Page 2 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Ale

She doesn’t know who I am.

I’ve searched Marlowe’s expression for clues, noted her body language, and gently probed her for information on our walk from the bar to the bustling restaurant behind me. But she has no idea.

Considering we’re in my hometown and my reputation often precedes me, it’s an invigorating and heady realization. In fact, it’s causing me to act in ways I normally don’t.

Sure, I’ll help a woman out and pick up her bar tab. That’s just decent.

But parting ways with my friends to return to the bar I left? Needing to make sure she has her purse? Taking her to goddamn dinner so I can hear about her depressing day?

That’s not me. And yet, with Marlowe, my curiosity is piqued.

“We’re here.” I point to the entrance. “Have you had tapas yet?”

She shakes her head, pulling her cell phone away from her ear and frowning at it. “No, I just arrived today.” Her eyes flick to mine. “I can’t get through to my bank. It’s one automated message after another.”

Guilt rolls through me that I didn’t insist she order some snacks at the bar.

She must be starving if she hasn’t eaten since her arrival.

Gently, I reach out to take her phone and end the call before passing it back to her.

“Come on, you should eat. We’ll get this sorted afterwards.

” I touch the small of her back to guide her into the restaurant.

When she presses back against my fingertips—not in a flirty gesture—but as though craving a human connection, surprise mixes with my guilt.

This girl is going through some things. And after the summer I had—namely being passed over for League Valencia’s captain position, having my new Lamborghini destroyed by a jealous date, and Papá being too disgusted to look me in the eye—I need to steer clear of women with baggage.

But there’s something about Marlowe that intrigues me. Desperately so, and I’m not sure why.

Why is she dressed in designer clothing but can’t pay for a margarita? Why does she hold herself with sophisticated grace yet look like she’s two minutes away from sobbing her eyes out? Why doesn’t she recognize me at all?

And, best of all, why the hell am I ignoring my better judgment to spend time with her? To take her to one of the most popular restaurants in one of the trendiest neighborhoods of Valencia where we’ll certainly be photographed together when I’m supposed to be lying low?

The restaurant is busy and bursting with life when we enter. Every table is filled with families and friends talking, laughing, and drinking together.

I step to the hostess stand. While I know for a fact that there are no available tables, I also know they hold two in the back for VIP clients. I don’t even have to say my name before the hostess’s eyes widen in recognition. She smiles and picks up two menus, leading us toward a table.

I tug gently on Marlowe’s arm. “We’re this way.”

“Wow,” she whispers as I hold out the chair for her to sit at the cozy, four-top in the back corner. “It’s busy in here.”

“Always.”

“And it’s late.” She taps on the face of her watch. “It’s ten p.m. You’re sure the kitchen is still open?”

I chuckle, amused by her question. “Marlowe, dinner is just starting here. We have the whole night ahead of us. Tell me what you like.” I tap my finger against the menu.

She stares at me, a little line appearing between her brows. “I’m-I’m not sure. I’ve never had Spanish food.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, “we’ll get a little bit of everything for you to try.” I scan the menu, mentally clocking the usual tapas—patatas bravas, Ibérico ham and manchego cheese, croquettes, a Spanish omelet called a tortilla.

Marlowe’s gaze travels around the restaurant, soaking in the energy, the experience, the simplicity. For a moment, I pause to enjoy my city—my home—through her eyes. If I’m honest with myself, it’s one of the reasons why I brought her here. Even if here is begging for trouble.

As my phone buzzes in my pocket, I know I’m already being tagged in social media posts. Paparazzi will likely be waiting outside of my flat tonight, their cameras poised to snap photos.

But right now, I’m out to dinner with an American woman who doesn’t know who the hell I am. It’s the perfect scenario to indulge in some freedom and fun after weeks of going without.

No parties. No women.

Until tonight. Until her .

I can’t read Marlowe. I don’t understand why she agreed to dinner with me. But I like that she’s not posturing or fan-girling. Instead, she’s observant, curious, and thoughtful.

Pure. A woman not from my world.

Safe. A woman who won’t kick up a media shitshow because by the time she learns my full name, my profession, she’ll be back in Rhode Island, with thousands of kilometers between us.

Gorgeous. With shoulder-length, light brown hair, big blue eyes, and barely any makeup, Marlowe is a knockout.

She’s nothing like my usual type. The women I take home are akin to social media stans.

Full glam makeup, sexily and scantily clad, and interested in a good time at a top-Euro club.

