Page 23 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Ale

Marlowe and I solidify our relationship with League Valencia’s first win. The fiery kiss we shared, the easy camaraderie that exists between us, the seamless way she fits in with my family all points to our compatibility. #RelationshipGoals is trending on social media in response to us.

For the first time in my life, Papá isn’t horrified that my face is splashed all over gossip magazines. No, he’s thrilled that that media captured Marlowe and me kissing.

“ Ensénales de qué estás hecho! ” he announced after seeing that first article. Show them what you’re made of.

It’s a sharp pivot from precedence—the long days he spent glaring at me and spewing nasty comments, or worse, ignoring me entirely, his silence arctic. Mamá is equally surprised by Papá’s admiration of Marlowe but embracing it wholeheartedly as it makes her household run smoother.

In fact, after some urging on my part after security flagged two suspicious-looking tourists one afternoon, Marlowe joined my family for Sunday paella while I was in Sevilla for an away game. As soon as I returned, I took Marlowe to dinner to catch up.

“We’re trending on socials,” I tell her.

“I heard,” she laughs. “Dorothy is very invested in our social media footprint.”

I tap my shoulder against hers as we near her apartment.

We’ve spent the night out having dinner, sharing stories from the past week, and enjoying our time together.

The bond between us is real and easy. Is it supposed to be this way?

Or is it only natural because we know it’s not real? That we have an exit strategy?

The fact that I have nothing to compare this to—no past relationships that lasted more than three dates—confuses me.

Is this what I’ve been missing out on all these years?

Could I have had more—a true partnership with trust and concern and love —if I had been open to it?

Are these the feelings that spurred my sister Valentina to marry Avery in a matter of weeks? Did she just know ?

I glance at Marlowe, noting the freckles on her cheeks. How can you tell if it’s love or lust? When do you know it’s real ?

When Marlowe meets my gaze, I feign a chuckle, feeling unsettled by my thoughts.

“When do you meet with José Costa?” I ask as we turn onto her street.

“Next Wednesday.” She beams. “I’ve been working on my pitch while you were traveling.” She pulls in a breath and looks up at me. “Do you want to hear it? Give me some feedback?”

I stare at her in surprise. No one has ever asked me to weigh in on anything—anything that wasn’t related to fútbol before.

I’ve never been considered smart or savvy or business-minded.

My entire identity is tied to fútbol and the fact that Marlowe cares what I think, that she would seek out my opinion at all, humbles me.

I must be silent for too long because she blushes. “Forget it.” She shakes her head. “I know you’re busy and?—”

“No!” My hand darts out to touch her arm. “Not at all. I’d love to hear your pitch, Marlowe. I’d love to listen to anything you’d like to share.”

“Really?” Her voice is almost shy.

“Absolutely.”

I lift my hand in greeting as paparazzi and fans loiter in front of Marlowe’s door.

Ahead of us, Ramón sweeps the entrance to the apartment building and signals that we’re good to enter.

Luis remains half a street length behind, assessing the small crowd, as Marlowe and I pause for photos.

I answer a few questions as she fishes her keys out of her purse.

Before we enter the building, I look up and note that all the lights in her and Bianca’s place are off. “What time does B arrive home from work?”

“Oh.” She shrugs. “Not until almost five.”

While I get a kick out of Luca’s spunky little sister pouring pints and passing out cocktails, my friend hates every second of it.

Even Andrés grumbles about it, worrying about guys getting too handsy or pushy with Bianca.

But I’ve seen that firecracker in action—standing up to angry fans and referees over unfair calls. She can hold her own.

“Are you all right by yourself?” I hate the thought of her sleeping alone, given that her place is on the corner of such a busy party street. “You can come home with me or?—”

“I’m fine,” she answers easily as she starts climbing the stairs. She always says this flippantly and I wonder if she’s ever asked for real help in her life. If she’s ever had someone she could count on, someone who would show up for her, while she’s busy taking care of everyone else.

I narrow my eyes as I study her face, but it’s bathed in darkness as she moves up the stairs.

I follow her up to the fourth floor when Marlowe stops and tosses out an arm as if to keep me behind her.

Sensing her alarm, I step in front of her and swear when I note that her apartment door is slightly ajar, pulled shut but the latch never clicked into place.

Bianca left hours before our dinner, and I clearly remember Marlowe locking up before we left.

