Page 25 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Marlowe

I sleep fitfully, my mind uneasy, my body restless. In the early morning hours, I’m pulled from a night terror and I jolt up in bed, crying out. My surroundings are foreign and panic lashes through my limbs as my heart races.

“It was just a dream,” I pant, as I realize I’m in Ale’s guest bedroom.

But the dream was so real—so visceral. The effects of it cling to my skin, an icy film that chills me to my bone. Reminders of last night flood my mind and I squeeze my eyes shut, placing a hand over my heart to regulate my breathing.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Ale bursts into the bedroom and my eyes fly open, meeting his wild ones.

I groan, shaking my head. “It was just a bad dream. I’m sorry I woke you.”

He drags a hand over his face and approaches the bed. He sits on the edge, one of his large hands resting on my ankle through the comforter. “Don’t be sorry. Are you okay?”

I nod.

Ale tilts his head, his eyes studying me. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

The sweetness in his tone makes me want to cry. It’s what Mom asked when I woke from a night terror as a little girl. It’s what I ask Dad when his screams echo through the house on the really bad nights.

He rarely remembers but I still ask, recalling the comfort of sharing my burdens with Mom when I was young.

I roll my lips together, feeling childish and out of sorts.

Ale squeezes my ankle.

I meet his eyes in the dark bedroom, noting the compassion and concern in his gaze. He doesn’t try to hurry me along but waits patiently as I choose my words.

He’s bare chested, clad in only black boxers and a gold chain necklace with a number nine pendant I never noticed before. It must always be tucked underneath his shirt.

It distracts me from my nightmare, and I tentatively reach for it. Ale follows the trajectory of my hand, sitting stock-still as I finger the pendant.

“Do you always wear this?”

He clears his throat and nods. “It was a gift from my abuelo. He gave it to me after my first championship win when I was nine.” He snorts and drops his gaze.

“I think it drove Papá mad. He thought Abuelo was too soft on me, on my training. But I think Abuelo showed up for me in ways he couldn’t for Papá.

I think grandparents try to apply the wisdom they’ve learned, to fix the mistakes they made with their children, with their grandchildren. ”

I think about Grandpa. He adored my dad with every part of his being. But he was always tender and understanding with me in ways that he wasn’t with his son. He has more patience with me. Dad used to grumble and Mom would laugh and tell him I had Grandpa wrapped around my finger—and rightfully so.

“I think so, too,” I agree, pressing his pendant between my thumb and forefinger. “I used to wear an anchor pendant,” I admit, biting my bottom lip at the painful reminder that I lost it. “My dad gave it to my mom on their first anniversary. Anchors are steadfast, you know?”

Ale nods, his jaw tense but his eyes are tender. “What happened to it?”

“It fell off one day while I was on the docks and…I never found it.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over my hair. We’re quiet for several moments and then he asks, softly, “Do you want to tell me about your nightmare?”

“I was a little girl, maybe six years old, walking through my mom’s closet.

My arms were stretched out, my fingers brushing past the dresses, skirts, and blouses that hung there.

Silk and satin. I wrapped myself in my favorite skirt—a pleated Cornwall blue maxi skirt that billowed around Mom’s legs when she twirled.

It hung around my shoulders, practically touching my ankles, and I imagined I looked like a princess.

“And then, out of nowhere, shears were going through the skirt, line by line, pleat by pleat, it was being destroyed. Torn apart. Ruined.

“And I felt the agony, the pain of each cut, throughout my entire being.” I pause, my emotions swelling as I recall my mother’s beautiful clothing, torn apart and lying in clumps on the floor of my wardrobe, in my bedroom. “Why would someone do such a thing?”

Ale shakes his head and moves closer. He slides beside me on the bed and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his body. Into his warmth. I rest my cheek on his chest and listen to the soothing sound of his heartbeat.

He kisses the top of my head. “I don’t know, Marli. But I am sorry, so unbelievably sorry for what happened tonight. I feel responsible and?—”

I look up sharply. “It’s not your fault.”

He runs his fingers through my hair. “It is. That never would have happened if you weren’t linked to me.”

I place my head back down on his chest and curl my arm around his waist, using him like a personal pillow. “Is this what you meant when you said parts of this, of our arrangement, won’t be easy?”

He hums out a noise but doesn’t respond. Instead, he plays with my hair and slowly, sleep beckons once more.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Ale vows in the darkness.

Shadows dance along the opposite wall as the sun begins to rise. But my eyelids grow heavy. Ale’s arm is strong as it curves around my back. His other hand passes over my hair—steady. Safe and soothing and here .

An anchor. Steadfast whenever I need him.

“Sleep, mi nina . I got you.”

My eyes close and I drift off.

Alejandro García is the first unrelated male that I’ve ever lived with. And it is an experience.

While I’m used to early mornings, days spent out of the house at work, and a cleaning routine—Ale lives and breathes by his fútbol schedule. It varies by the day—depending on if there’s a game, multiple practice sessions, or team meetings.

As such, he could be napping at two p.m., during the local siesta, or boarding a bus to Barcelona.

What is consistent is the presence of his lovely housekeeper Sandra who appears every morning at ten a.m. to clean, cook, and start a load of laundry.

Through Sandra, I learn a little more about Ale’s preferences.

