of your home at all? Providence is on the water, isn’t it?” Ale pulls the cheesecake and wine from the trunk, and I take the pastry box from his hands.

“It is,” I breathe in deeply, holding the salty, heavy air in my lungs. “It’s on the Narragansett Bay.” I smile, recalling those early mornings when the bay is flat and smooth like the surface of a river rock. Before the chop kicks up, before the wind whips, before sailboats dot the skyline.

Memories roll through my mind of mornings like that—when it was just Mom, Dad, and me.

It’s gut-wrenching to realize I’ll never have that again.

Never be wrapped in the steadiness of my father’s assurance as he navigated us to Wickford Harbor.

My mother’s hand—always warm and open—holding mine as we walked the quaint streets after a breakfast of hot coffee, fresh juice, and Johnny Cakes.

Mornings I took for granted and would do anything to feel a sliver of now.

“But it’s not like this,” I continue, tucking my hair behind my ear as the breeze rolls over me.

“This is hot and humid, an almost tropical feeling. There it’s cool and crisp, and the nature is rugged, almost untouched.

” I glance up at Ale. “You should see it for yourself one day—it’s breathtaking.

As beautiful as here but in an entirely different way. ”

He nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he works a swallow. “Maybe one day.” But we both know it won’t happen. At least, not with me.

And for the strangest reason, maybe because of my nostalgia, I want to hold on to and savor the day with Alejandro and his family he’s about to introduce me to.

“You ready?” He pauses before starting up the walkway.

I rearrange my hold on the pastry box, noting the wine bag that dangles from Ale’s hand. “We got this, García.”

Ale smirks and we walk up to the front door, but before Ale can reach for the handle, it swings wide open. And the sweetest-looking woman—her hair coiffed, her makeup impeccable, her smile huge—throws her arms open.

“Alejandro! I haven’t seen you in a full week!” she announces in heavily accented Spanish.

“ Hola, Abuelita, qué tal ?” Ale grins, bending low to kiss both of her cheeks.

She rattles off a stream of thoughts in Spanish before turning to me. “And you must be Marlowe.”

“Oh, we’re so thrilled you’re here!” Another woman, Ale’s mom, rounds the corner, her hands clasped underneath her chin.

“Hi, thank you for inviting me,” I say as Abuela takes the pastry box from my hands and passes it to her daughter-in-law before pulling me into a warm hug, her mouth pressing kisses into the sides of my head.

I breathe her in, feeling as centered as if it were Gladys, or Dorothy, or Judith.

Grandma vibes roll off Abuela’s shoulders and wrap me in a warm hug I didn’t realize I needed.

Her presence puts me at ease, and I give her an extra squeeze, as if to shore up my strength to meet the indomitable Rubén García.

“Alejandro never brings women home,” she murmurs in my ear. “But I always knew when he did, she would be exceptional.”

Her kindness causes emotion to swim behind my eyes. Partly because I didn’t expect it and partly because her words cause my guilt to heighten. How are Ale and I going to lie straight to his sweet abuela’s face?

“Thank you,” I whisper, stepping back and turning toward Alejandro’s mother.

“You made this?” she asks, peeking at the cheesecake.

“Yes.” I fiddle with the strap of my tank, nervous.

“It’s gorgeous,” she says earnestly, passing it to Ale to grasp my shoulders and kiss my cheeks in greeting. “It’s so lovely to meet you.”

“You too, Mrs. García. Your home is beautiful,” I say, glancing at the foyer. The house is contemporary—all clean lines and minimalism.

“Hm,” Abuela remarks. “Beautifully boring.”

Ale snickers.

Mrs. García gives her mother-in-law a look. She links her arm with mine and moves me through the foyer and toward the living room. “Thank you, Marlowe. And please, call me Paloma. We recently remodeled. Apparently, Rubén’s mother doesn’t like the change.”

“I like good changes,” Abuela pipes back.

Paloma sighs.

“Where’s Papá?” Ale asks, placing the wine bag on a side table as we enter the living room.

“Oh, he’s outside. He just started the paella,” Paloma explains.

“Come,” Ale murmurs, stretching out his hand.

Abuela gives me a reassuring pat on the back. I slip my hand into Ale’s and let him guide me toward the back of his parents’ home.