I glance over my shoulder, but Ramón and Luis are on the ground floor. Instead of waiting for them, I place a hand on Marlowe’s forearm and squeeze lightly. “Stay here,” I murmur before I push into the apartment, my neck swiveling as I scan the space.

But it’s dark and quiet and…nothing seems amiss.

I flip on lights and move from room to room, scanning the space, checking behind doors and under beds. With each room I clear, my confusion mounts. Nothing is out of place and yet something feels off.

When I enter Marlowe’s room at the end of the hallway, disbelief slams into me and I freeze. It takes entire seconds to fully comprehend what I’m seeing. My body locks down and my eyes widen in horror.

“ Mierda ,” I swear, slapping the light switch until the hallway and Marlowe’s bedroom are bathed in light.

Her bedroom—neat and tidy and hers —has been trashed. Ripped apart and destroyed. Rifled through and ruined.

Marlowe rushes to my side and I turn, wanting to shield her from this. To protect her from witnessing the destruction of her personal items. Of her safe space.

Blood roars in my eardrums as anger— fear —I’ve never experienced hijacks my nervous system.

Marlowe’s bedroom is a fucking disaster.

Her bedding has been shredded and pulled off the bed.

Her books and papers are strewn across the floor, the desk drawers ajar and emptied.

It’s as if someone was looking—searching—for something.

But what?

And her bedroom wall, right behind her bed, is spray-painted, tagged, with a message.

él es mío, y punto.

“What does it say?” Marlowe asks softly, her eyes wide, her body locked in shock.

I wrap my arm around her and pull her into my side, her skin cold to my touch. But she doesn’t relax. She stands ramrod straight, her eyes glued to the threatening message.

“It says, ‘he’s mine, period.’” My voice is hard and unyielding.

I keep my hold on Marlowe, partly for her sake and partly for mine. I need to remember that she’s here with me. That my flipping out and losing my fucking shit will only scare her. I must remain calm and rational.

But inside, my fury rages, beating against the walls of my mind like a torrential downpour.

Whoever the fuck is behind this will pay. Was it the suspicious-looking tourists? A female fan I posed for photos with just ten minutes ago? Lucia, who keyed my Lamborghini this summer?

I’ve had stalkers in the past, but none have ever gone after a woman I’ve dated.

Except, as far as the public knows, hell, as far as my own family knows, I’m not dating Marlowe. She’s my girlfriend. Mine, period.

Marlowe dips her head, and I feel some of the fight whoosh out of her. Her shoulders slump and her back curves.

“Marli,” I murmur.

She turns toward me, and I watch her expression change as she buries her emotions and slips on a collected mask of coolness.

The fear in her eyes recedes as logic eats it.

She steps out of my hold and tucks her hair behind her ears before dropping to her knees to pick through the mess on the floor.

“My presentation notes are here,” she sighs in relief, digging into a large tote bag and exhaling.

“My laptop is fine, thank God.” She stands, offering me a flat smile.

“Okay, I’m fine. This is, everything is fine.

You need to get going. You have an early flight and?—”

“I’m not leaving you!” I practically roar.

Confusion rolls over Marlowe’s expression, but she doesn’t back away from my anger.

Fuck, I’m flipping out.

“Marli, I will not leave you in this flat. I?—”

“Alejandro, you have training camp tomorrow. Your flight to Portugal is early and?—”

“I’m not going anywhere until?—”

“I—” Her mouth snaps shut and her eyes widen, true heartbreak crossing her expression as she looks behind me.

Panic claws at my throat as I correctly read her expression. I whip around, anticipating an attacker, but instead, I’m met with the open door of her wardrobe, and the cut-up designer clothes falling off the hangers inside.

Her carefully curated, vintage wardrobe has been ruined.

Marlowe drops to her knees beside me, gathering the destroyed fabrics. She presses her face into the clothing and releases a sob that cracks my chest wide open.

“Marli.” I kneel beside her, placing a hand on her back.

Her shoulders shake as wave after wave of tears wracks through her body. And I realize she’s not crying about the clothes.

Thousands of dollars of designer labels. Of couture pieces. From the early nineties and two-thousands. A lump grows in my throat, and I feel sick as she admits, “These were my mother’s. This all belonged to my mom. And now…” She gasps for air. “It’s all…ruined.”

Pain pierces my heart, making me feel nauseous enough to throw up. She wore her mom’s clothes to feel connected to her—that’s why her wardrobe contained so many designer pieces. I close my eyes as understanding dawns.