Page 21 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Ale

“We did it, lads!” Andrés hollers, hooking an arm around Luca’s neck.

“Nice game, well played,” Carlos calls out.

The team is jubilant, forming a huddle with our arms around each other, our bodies swaying from side to side as Carlos leads us in a chant.

Team morale is at an all-time high after securing our win for the first game of the season.

It’s made even sweeter knowing that League Bilbao is fierce competition.

In fact, we lost to them twice last season.

As the huddle breaks apart, my eyes swing to the stands. While my parents prefer to watch games in the family box, Papá always makes his way down to the sidelines after our home games. Usually, Abuela is in tow, chatting with any fan who stops to speak with her.

Sure enough, when I look over, I spot my parents, Abuela, and my Marli.

My girlfriend is right there, clad in my jersey, my name and number nine on her back, and my throat dries.

I blink, unable to tear my eyes away. She looks utterly gorgeous—her hair pulled away from her face and tied in a bun with an orange bow.

Her smile widens as she tosses an arm in the air and cheers for me. For my team. For my city.

And before I can stop myself, I’m rushing toward her.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the high of the win, or just seeing her—and knowing that she’s here for me —but I don’t stop until I’m at the sideline.

Fans reach for me, screaming my name, shoving hats and shirts in my direction for my signature.

But I don’t take my eyes off Marlowe. I jump to where she’s standing, in the first row of the stands with my family.

Wrapping my hand around the metal post separating us, I catch my feet on the metal rung, and I lunge over the divider, wrapping one arm around Marlowe and pulling her closer.

My hand grasps the back of her head, my fingertips grazing over the bow in her hair.

She gasps in surprise, her expression beaming with pride, my name on her lips.

“You did it!” she squeals.

And her genuine joy on my behalf is my undoing.

Before I can check myself, before I can warn her, I lean over the railing and kiss her. Hard.

I wait for her to shove me away but instead, she returns my kiss, her eyes fluttering shut. Her hand fists the back of my jersey, pulling me closer so I don’t slide off the ledge. My fingers tighten in her hair, and I cup the side of her face as I slant my mouth over hers.

My tongue slips into her mouth and a soft moan escapes from Marlowe’s lips. Among the roar of the crowd, I hear that moan—breathless and needy—down to my core. My blood heats, my desire spikes, and I kiss Marlowe with abandon, riding the natural high of the day.

She melts into my frame, the metal bars separating us nothing more than a nuisance as I deepen our kiss.

When she pulls away, she’s breathless. Her eyes are wide and clouded with the same want that pumps through my veins.

“You look good in my number, Marli.”

“You look good, period, García,” she tosses back.

And Abuela howls at the exchange, pulling me into a hug and kissing my temple. “You’re a good boy, Alejandro,” she whispers in Spanish, tapping the back of my neck. “A very good boy.”

I laugh as my family, my fans, sweep me into hugs.

But it’s the pride in my papá’s expression that pulls me up short.

And I know that for as well as I played today, he’s happier that I’ve claimed Marlowe.

I’m not sure if it’s because he truly believes that this is my season and Marlowe is the key, or because of his genuine affection for Marlowe, but the realization twists something in the pit of my stomach.

He can never learn that Marlowe’s and my relationship is fraudulent; no one can. It would hurt Mamá, crush Abuelita, and destroy my papá’s trust in me. But as I turn my head and glance at Marlowe, her blue eyes bright, her smile beatific, I can’t imagine letting her go.

It’s something I don’t want to think about. Especially not right now when League Valencia has a win to celebrate.

I drop back to the ground and grin at my girl. “You ready to party?”

“I can’t wait!”

I tilt my head toward the hallway I need to pass through to debrief with Coach, hit the showers, and dress. “Meet me after?” I look to Papá, who nods.

“I’ll show you the way, Marlowe,” he offers.

“Great.” She smiles at him. “ Gracias , Mr. García.”

I note the mutual respect that passes between them. It’s weird as hell and yet gratitude spreads through my chest.

