Page 20 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)
Marlowe
“ Olé, Olé, Olé! ”
The cheers of thousands of soccer fans have me perched on the edge of my seat, drinking in the view and reveling in the atmosphere, as excitement pulses through my body.
“Get ready! It will be like this the whole game,” Bianca warns.
I grin at the scene outside of the private box we’re seated in. The stands roar with fans of all ages. Everyone is dressed in a jersey or League Valencia team colors—orange and blue—and many people have their faces painted. There are pompoms and noisemakers, signs and waving scarves.
“That’s óscar.” Bianca points out the team’s mascot—a giant Valencian orange—as he dances on the sidelines.
“Oh, wow!” I laugh. I’ve never been to a soccer game before. Not even in the States and even with my limited knowledge, I know that in Europe the games are more akin to American football games.
The crowd is lively and jovial.
The field is a mesmerizing green, impeccable and immaculate.
The sky is a brilliant blue, the sun shining down even though it’s nearly six thirty p.m. Something I’ve adored about my summer in Spain is that the sun doesn’t set until nearly nine p.m., lengthening the day, the time at the beach, the hours of gathering and socializing.
And then, once the sun sets, the day leisurely rolls into dinner and dancing.
It’s a far cry from my strict schedule as COO, sailor, and caretaker. In fact, I’ve never enjoyed myself more or felt as at ease as I have the past three weeks in Valencia.
“ Hola !” a woman calls out.
I jump to my feet as Abuela appears beside me.
“ Hola , how are you?” I say, kissing both her cheeks.
“ Bien , bien .” She smiles warmly, patting the side of my face. She greets Bianca while I say hello to Ale’s parents.
“You look wonderful in Alejandro’s number,” Paloma whispers conspiratorially as she kisses my cheeks in greeting.
I laugh and hug her before she’s pulled away by a friend. Everyone mingles in the family box, helping themselves to catered tapas and beer and wine. The atmosphere is laid-back.
“It’s really your first game, ever?” Mr. García asks, his brow furrowed.
“It really is. Hard to believe, huh?”
His eyes cut to the field where we see number nine, Alejandro, warming up.
“ Sí , I never pictured Alejandro with a woman who wasn’t a fan.
” His eyes are surprisingly warm when they catch mine.
“But I think it’s for the best. You keep him humble.
” He pats my shoulder as he passes, waving hello to someone.
“Damn,” Bianca mutters as I take my seat beside her. “Rubén García never smiles at anyone. He must really like you.”
I shrug and try not to grin at the praise. I want Alejandro’s family to like me, to embrace me. It’s going to hurt big time when Ale and I go our separate ways but on days like today—when our paths are bound to cross—why can’t we enjoy each other’s company?
I turn my attention back to the field as the game begins.
And then, for the next forty-five minutes of play, I barely blink.
Beside me, Bianca cheers and calls out streams of swear words in Italian if the horror crossing Paloma’s face is anything to go by.
Abuela laughs boisterously as Bianca gestures whenever the referee makes a call in favor of League Bilbao.
It’s hard to tear my eyes away from Alejandro.
He moves with a fluidity, an ease, that seems to blend the sport with dancing.
His body is lithe, his muscles strong. But it’s his mind that is truly impressive.
His ability to anticipate his opponents’ moves before they give the slightest indication of what they’re thinking.
His creativity and the way he maneuvers around defenders, kicking the ball between their legs, pulling off a spin in the middle of the play, heading the ball into the net as it sails overhead with a quick jerk of his head.
Alejandro is a sight to behold and for the first time, I realize how massive his fame—his success—is. I understand why he has legions of fans—both male and female. Both soccer fans and general sports enthusiasts. He’s a phenom on the field.
In fact, the only bad press I’ve ever found of him was that he was a serial dater who loved to party. And even then, Bianca assured me, the women always knew it was a one-night thing. He never made commitments he didn’t keep.
Pride fills my chest as I watch him play the game he loves. Bianca moves to the bar right before halftime, but I wave off her offer of a drink. I’m enjoying the game too much to miss even a minute of play.
“He’s something else, isn’t he?” a man says beside me.
I turn in surprise that he spoke to me in English and flash him a smile. “He really is. It’s my first game.”
“For League Valencia?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Ever.”
Surprise ripples across the man’s expression, but he resumes watching the game beside me. “Well, you look like a true fan, hardly able to tear your eyes away.”
“That’s a relief to hear,” I admit. “I’m trying to blend in.” I gesture around the box and the man lets out a chuckle.