Churros con chocolate are his favorite Sunday morning breakfast tradition.

He prefers wine to beer but rarely drinks during the season.

He wears the exact same socks in white and black so they’re easy to pair.

And his biggest guilty pleasure is a Spanish reality television show called La Isla de las Tentaciones—Temptation Island , the Spanish version.

On Sunday night, after Ale returns home from Madrid, having secured another win for League Valencia, I have an assortment of tapas ready and the television primed to watch an episode of his favorite show.

“You’re joking!” He laughs when he notes the opening credits. His hands grip the sides of his head as he drops his head back and laughs. “Who told you? Rafa?”

“Your cousin watches this too?” I gasp. “What is this, a dirty family secret?”

Ale shakes his head, his eyes crinkling in the corners from his laughter. “No, well, I mean, kind of.” He toes off his sandals and sits on the couch, wrapping an arm around me to pull me close and kiss my temple. “You can’t ever admit this.”

“I promise.”

Ale chuckles. “It’s Abuela’s fault.”

My mouth drops open. “No way! I heard?—”

“From who?”

“I’m not giving up my sources.”

Ale rolls his eyes. “It was Sandra.”

“Fine! Yes,” I laugh.

“What did you hear?”

“That this show places five men in a house with a group of single women and places their girlfriends in a house with a group of single men to test the strength of their relationships.”

“And?” He dips his head, gesturing with his hand for more.

“That it gets wild! Like really wild. And there’s a game about passing an ice cube.”

“ Pasar el hielo ,” he says, groaning. “It’s when someone has a big chunk of ice in their mouth, and they have to pass it to the other person’s mouth but of course it’s slippery and so…the temptation of a kiss is there.”

“Ah,” I say, nodding. “It’s like suck and blow.”

“What?” His eyes widen.

“Why do you look so traumatized? The American version is suck and blow where you suck in air to keep a playing card against your lips and then you press it to the other person’s mouth, and they have to suck in air to hold it and pass it on. But if it drops…there could be a kiss.”

Ale’s eyes are ripe with amusement as they hold mine. “And did you ever play this game, Marlowe?”

I roll my eyes. “In college. Before Gerard.”

“Hm.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Why? Did you ever pass ice?”

He snorts. “Of course, I did. Rafa always managed to get it incorporated at high school parties.”

“Does Abuela know what she turned you two into?” I ask innocently.

He groans and snatches an olive from the tray on the coffee table.

“No! She was mortified the first time Rafa and I caught her watching La Isla . She made us swear we would never tell our mothers. But, of course, we were curious and so we started watching it and teasing Abuela mercilessly. As we got older, it just became the norm. Now the three of us have a text thread and gossip about the contestants like we know them in real life.”

“I love everything about this story. It reminds me of Gladys, Dorothy, and Judith’s obsession with The Bachelor . They used to steal wine from the priest, Father Thomas, every Sunday at Mass so they would have it for their Monday night episode.”

“ Dios mío . I pray Abuela never meets your Sewing Circle, Marli.”

“You should.” I pick up the remote control and turn my eyes toward the television. “Are you ready?”

“We’re really watching this?”

“I need to know what I’ve been missing.” I press play.

Alejandro shakes his head, but he snuggles deeper into the sofa, his knee pressing into my thigh. As we munch on tapas and watch the show—the partying, the beautiful women in bikinis, the attractive men indulging in wicked games—I become more aware of Alejandro’s presence.

To be honest, it shows more than I anticipated—the behind the scenes that American television leaves up to the viewer’s inference is offered on screen.

Couples are shown images of their significant others getting busy with the singles in the houses.

And as I watch other people let loose and have fun, an irrational desire to do the same rises within me.

I glance at Ale from the corner of my eye. His jaw is tight, his eyes glued to the television. For weeks, I’ve respected the line he drew in the sand.

We’re friends. We’re partners in this agreement. That’s it.

But now that we’re living together, forced to share space and see each other first thing in the morning and before bed each night, things between us are blurring. The separation of our first weeks as a fake couple has disappeared.

Now, I check Ale out when he pads out of his bedroom in nothing but tight boxer briefs. I note the way his eyes drop to my chest and zero in on my hips before I meet Bianca for a run in Turia.

When we step out together, we always hold hands or link arms or touch in some way. Even when we’re in Ale’s car, his hand settles on my thigh, or my fingers reach for his.

Our conversations are natural and easygoing. Our lives have melded together seamlessly.

When I presented my pitch for José Costa to him, Alejandro took notes, asked serious questions, and gave thoughtful feedback.

When I attend his home games, I study his statistics, drink in every second of play, and learn the terminology and strategy.

We follow up with the police about the break-in at Bianca’s and my apartment every morning. And from Paloma, I learn that Rubén and Ale are doing their own investigation as well. Anything , Ale vowed, to keep you safe .

We’ve blended our lives together in a way that goes beyond friendship. Our attraction hasn’t died because of our decision to be just friends. If anything, it’s grown.

And as I watch a man and woman make out—touch and caress and grind together—on the television screen, I admit how badly I want the physical with Alejandro. I want everything with him.

And deep down, I know that it won’t be fake. It won’t be temporary or fleeting or a fling.

It will be my new standard—the measure for every man who comes after him.