Wide, wall-length sliding doors give the most gorgeous view of the back deck, the swimming pool, and the Mediterranean Sea beyond. The view from the house is breathtaking—something I’d only seen in magazines like Architectural Digest .

Ale slides open the door and we slip through it, stepping back into the whip of humidity.

Alejandro’s father stands beside a massive flame pit and the scent of charcoal fills the air. Atop the fire sits the biggest pan I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Papá,” Ale calls out, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

Rubén García isn’t particularly tall. In fact, he’s slim and fit and dressed in a navy Polo shirt, cream-colored trousers, and woven espadrille loafers.

But when he lifts his eyes and his gaze slams into mine, I note his intensity, sharp intellect, and unchecked boldness.

He sizes me up in a blink, zeroing in on my hand intertwined with his son’s, and clocking my choice of clothing in an instant.

But I don’t cower under his stare. Instead, I square my shoulders and tilt my chin the tiniest bit higher. Because behind his sharp wit and pristine legacy is a father who wants his son to be happy.

Ale might not realize it, but in Rubén García’s demeanor, I see parallels with my own grandfather.

A patriarch who built an empire. A man who defied the odds to create something out of nothing. A person doesn’t acquire global success, collect accolades, and become a master of their craft without taking risks, facing off against worthy opponents, and honing a shrewd sense of judgment.

“Mr. García.” I hold out my hand. “ Encantada de conocerte. ” It’s a pleasure to meet you.

His eyes widen slightly at my attempt in his language, and he leans back an infinitesimal amount. If I wasn’t looking for his reaction, I would have missed it. Beside me, Alejandro stiffens, his body tight.

But Mr. García takes my hand and shakes it. “ Bienvenida a mi casa .” Welcome to my home.

“ Gracias .” I grin warmly, glancing out toward the endless sea. “I’m thrilled to be here. This is some view.”

He nods, making a sound in the back of his throat. And then, “Have you ever tried paella?”

“Nope.” I shake my head, pointing at his outdoor setup. “This is my first time. I’ve never seen a pan like this.”

Beside me, Alejandro relaxes, giving a slight squeeze of his hand to let me know I’ve got this.

Mr. García shifts on his feet. “It’s called a paellera,” he explains.

“The trick is not to stir after you add the rice.” He points to the pan.

“We want the bottom to be a nice, crispy, golden brown. This is called the socarrat. If we burn it…” He trails off, shaking his head.

Then he looks up sharply. “Do you like rabbit?”

My stomach tightens at the question. I’ve never had rabbit before, but at the gleam in Mr. García’s eyes, I know it’s a test of some sort.

Alejandro’s face has paled, and I almost laugh at the flicker of panic in his eyes.

I press his fingertips gently. “I’m not sure; I’ve never had that either. But I’m always eager to try new things. Are you adding rabbit to the paella?”

“It’s part of the traditional, authentic, recipe, sí ,” Mr. García explains, his mouth doing that half smirk that Ale’s does. The one where they try not to smile. I wonder if Ale knows he inherited that from his father? “And this is the birthplace of paella. Paella Valenciana is the real paella.”

“Well, then I look forward to trying it. It smells delicious,” I say smoothly.

Mr. García snorts quietly. “We will eat in two hours.”

“Do you want to see the beach?” Alejandro asks, tugging on my hand.

“Sure,” I agree, smiling at Mr. García.

He dips his chin in the slightest sign of approval before Alejandro guides me past the swimming pool and toward the stretch of sand.

“My papá likes you,” he says softly, surprised.

“How can you tell?”

“Trust me; I know him well.”

I dip my head in agreement. “Yeah, well, most parents like me.”

Ale shoots me a grin. “Cocky, are you?”

“Hardly. But in the parental department, I check all the boxes. In the peer category…”

“What?”

I shake my head. “I never click. Never quite fit in.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s the truth. My college roommate, Hazel, is my only real friend my age and I never see her. She moved to California after graduation, and we only talk a few times a year. Now, it’s just me, Grandpa, and the Sewing Circle.”

He bumps his shoulder next to mine. “And Bianca?”

I glance up and nod. “Yes. And Bianca.” It’s been a relief to discover a friend in his teammate’s sister. “She’s made my transition here seamless.”