Page 32 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Marlowe

“I love you, Dad,” I say, biting my bottom lip as the word dad slips out.

I sense my dad’s confusion through the line and screw my eyes closed, praying it doesn’t send him into an emotional spiral.

Luckily, he grunts in response and passes the phone to Grandpa, who sighs heavily.

“How’s it going, kid?” Grandpa asks and I know he’s asking more about how I’m handling Dad forgetting who I am today than inquiring about business with José Costa.

“I’m fine.” My voice is clipped.

“Oh?”

I sigh, not wanting to share that I’m frustrated and upset and confused by Alejandro’s recent actions.

For over a week, he’s been MIA—leaving for the stadium before I wake in the morning and coming home after I’m already asleep.

Other than leaving money on the console table for groceries and miscellaneous errands and occasionally texting to check in, we’ve slipped more into the role of roommates than lovers.

Hell, at this point we’re more like strangers than friends.

I thought discovering who was behind the break-in of my apartment would bring us closer together. But learning that it was a jealous ex-lover of Ale’s only added distance between us.

Did sleeping together ruin everything?

Now that we hooked up, is he ready to move on? He got what he wanted, got me out of his system, and is over it? Over us?

I sigh. After my birthday, I thought we were entering new territory. That we would finally have a conversation about our future—about our relationship—instead of hiding behind the ruse we’ve clung to since we entered into our agreement.

I thought the tables were turning—but obviously, I was wrong.

In two weeks, I’m supposed to return to Rhode Island. The timing is lining up perfectly with Costa’s order and the business deals we’re arranging.

In two weeks, Ale and I are supposed to have an amicable breakup—citing our work commitments as the reason why we’re ending our relationship—and remain good friends.

But it doesn’t feel amicable. It feels devastating. It cuts me to my core.

And worst of all? His coldness blindsides me more than Gerard’s betrayal. In fact, my hurt over Gerard pales in comparison over the pain I feel from Ale’s aloofness.

“Marlowe?” Grandpa presses.

Shit, I forgot I was on the phone with him.

“I’m fine,” I gentle my tone. “Just…tired. Homesick,” I toss out because every time I speak to my father, I feel nostalgic. Sad. And guilty.

“You’ll be home soon,” Grandpa says. Then, as if knowing I need to hear it, he adds, “The Sewing Circle is counting the days. Gladys is trying new banana bread loaf recipes for you to taste test.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Me too. I miss you, Marlowe.”

“Two more weeks.” The reminder causes a wave of pain to blaze through my chest. Two more weeks until I’m no longer a part of Ale’s life.

“Two more weeks. Great work on the Costa account. You did a phenomenal job. Once you’re back and the deal is finalized, I’d like to announce to the team, to our clients, that you’ll be stepping into my role as CEO. It’s time, Marlowe.”

I gasp. “Grandpa, I?—”

“You’re ready, kid. Trust me. I couldn’t have done this any better than you. You’re ready,” he repeats, as if knowing I need to hear it twice.

“Are you, are you sure?”

“Positive,” he promises. “Enjoy your last two weeks in Spain.”

My stomach twists and a lump gathers at the base of my throat.

My time in Spain—a place that once felt colorful and hopeful—is nearly over. And I don’t know how to reconcile my feelings over moving home with leaving Ale.

“’Bye, Grandpa.” I end the call and toss my phone down.

Then, I make a snack, sit in the living room, and turn on La Isla de las Tentaciones .

But Alejandro doesn’t come home.

I watch two episodes feeling my favorite girlfriend’s devastation at seeing her man get busy with one of the single women. Tears well in my eyes as she sobs on camera, conversing with the host television personality, that her heart is breaking.

For the first time, I wonder if Ale and I could make it on a reality TV show like this. Back when we were solidly in a fake relationship, friends more than anything else, I would have wholeheartedly said yes.

But now that we blurred the lines, developed complex feelings and shared moments of sheer intimacy, I doubt us.

I question the words we exchanged.

I got you.

I won’t let you go.

This changes everything.

And the last one rings true. Everything is different now.

But not in the way I hoped.

With twenty seconds left on the clock, Ale takes a shot on goal.

The entire stadium draws in a breath, collectively holding it, as the ball clangs against one of the goal posts and bounces out of bounds.

Swears, jeers, and frustration leaks from the overwhelmingly Valencian fans present for today’s home game.

The game ends a few seconds later with another League Valencia loss.

Rubén swears, his expression a hard mask of anger and disappointment. Paloma touches his shoulder gently and indicates that they should head home. Abuela holds my eyes, her gaze sympathetic and understanding.

Bianca blows out a breath between her puffed-out cheeks, knowing that the team morale is currently in the toilet and Corcho will be filled with furious fans tonight.