They’re always desperate to have bragging rights that after some game in some city, they fucked me.

But Marlowe is fresh-faced and sweet-looking. Her summer dress is flirty and frilly. Her expression is somehow both open and guarded.

She’s different.

And after the self-imposed quarantine that was my summer, I want her in ways I haven’t experienced in a long time. With a reckless desperation and a neediness that would be alarming if I wasn’t so intent on getting what I want.

Just one night with this enigmatic woman. One smile to clear the pain in her soulful eyes. One chance to be Ale, a regular guy out with an American woman, instead of Alejandro García, League Valencia’s center forward and Rubén García’s less-talented son.

I place an order with the server—an array of tapas, a bottle of water, and a pitcher of Agua de Valencia. Then, I steeple my fingers together and lean forward.

Marlowe’s eyes widen. “That sounded like a lot of food.”

“You should try everything while you have the chance.” I smirk. “Why are you having such a terrible time in Spain?”

Marlowe sighs heavily. “I flew here to surprise my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. If I’m being honest, it was Gladys’s fault for urging me to come. I blame my whole Sewing Circle,” she mutters, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Your sewing—what?”

“You know, a group of women who gather to sew, or knit…” She trails off, that small line appearing between her brows. “I guess we should consider calling it a knitting circle since Judith recently leaned into Portuguese knitting.”

“Portuguese knitting?” I question, trying to follow her line of thought. But I love the adorable way her face scrunches up when she thinks. I could sit back and watch the emotions flit across her face, offering me a peek into her mind. Her soul.

She’s not calculated or cunning the way most women I date are. They start the evening off with an end goal in mind—their actions carefully guided by an ulterior motive.

Not Marlowe. No, she’s nothing like the women I’m used to.

She shrugs. “We gather to sew, or knit, and talk. I meet with them once a week.”

“Your friends?”

“Yes. Gladys, Dorothy, and Judith.” Marlowe waves a hand in my direction. “They’re going to love this story. I’ll be retelling it for weeks, maybe even months, to come.”

My heart rate jumps, and I narrow my eyes. Maybe she does know who I am. Maybe she’s been waiting for the right moment to?—

“They’ve been warning me for years about Gerard’s red flags. They want me to get out more, socialize, and have fun.” Marlowe shakes her head, and I lean closer. “They’ll like that I tried tapas.”

“I’m sure they’ll like that you’re taking their advice, too.”

“Absolutely!” Marlowe laughs. “They’re a bunch of old mother hens—all of them in their eighties.”

“Their eighties?” I repeat, making sure I heard her correctly.

She nods. “But don’t let their age fool you; they’re a lively bunch.”

I chuckle, amused and charmed and…relaxed. At ease in a way I almost forgot how to feel. “Sounds like my abuela would fit right in. She’s the most energetic woman I know. She’s always baking, going to Zumba, FaceTiming my sister in America.”

Marlowe perks up. “Your sister lives in the US?”

I suck in a breath. Am I divulging too much information? But the look in her eyes reassures me that she has no idea who my family is. “Both of them,” I admit. “Carla lives in Chicago and Valentina is in Tennessee.”

“And you’re here.”

“Yes, the rest of my family is in Spain.”

“Do you visit the US often?”

“A few times a year.” It will be more frequently now that Valentina is married to a professional American football quarterback Avery Callaway, and has no intention of returning to Valencia.

This information seems to put Marlowe at ease, and she leans back in her chair. Our server appears with the pitcher and pours two glasses of Agua de Valencia.

“This is a traditional cocktail,” I explain, holding up my glass.

Marlowe’s eyes spark as she lifts hers delicately, tilting it in my direction.

“It’s made from the Valencian orange—that’s what we’re known for.”

“Dorothy requested I fill my suitcase with oranges,” she quips. “What else?”

I chuckle. “Cava, vodka, and gin.”

She sucks in a breath, biting her bottom lip. “I’m going to warn you now—I may be truly tipsy after this.”

I point to the bottle of water. “Pace yourself, it’s still early.”

She laughs and gestures with her glass in my direction. “You know, officially meeting you in the women’s bathroom has turned an awful afternoon into a bright spot. Now, I can say I tried real Spanish food and drinks with a local Valencian, even if my trip only lasts for twenty-four hours.”

The words are spoken genuinely. Easily. Like she’s used to sharing her innermost thoughts with strangers without fear of repercussions. Without wondering how they will be twisted and used against her.