Page 31 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Ale

I’m in over my fucking head.

Thoughts of Marlowe consume me. I crave her, need her, miss her even when we’re together.

And yet, I can’t think about anything other than the fact that with each passing day, she might leave. Will she leave after our ten weeks together?

How the hell is she going to stay?

Not with Prescott Sail awaiting her leadership, not with her family counting on her, not with her father slipping away.

I won’t let you go.

But how the hell can I keep her? Claim her?

I fucking can’t and deep down, I know it. I know it and it terrorizes me. Fucks with my head. And pulses in my mind every minute of every day—a warning, a reminder, a fucking fact.

I love you.

Words I can’t say. A truth I’m too scared to admit.

As another week slips by, I spend every night exploring Marlowe’s body, savoring each moan that drops from her lips, and losing myself in her kisses and touches.

Every day breaking my ass on the field—running drills, conditioning, watching tape.

And yet, we lose the next two games, and I know it’s my fault. My inability to mentally commit, my distraction, the fucking fear that consumes me when I think about next week and the week after that and…Marlowe leaving.

“What the fuck is going on?” Papá explodes from the sidelines after League Valencia’s fourth straight loss.

I shake my head, averting my gaze as I duck into the locker room.

The space is quiet, my teammates offering a mix of frustrated, apologetic, and pitying looks.

“Shake it off,” Andrés advises.

I grunt in response, pulling open my locker door.

“It’s not your fault,” Luca mutters.

And yeah, it’s not entirely my fault. But it mostly is.

“My finishing was shit,” I retort.

Luca grunts.

“I missed at least three scoring opportunities,” I tack on.

“Four,” Carlos corrects.

When Andrés glares at him, he shrugs and looks away.

“Four,” I bite out. “And I was fucking offsides twice.”

“What’s going on?” Andrés asks.

I shake my head and drop onto the bench to remove my cleats. What’s going on is Marlowe.

Marlowe is going to leave and I’m…I’m fucking in love with her. Consumed by her. Tortured by her presence and by the fear of her impending absence.

But I can’t say that. Can’t admit it.

Shame eats at me that I’m so twisted up over her that I can’t think . Can’t perform . Can’t do my fucking job .

“Fuck if I know,” I offer.

Andrés arches an eyebrow as Luca narrows his eyes. Neither one of them says anything. I move toward the showers, throwing myself under the hot spray as I try to scrub off the stench of loser that clings to my skin.

After a meeting with Javi, who lets me know I better get my shit together, I storm out of the stadium.

Marlowe’s waiting for me and I groan internally, unable to meet her eyes. I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want her to witness me falling apart.

“It’s one game,” she says sympathetically as I breeze past her. She quickens her steps to keep my pace.

“It’s four games,” I clip out, feeling my jaw pulse with anger.

Marlowe sighs and places a tentative hand on my arm. My eyes close, her touch feeling like both a salve to my pain and a brand to my being.

I’m all over the fucking place and I don’t know what to do, how to manage the intense feelings that course through me. I’ve never felt like this before. Never been this twisted up over a woman. Over anything.

“I’m sorry,” Marlowe whispers.

My eyes snap to hers. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

She studies my eyes, searches my expression, before sighing and removing her hand. “Do you want to talk about it? About anything?” And it’s the kindness in her words, the thoughtfulness of her offer, that scrapes against my soul.

But what do I say? How do I even start?

I’m failing my team, my fans, my legacy.

“Nothing to say,” I clip out. “I just need to focus more. Train harder. Spend more time at the stadium, on the field, and mentally lock in.”

“Okay.” Her voice sounds small and tinny. Hurt.

I blow out a breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let’s go home.”

She nods, following me to my SUV. But then she stands there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and tossing me a sheepish look. “I need to swing by José Costa’s office. We’re going over some contracts and…”

“That’s fine,” I bite out even though I want her to come home with me. To sit with my goddamn misery and feel as helpless as I do.

How is she working with a clear head? How is she going about her daily life? How is she making plans for the future—for her future back in Rhode Island—while I’m falling apart?

Because while everything is different now, she still accepts the end result. She knows what’s coming down the pipeline.

She hasn’t fallen in love with you.

The truth cuts as much as it numbs. It’s a fact I need to acknowledge. Need to accept.

I nod. “I understand.”

“I can postpone if?—”

“No,” I cut her off before she can offer to blow off work for me. “I’d never ask you to do that.” And I wouldn’t. Not aloud anyway. “Go to work. I’ll see you at home later.” I lean forward and kiss her cheeks.

“You sure?”

“Of course.” I tilt my head toward my SUV. “I’ll give you a ride.”

“That’s okay. Traffic is awful this time of day and Bianca is going to walk over with me since she has another job interview by the port.” She gestures over my shoulder and I half turn, noting Bianca standing by the stadium.

“All right. See you later.”

Marlowe gives a tiny wave, and I watch as she meets Bianca. The two of them link arms, their heads bent together. Marlowe laughs at something B says, and I feel it like a shove to the chest.

Sighing, I slide into my SUV and drive home. But when I get there, I’m restless. Frustrated. Hopped up on adrenaline and anger.

Then, it all compounds as I get a call from the police station confirming that Lucia Cesare was behind the break-in and destruction of Marlowe’s apartment.

Another thing that’s my fault—another wrong I need to right.

I promise to speak with Marlowe about pressing charges before I end the call and head to Turia park.

I need to clear my head. But even an hour walk does shit for my mental state, so I swing by Corcho to meet Andrés for tapas.

When I pop my head into my bedroom later that night and note Marlowe’s sleeping frame, her even breaths, and her angelic face, relief flows through me.

But I need to add distance and space between us. She’s leaving in three weeks, and I can’t blow up my entire career because I went and fell in love with a woman who was supposed to be nothing more than a means to an end.

I got myself in over my head and now—now, it’s time to dig myself out.

Over the next few days, I can barely meet Marlowe’s eyes as we navigate the situation with Lucia Cesare.

Since home break-ins are considered public crimes in Spain, Marlowe may be called to testify in court.

She accepts this with her usual levelheadedness, but I stew inside, horrified that I put her in this position.

Furious with myself, I pour my energy into my game. I’m the first player at the stadium each morning and the last to leave each night. I engage in additional conditioning, more time committed at the gym, and extra drills.

I consume reels of tape, meet with PT and the nutritionist, and home in on my diet.

I begin to look forward to away games because they provide organic distance between Marlowe and me.

Of course, I still check in with her. I hire extra security to ensure her safety. I inquire about her progress with José Costa and ask about her father’s health.

But I come home each night too physically spent to sink inside of her. Too mentally fucked up to dwell on the complicated feelings I have for her. Too realistic to hope for a happy ending.

As the days pass, I add an additional layer of space between us. And as we approach the eight-week mark, the words I resolutely spoke the night of her birthday— I won’t let you go —sound more like an echo, a memory, than a current conviction.