Page 19 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Ale

The first week of training camp passes quickly. Each day is an endless stretch of drills, conditioning, video analysis, and team bonding. Other than nightly calls to check in on Marlowe, I barely speak with her.

Too soon, the second week arrives and with it, the team’s travel to Portugal.

“Not only on time for a flight but early,” Andrés feigns shock as I step onto the bus that’s taking us to the plane.

I flip him off and he snickers.

“Must be that new girlfriend,” Luca pipes up.

“I don’t know.” Our team captain, Carlos, shakes his head. “He looks too well rested.”

The guys laugh and I groan, but I’m fighting a grin. Their joking is easy and comfortable. It doesn’t contain the undercurrent of anger from past seasons.

When I was late and hungover. Or splashed across tabloids with women dangling off my arms. Or chugging electrolytes in the shower before a game to pull myself together.

They had joked then. They had teased relentlessly and slapped my back for being a player, for scoring off the field as frequently as I scored on it—but there was a thread of judgment, of frustration, I never distinguished until now. Because now, it’s absent.

I take a seat on the bus and smirk. “Marlowe’s a sweetheart,” I tell them truthfully. “You’ll understand when you meet her.”

“ Díos mio. ” My teammate Jorge gapes. “Who is this guy?” He points at me and stares at the rest of the team over his shoulder. “We’re actually going to meet her?”

The guys laugh louder.

“Quick, someone call Rafa to make sure family intervention isn’t necessary,” Andrés announces, referencing my cousin Rafa, a professional race car driver and, until late, my constant wingman.

Luca smacks my shoulder. “Go easy on him, ragazzi , Marlowe is a gem. She’s the only person keeping Bianca out of trouble.”

Carlos snorts and nods in agreement while Andrés shakes his head, aware of Bianca’s antics. Even when she was living in New York, Luca worried about her constantly.

“Listen up.” Our coach, Javi, steps onto the bus.

He gives the driver a nod and the doors close before the bus starts toward the plane.

“We only have one week in Portugal. During this time, we will have two-a-days every day except Wednesday and Friday when we will play friendlies against two different teams…” he continues to explain the schedule of the training camp and the team settles down.

We give Coach our full attention, board the plane to Portugal, and settle in for the short flight.

Before takeoff, I pull out my phone to change it to airplane mode and grin at the message on my screen.

Marli

Safe travels, Ale. Good luck this week.

Alejandro

Gracias. We’re taking off now. Call if you need anything. I mean it.

Marli

Don’t worry about me. Focus on your game!

Alejandro

Go back to sleep, mi nina. It’s too early.

Marli

I’m going for a run in Turia with Bianca.

Alejandro

Be safe.

Marli

Always

Sighing, I turn my phone to airplane mode and drop my head back, closing my eyes.

For years, entanglements with women meant drama and trouble. Now, I’m wondering whether I’ve been short-sighted. Because with Marlowe at my side, everything seems possible. Have I spent the last decade missing out?

“ Passa, passa ,” Luca hollers in Italian as I pass him the ball.

I run upfield, crossing into the penalty box, as Luca maneuvers around two defenders before kicking the ball to me.

It’s a beautiful cross and my foot connects with the ball before it touches the ground.

I volley it toward the top left corner of the net where it sails over Andrés’s outstretched arms.

Goal!

Luca slaps my shoulder. “ Bel tiro ,” he grunts in Italian. Nice shot.

“ Sigue así! ” Carlos hollers. Keep it up .

We get back into our positions as the session continues. It’s at least another two hours of a match simulation with the coaches stopping the play several times to relay instructions and indicate areas for improvement.

By the time the “game” is over, we’re all drenched in sweat, breathing hard, and exhausted.

Coach grins as he holds up a clipboard. “Welcome back, chicos .”

Carlos snorts. Andrés shakes his head, standing near the edge of the group, his hands on his hips.

“Go eat lunch. Afterwards, we’re meeting for video analysis. And don’t forget, you all have a yoga session this evening,” Coach continues.

A few whines ring out, but Coach ignores them.

Shaking my head, I shove my feet into sandals, and head toward the showers.

After rinsing off and dressing in comfortable shorts and a tank top, I walk to the cafeteria.

Most of the team is already present and I load my lunch tray with grilled salmon, steamed vegetables, and a handful of olives.

I move to sit with the team when my phone rings.

I settle at a table alone, pulling it out. I ignore the flicker of disappointment that it’s not Marlowe.

Answering the call, I greet my cousin. “ Qué pasa, tío ? Where are you this week?” I lean back in my chair and shovel a bite of food into my mouth.

“Just arrived in Milan. I’m testing at Imola,” he explains, naming the legendary circuit in Italy.

“Nice,” I murmur. “I’m in Portugal.”

“I know. Abuelita told me you left your pretty girlfriend all alone in Valencia.”

Abuela is such a gossip even though she would be horrified to know it. “Marlowe’s fine.”

