Page 18 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

“I’m glad. I was worried…” He stops walking and stares out to the sea.

Dropping my hand, he slides his hands into his pockets and shrugs.

“I didn’t know how this would go between us, Marlowe.

So many changes in such a short time. We’re getting to know each other, becoming friends.

And soon, I’m leaving for a week. I don’t want you to feel…

I don’t know, abandoned? Anything you need, you can call me at any time.

But it puts my mind at ease that you’re with Bianca. ”

I stare at him, studying his profile. The character in his nose, the strength of his jaw, the perfect ridge of his cheekbone. “I didn’t realize you worried about me.”

He glances over, smirking slightly. “All the goddamn time.” He narrows his eyes as something catches his attention. Then, he snorts. “Abuela is summoning us.”

I turn to see his grandmother calling us over by waving a bright, floral-patterned silk scarf in the air like she’s performing a routine in ribbon gymnastics. I chuckle and step in her direction. “What do you think she’s calling us for?”

“Knowing her? Cocktails.”

I laugh again, feeling a kindred spirit in Alejandro’s abuela.

And he was right. Abuela called us over to inform us that she made sangria, and I need to be the official taste tester.

I take my role seriously and Abuela squeals with glee as she pours several glasses.

Then, Alejandro, his mom, Abuela, and I sit on the back deck, sipping on sangria and chatting easily.

Nearby, Rubén García’s watchful eye never wavers, but I don’t mind his scrutiny. In fact, I admire it.

After I finish my first glass of sangria, Abuela quickly pours me a second.

I tip my head toward the house, needing to use the bathroom and check my phone for any messages from Grandpa.

After excusing myself, I locate my purse and my heart jumps into my throat when I scan the messages on my phone’s screen.

Without bothering to reply, I call Grandpa.

“Marlowe girl,” he answers on the first ring. “How’s it going, kid?”

“How is he?”

Grandpa sighs. “Dorothy calmed him down. He’s sitting on the back deck now, watching the sailboats.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Of course.” Grandpa hesitates for a second. “Any updates on José Costa?”

“Nothing yet.” My tone is clipped. My worry for my father overshadows anything related to business.

“Okay,” Grandpa says quietly but I hear the thread of concern in his tone. We’re running out of time. If my low bank funds were anything to go by, we’ve been close to the edge for a while now.

I hear the phone pass and then, the hitch in my dad’s breath. “Marlowe, is that you?”

Relief flows through me that he knows my name, knows me , today. I blink back tears, a flood of homesickness flowing through me at the sound of Dad’s voice. “It’s me, Daddy. How are you today?”

“I’m wonderful,” Dad breathes, and I know in his mind, his earlier episode, the one that caused Dorothy to text me in a flutter of panic, is forgotten. As if it never happened. “I’m watching the sailboats. God, Marlowe, they’re something to behold.”

“How many do you see?” I ask, sitting on the edge of a chair in the sitting room.

“At least a hundred. Probably more. They’re majestic.”

“They are,” I agree.

“I have a regatta next weekend,” he says, his mind traveling back in time.

My heart squeezes painfully and I pull a breath in. “Oh? Against which team?”

“Well, definitely Yale. It’s the Harry Anderson Trophy,” he explains, indicating one of the longest-running collegiate regattas.

“Right. I’m sure you’ll beat them.”

“This season? We’re unstoppable…” He trails off and I know he forgot my name. Forgot who he’s even talking to.

“I’m glad. Well, I’ll let you go,” I say gently.

“Yes, good. Nice talking to you.” His tone is clipped as he passes the phone back to Grandpa.

I bite the corner of my mouth hard to keep my emotions in check.

“He sounds good,” I murmur to Grandpa.

“You holding up okay?” is his taciturn reply.

“I’m fine. Good. Just missing you and Dad.

I’m at Alejandro’s parents’ house today.

We’re having Sunday lunch together. Paella,” I tack on.

“And…I guess it’s making me homesick. The Garcías’ home is beautiful, right on the water.

But I miss the bay and the breeze and watching the sailboats with Dad. ”

“That’s normal, Marlowe. That kind of ache, that never goes away.” Grandpa’s tone is gentler than I’ve ever heard it.

Patriarchs with legacies to protect don’t have many opportunities to appear soft.