“Call me Rubén,” he remarks casually.

Mamá’s eyebrows nearly fly off her forehead and Abuela clasps her hands together as if she’s witnessing history in the making.

“Hit the showers, García,” Marlowe gives me a hard time. But she’s smiling, looking as happy as I feel.

“See you in a bit.” I lift my hand to the crowd in farewell.

The fans cry out with cheers, and the drums pick back up, the sound deafening. I ride the swell of the crescendo, the maddening joy, back to the locker room where my team claps loudly, slapping me on the back for scoring three of our four goals.

Coach gives me a nod of approval, Carlos smacks my shoulder, and I plop down on the bench in front of my locker. Pulling in a deep breath, I soak up this moment. This memory.

After the way last season ended, after my car being keyed and Papá losing it over my reputation in the press, I finally feel like I’m back on solid ground. And I savor the victory.

After a quick interview with the press, I stride out of the locker room, my eyes darting over the gathered group for Marlowe. She’s in front of me in an instant, throwing her arms around my neck. I dip down to kiss her.

“Am I doing this right?” she whispers in my ear, and I know she means playing her role more than her smoldering kiss.

But tonight, I don’t want us to play our parts. Tonight, I want to celebrate with my girlfriend on my arm and my team at our sides. I kiss her again, adding pressure. When I pull back, my eyes are serious as they hold hers. “You’re perfect, Marlowe. Every bit of you is pure perfection.”

She shakes her head as if she doesn’t believe me but nestles closer into my side as I throw an arm around her shoulders. “We’re heading to Corcho to celebrate.”

Marlowe snorts and I glance down to note that her lips are pressed together, as if holding back laughter.

“ Qué ?” I ask. “What is it?”

“You’re what?” Luca bellows behind me.

I glance over my shoulder to see him glaring at his sister.

“Bianca got a job there serving cocktails,” Marlowe supplies helpfully. “It was supposed to be a secret until she told Luca.”

“ Díos mio ,” Andrés mutters beside her.

And I understand my friends’ concern. Corcho is a friendly sports bar that’s known for getting rowdy and sometimes uncontrollable when big matches are on. The men often start brawls and, on several occasions, have gotten way too handsy with the pretty women who mix and serve drinks.

But for once in my life, it’s not a problem that involves me. I shoot Luca an understanding look and tap Andrés on the shoulder.

“Need a ride?” I offer.

He shakes his head. “No, but I’ll see you guys there.”

Holding Marlowe closer, I lead her toward the lot where my car is parked. I stow my bag in the trunk and turn to look at her. “Want to walk? It’s only fifteen minutes from here and parking will be impossible.”

Marlowe shakes her head, glancing at the sky. “I can’t believe it’s nearly ten p.m. and we’re just getting started.” Her eyes find mine and she grins. “I think I like Valencia.”

“Yeah? Well, Valencia likes you.”

She snorts. “Gotta work on your pickup lines, García.”

“Why?” I take her hand as we start walking toward the bar, Ramón in front of us and an additional guard, Luis, behind us. “I already landed you.”

She pulls her hand away, lifting an eyebrow to call me on my bullshit.

I amend my statement by adding, “I’m off the market and not interested in picking anyone else up.” I reach for her hand, and she lets me hold it.

“Damn straight,” Marlowe laughs, and the sound is like music.

It takes nearly forty-five minutes to walk to Corcho, with all the fans stopping us along the way.

As Ramón and Luis control the crowd, I pause for photos, sign my autograph, and make sure to chat with every kid that approaches me.

But I also note the keen awareness that sparks in my female fans’ eyes when they look Marlowe up and down.

With some of the women, there’s an interest that is deeper than genuine curiosity and I make a mental note to discuss it with Ramón and Luis.

By the time we enter the bar, I need a drink. I order the first round as thanks, and congratulations echo in the small space.

I clink my pint against Marlowe’s. “ Salud , mi nina .”

“Congratulations, Ale,” she replies and it’s the sweetest, most sincere well wishes I’ve received.