“If you’re not a fútbol fan, which sports do you enjoy?” he asks after a beat.
I glance at him again, noting the genuine curiosity on his face.
He must be in his late sixties, but he’s dressed impeccably.
In navy trousers, a V-neck shirt, and a pistachio-colored blazer, the man embodies a sophisticated, classic style blended with a fun, trendy vibe. “Sailing,” I say. “I love to sail.”
“There’s a lot of wonderful sailing here,” he agrees. “Especially in the north, near Barcelona.”
“Yes,” I agree. “I watched the American Cup there. Ages ago.”
“So, you’ve been a fan for a long time, then? I too am partial to sailing.”
Surprise rocks through me at that. What are the chances of meeting a sailing enthusiast at a soccer game?
It’s a small world, Dorothy’s voice sounds in my mind.
Six degrees of separation, Gladys adds.
“I love the feeling, the sense of freedom it offers,” I share. “Being on the water at daybreak, or sunset, there’s this golden window when everything in my mind clears and I can just…be.” I chuckle at myself and shake my head. “I’m sorry, I’m probably not making any sense?—”
“You’re making perfect sense,” the man cuts me off, his eyes warmer than the polite friendliness he showed a moment ago. “Please, continue.”
I shrug. “I’ve been on the water all my life. In Rhode Island, mostly. There’s this…sense of possibility that opens up when I’m sailing. An opportunity to be simultaneously focused, locked in, yet also part of something bigger. Something cosmic.”
A yell rings out, the sounds of drumming picking up in tempo, and my gaze snaps back to the field just in time to witness Alejandro kick the ball over the goalkeeper’s shoulder.
The ball slams into the net and the fans jump to their feet, arms raised, heads thrown back, and a war cry of a cheer drowning out conversation.
I jump up and down, turning to the man and throwing my arms around him in a hug. Caught off guard, he laughs but wraps an arm around me, patting my shoulder.
“Oh, wow! What a goal!” I yell.
The man beams, surprise etched into the lines of his face. “You know, I think it’s not that much different than sailing.” He points toward the field.
Understanding his meaning—the focus, the dedication, the possibility, the being part of something bigger than the individual—I nod. “Passion for a sport, any sport, is a true gift.”
“A blessing,” he agrees, holding out a hand as the cheering dies down. “I’m José Costa. I own?—”
“Ultimate Sailing Club,” I whisper, shaking his hand. The blood drains from my face and I stare at him in surprise. “Your team has a 68% win percentage and an 84% podium finish rate in Europe.”
His grin broadens. “You certainly do your homework. I heard you were trying to get in touch with me.”
Knowing I can’t squander this moment, especially after I just hugged him, I blurt out, “My name is Marlowe Prescott. My family owns a sailboat building company in Providence, Rhode Island, Prescott Sail. I’d love to set up a time to speak with you about plans to expand into Europe, Mr. Costa.”
“I’d like that as well,” he agrees, passing me his card. “Send an email to that address and we’ll get something on the books in the next few weeks.”
On the field, the play resumes and my eyes dart to Alejandro before I force myself to look back at Mr. Costa.
Mr. Costa watches me with amusement and understanding in his gaze. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marlowe.”
“You too, Mr. Costa.”
“Please, call me José.” He dips his head slightly. “I look forward to continuing our conversation soon.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze and then he’s moving through the private box, leaning down to exchange a few words with another man.
When I look up, Mr. García’s knowing look catches my eye.
I arch surprised eyebrows at him. He tosses me a wink before looking back to the field as the whistle sounds for halftime.
My heart rate accelerates frantically.
This wasn’t a case of small world. Or even right place, right time. Mr. García orchestrated this for me. And Alejandro must have reached out to his father for guidance because I never mentioned my desire to connect with José Costa to Ale’s father.
But Alejandro promised me a meeting within the month and…my boyfriend delivers on his promises.
I bite my bottom lip to keep from freaking out. In the next few weeks, I’m going to pitch to José Costa, just like I promised Grandpa I would.
I mull over this turn of events until the game resumes.
Luca scores a goal and the stadium erupts. I jump up and down before Bianca barrels into me from the side, wrapping me in a tight hug.
I squeal, laughing breathlessly as I wrap an arm around my friend’s shoulders.
For a blink, in this private box, watching a soccer match, I feel the same way I do on the Narragansett Bay—free and centered and open to possibilities.
My heart is full, my mind is clear, and I feel at home.