“I guess not,” I reply. “Well, I better go. Tell Daddy I love him, and I’ll see him soon, okay?” The words are spoken solely for my benefit and we both know it. Because Dad won’t remember if Grandpa tells him or not.

“I will,” he promises.

“’Bye, Grandpa.”

“Talk soon, kid.”

I disconnect the call and stand, running my fingertips underneath my eyes to get a grip on the tears that threaten to fall.

“You miss your family.”

I jump at the sound of Mr. García’s voice. My eyes dart to the hallway and I see him standing in the doorway, his brows pulled together as he studies me.

I nod. “Very much.”

“And your father…he’s unwell?”

“Early onset Alzheimer’s,” I explain somewhat stoically. “He’s regressed quickly and is having a rough morning.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Mr. García’s voice is hushed, swept with compassion I didn’t expect.

“Thank you.”

“My son tells me you sail.” He steps into the room, and I’m surprised that he hasn’t dipped out to give me a moment to collect myself. Or give himself a reprieve from having to witness my messy emotions. “That your family owns a company that builds sailboats.”

“Yes,” I breathe out, smiling. “Prescott Sail.”

“Hm.” He takes a step closer. “Tell me about it. You’re heavily involved in operations?”

I nod, wondering how he knows to ask right now?

How does he understand just how much I want to talk about my dad?

About the pang of homesickness lodged behind my breastbone.

About the crisp mornings and the breeze that rolls off Narragansett Bay in summer.

About the Cliff Walk Mom and I used to take in Newport and the bluffs that cut into the sea.

The spray that hangs in the air, the blustery winds, the salty marshes that make up my childhood just as much as the memories of my parents.

“My grandfather founded the company in 1962. He had recently inherited the land from his own father’s passing.

He was newly married, with $10,000 in the bank, a $50,000 loan, and a dream.

” I grin, recalling how my dad would tell this story in the exact same way.

“My family has been in Rhode Island since the 1700s. They were involved in whaling back then. My grandpa always said the salt and sea are in our blood,” I chuckle lightly.

“He built Prescott Sail, but the company expanded greatly under the leadership of my dad, with my mom’s support.

Grandpa never anticipated stepping back in to oversee things at this age but… ” I trail off.

“He has no choice.”

“No.” I meet his steely gaze. “And neither do I.”

“You’re passionate about sailing.” It’s a statement, not a question, so I don’t say anything. A moment later, Mr. García adds, “A lot of young people don’t have passion these days.”

“I think passion, true passion, has always been a rarity. Some of mine is inherited though. My dad loved sailing, truly loved it. It’s the only thing he hasn’t forgotten.”

Mr. García nods before gesturing toward the deck. “Come, Marlowe. We must check the paella.”

I slide my phone into my purse and follow Mr. García outside.

Ale gives me a long look when I step onto the deck, but I smile, letting him know all is well.

And it is. Because when Mr. García hands me the first plate piled with delicious paella, there’s respect in his eyes.

And I know it was earned, not just given.

“My family loves you,” Ale says quietly as we drive back to the city.

“Your family is wonderful.” I reach over and drop my hand to his thigh. “You’re lucky you have them.”

He snorts and places his hand on top of mine.

He leans back in the driver’s seat before glancing at me.

“I never truly realized that until today. You know, growing up in my father’s shadow has always felt like this insurmountable pressure.

Pressure to perform, to have a pristine reputation, to uphold a legacy.

I used to be jealous of my sisters because Papá never rode them as hard as me. ”

“What changed?”

“I’m starting to realize that if I didn’t have that shadow, I wouldn’t be half the player I am. I wouldn’t have as much drive, as much ambition. I don’t think I’d be as hungry.”

“Maybe,” I say softly. “Maybe not.”

Ale glances back to the road. “The truth is that for all the times I’ve resented being Rubén García’s son, I couldn’t imagine not belonging to my family. To not having a significant legacy to continue. Does that make sense?”

I roll the back of my head along the headrest to look at him.

“That makes perfect sense. I was a little nervous about meeting your dad. The things people have said about him, the things I read about him, I thought he’d be this larger-than-life character.

And he is,” I rush to add. “But he’s also human.

He’s a dad. Deep down, Ale, I think he just wants you to be happy. ”

Alejandro scoffs lightly and I squeeze his thigh. “Trust me, I’m an old soul,” I add.

“Yeah, I’m sensing that.” He grins at me, his eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s cute though. You’re going to peak in your eighties, Marlowe. How many people can say that?”