“Marlowe, huh? When did the Garcías all start falling for americanos ?”

“Watch out or you’ll be next.”

He chuckles. “No way, tío .” Instead of calling me bro, or dude, he uses the Spanish word for uncle as slang. “I’m not tying myself down to one woman. Not when there’s such beautiful variety in life. I’ll be in Singapore next month.”

“Yeah. That’s what we all say.”

He’s silent for a moment. “So, it’s serious then? You and this—Marlowe?”

I pause, placing my fork down.

For all the lies I’ve been projecting lately, no one has asked me outright about my intentions, my future, with Marlowe. And the fact that it’s my cousin—the closest person I have to a brother—pulls me up short.

We’ve been through too much together. We’re too damn close.

We’re both the eldest sons in our families, professional athletes, and have had each other’s backs since we were in diapers. If I tell him the truth, I know he’ll keep my secret. But I also made a commitment to Marlowe.

My feelings for her are new and exciting. I never hoped for a woman to text before, unless I was banking on a booty call. I never looked forward to seeing a woman after a long day of practice. Or wondered what she was doing while I ate lunch. Or genuinely wanted to introduce her to my family.

Even Papá likes—no—respects Marlowe. That’s some divine energy shit right there.

“ Dío ,” Rafa murmurs. “It is serious. Tío , you’re speechless.”

I heave out a sigh, throwing up a prayer to the Virgin Mary for saving me from having to answer.

“You’ll understand when you meet her,” is all I say.

Rafa clicks his tongue, but his tone is more respectful as he replies, “I look forward to it, then.”

“Me too. I gotta finish lunch and get to video analysis.”

“Good luck, Ale. We’ll catch up at Abuela’s over horchata and fartons soon,” he says, referencing the refreshing beverage and sugar-glazed pastries Abuela always had on hand when we were kids. It’s been ages since we sat around her kitchen table eating and talking.

“ Sí ,” I agree, chuckling. “I’m holding you to it. Adios .” I disconnect the call.

Does Rafa feel the same pang of nostalgia that cuts through me? Our family has always been close. Even with the frequent travel and professional commitments, we’ve managed to stay tight. And this past year, things are changing.

Valentina married Avery and lives in Tennessee.

Carla is settled in Chicago and has no plans to return to Spain.

Rafa’s career is taking off and he spends more time out of the country than he does in it.

And I…I’m trying to be a leader for a team, to earn my father’s respect, to be a man.

And I’m falling in like with my fake girlfriend.

“ Qué tal ?” I answer Papá’s call after my yoga session.

“How’s training?” he asks by way of greeting.

I move to the balcony off my room and plop down in a chair, stacking my feet on top of the railing. “Good. We have two friendlies set up for Wednesday and Friday.”

“You feel good about it?” Papá presses.

“ Sí .”

“I think this is your season, Ale.”

My feet drop from the railing as I sit up straight in my chair. “ Perdón ?” I inquire, sure I misheard him.

“This is your season,” he repeats. “Carlos is going to retire in a season or two. This is the perfect opportunity for you to step up and start leading the team. You’re different since Marlowe.”

I shake my head, drinking in the fútbol fields that stretch below me, comprising most of the training facility. “You always told me to steer clear. Not to tangle up with girls and?—”

“Marlowe isn’t a girl,” Papá cuts me off. “She’s a woman. A partner. As you are to her. You’re more serious, Alejandro. You’re locked in in a way I’ve never seen before. Not just in fútbol , but in your life.”

“Papá,” I sigh, uncertain what to say. He’s never spoken to me like this before—straightforward and father-to-son, rather than mentor-to-player.

“You’re on the precipice of something great. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t mess this thing up with Marlowe. Keep your head in the game.”

I sigh. There it is. He’s back. It always comes back to fútbol . To winning. To our family reputation and legacy.

“I won’t,” I murmur, exhaustion hitting me full-on.

“This is your season, Ale,” he repeats for the third time, like a mantra. As if his saying it over and over will make it true. “Make it count.” Then he hangs up.

I sit for a long time, staring at the night sky, lost in my thoughts.

What does Papá truly want from me? And will I ever achieve it?

I think about my family, about my father’s legacy, about Rafa’s comments.

I think about Abuela and the love she’s poured into all her grandchildren—wanting us to become good, decent people more than elite athletes.

Maybe that’s why Valentina is her favorite grandchild.

She followed her passion of ornithology over the call of the fútbol pitch and the sound of the racetrack the way my father and my tío pressed into Carla, Rafa, Sebastián, and me.

Did Marlowe inherit her love of sailing the same way? Half by osmosis and half by expectation?

My chest aches at the thought of Marlowe. We exchanged a few messages, but I miss her. Can’t stop thinking about her.

What do I want for myself?

An image of Marlowe—big blue eyes, bright smile, and adorable freckles—flickers through my mind and I sigh.

Standing from the chair, I go inside and call it a night.