I toss my head back and laugh. “I’ll be running the Sewing Circle by then.”

Ale snickers.

“I had fun today,” I continue. “Being with your family…I needed that connection. I wish I could visit them again.”

Ale’s head whips toward mine. “You can. Any time you?—”

“No,” I cut him off. “That would be unfair. I don’t want them to let me in when I’m going to leave in two months. I’ll already be saying goodbye to you and Bianca…” I trail off, realizing how quickly my life here snapped into place.

And not out of obligation or expectation.

But out of…natural circumstances. Bianca and I clicked, the opportunity to live together was kismet.

Alejandro was the guy who slid his credit card across the bar top that evening—it could have been anyone.

His father is known for being a hard-ass and yet, he comforted me this afternoon without realizing it.

In one week, I’ve settled into Valencia like I’ve lived here for years. It doesn’t make any sense; it shouldn’t feel so effortless. And I know that going home is going to hurt—even if I want to do it, even if I have to leave.

Alejandro is silent. What is there to say?

He presses his palm down on mine, keeping my fingers trapped. I relish the heat of his skin and turn my eyes back to the window. We drive the rest of the way in silence, both of us lost in our thoughts.

“You know…” Ale breaks the silence, as if recalling something, as he turns into the Ruzafa neighborhood. “Your cheesecake was a hit.”

I snicker, appreciating the levity he’s reaching for. “I can’t believe how much your dad liked it!”

“I think you’re going to give my sister’s husband, Avery, a run for his money. Apparently, Papá is really warming up to the Americanos in his old age.”

I laugh, but it dies in my throat when we turn onto my street, and I note the swell of paparazzi gathered in front of my building.

Ale’s eyes narrow and he swears. “ Mierda . This is a large group of paparazzi. Fans too.”

“We’re garnering more attention lately.” I flip my hand under his, threading our fingers together and squeezing.

A muscle pops in his jaw, and I can tell he’s bothered. Worried. “Is it like this every day?”

“No, there’s never been this many cameras before. Usually, it’s just a few people, and Bianca does a great job of managing them.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with this.” He frowns, glancing at me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought this was…just part of the process.”

“I’ll line up some security before I?—”

“No, please. There’s no need to do that,” I rush out, not wanting to deal with security. “This will blow over. There are more people here now because they must have been waiting for us to return together. That one paparazzo this morning took photos of us leaving.”

Ale sighs and double-parks his SUV. Striding to the passenger side, he pulls open my door and reaches for my hand.

“Keep your head down, Marli.”

I do what he says as he pulls me through the throngs of people. He says a few things in Spanish and the crush of the crowd dissipates, letting us pass and slip into my apartment building.

As we take the stairs to the fourth floor, Ale asks, “Did B message you to give you a heads-up?”

“No, she must be out,” I supply, not mentioning that she’s probably at work. Bianca accepted a position at Corcho a few nights a week.

Once we’re in my apartment, Ale turns toward me. “I’m sorry, Marli. I saw you tagged in a few photos around town, but I had no idea it was this intense for you.”

“It’s usually not,” I say truthfully. Other than a few encounters that felt off —long stares from strangers, a random woman following me home from a supermarket, and two men catcalling me in Turia, I’ve never encountered this many fans or paparazzi outside my home before.

It’s never been anything I couldn’t handle.

Ale pulls in a deep breath, and steps closer, running his hand over my hair. “Promise you’ll tell me if you need more support. If anyone makes you uncomfortable or?—”

“I’m fine,” I cut him off. The last thing I want to do is add more to his plate when in eight weeks, I’ll be on a plane heading home. “Today was…” I pull in a deep breath. “Today was good, Ale.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, his fingertips pinching the ends of my tresses before he drops his hand. “Surprisingly good.”

“We make a great team, García. The next two months are going to be easy peasy.”

“I hope so.” He steps closer to kiss my cheek.

“Good luck at training camp tomorrow.”

“ Gracias .” He leans to my other side and brushes a kiss against my other cheek. He lingers for a moment, his hand passing over the ends of my hair again. “ Buenas noches .”

I walk him to the apartment door to see him out. Then, I watch from the window as he stops to speak with the paparazzi, signs shirts and notecards for fans, and poses for photos.

That’s why they let us through the crowd so easily, because Ale promised he’d be back to give them what they want—access to him.