I say goodbye to Ale’s family and wave goodbye to some of the other friends I’ve made in the past two months.

“You want to grab a drink?” Bianca offers.

“Nah, you go ahead. I’m going to wait here for Ale.”

She nods, hugging me tightly, before slipping from the family box.

I remain seated for long minutes, watching as the stadium empties. I note the empty beer bottles, flittering empanada wrappers, and discarded bags of popcorn.

Twenty minutes ago, the stadium pulsed with life and possibility. And now, it’s empty and…deflated. Defeated. The same way I feel.

The emptiness wraps around me, squeezing like a vice.

I watch as workers begin to clean up the mess the disgruntled fans left behind. Sighing, I shoulder my purse and head toward the locker room, determined to make things right with Ale.

With only two weeks left, I need answers. I need to know where we stand. I need… him .

I knock lightly before pushing into the locker room.

The space is quiet, empty, and mostly dark with only a few lights still turned on. The players are gone—back to their families or heading to a bar to drown their loss in a beer.

But when I turn the corner, one figure sits hunched over on a bench.

“Ale,” I murmur.

Slowly, he lifts his eyes to mine. I suck in a breath when I read the heartache and utter failure that shades his usually glowing eyes.

“We lost.”

I nod, pressing my lips together.

“I missed the fucking goal.”

“You can’t always shoulder all the blame,” I say gently, stepping closer to him.

He heaves out a breath as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and I suppose, most days, it feels that way when you’re wanting to lead a team, be a beacon of light for a city, and uphold a legacy.

“It was my fault,” he disagrees, his tone low. Biting.

I step closer, stopping inches from his face. He cranes his neck to look at me. Want and frustration and pain claw for precedence in the lines of his face.

I drop to my knees and reach for him.

He swears as my arms snake around his waist. I press the side of my face into his abdomen, nestling between his thighs.

“Tell me what you need,” I beg. Pulling back, I look up at him. “I miss you, Ale. I hate the space between us.”

Pain lashes over his face as he closes his eyes, as if to block out the grief.

“Tell me what you need,” I repeat. “Let me help you. Be here for you.”

His jaw tightens, that muscle fluttering and popping. He grasps the back of my head, his fingers twisting tightly in my hair.

“I don’t—” he starts. But he cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Marlowe.” My name is a guttural growl on his lips.

“Tell me,” I urge, sliding my palms up his thighs. He’s clad in shorts and his skin is hot to the touch. “I can make you feel better,” I promise, biting my bottom lip. “I’m here for you.”

He sucks in a shaky breath, his eyes locked on mine as the air around us charges, heats, expands.

“Marlowe, please,” he rasps, and I don’t know if it’s an invitation or a warning.

I can’t read him anymore—not the way I could at my birthday party. Everything seemed so simple then. Bright and natural and sincere.

But now…

My eyes dart down, and he hardens under my gaze. My cheeks heat and I bite my bottom lip, my eyes flickering to his.

“Fuck,” he breathes out between parted lips. His eyes are half-mast, his hold on my hair nearly painful. “I can’t.”

I reach for him, cupping his length over the silky material of his shorts. “Then let me,” I say, stroking him through his clothes.

He shudders, his eyes dropping closed. “Marlowe.”

I tug down the band of his shorts, taking him out. My mouth waters at his impressive length. So fucking smooth, like velvet. So fucking hard. I shift on my knees, a throb forming between my thighs at the sight of him.

I wrap my hand around his shaft, fisting him.

He moans.

I slide my hand up and down a few times, testing to make sure this is okay. That I’m doing this okay. Here, now, with so much tension and confusion between us.

“Marlowe,” he repeats, but I can’t read the intent behind his tone.

Fuck. I need to go all in or back down.

Ale slumps before me—defeated and hurting. And I feel as lost as he looks.

Taking a risk, I pitch forward on my knees and lower my mouth to him.

“ Díos mio ,” he grunts as I close my lips around his head and drag my tongue along his shaft.

He pulses in my mouth, hardening even more. I didn’t think it was physically possible and the fact that I’m affecting him fills me with a little thrill. I can do this. We can do this. We’re fine.

We’ll go home and talk and everything will be okay.

I suck his entire length into my mouth until he hits the back of my throat. Slowly, I find a rhythm, my hand squeezing, my mouth working back and forth.

But Ale yanks on my hair, pulling me clear off him.

I fall back on my ass, my eyes flashing to his.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he blurts out. His eyes are wild, his mouth twisted.

Confusion and desperation war for residence in his expression and he hangs his head as shame explodes around his entire being.

“Marlowe, I can’t. We can’t. This is… I’m sorry.

” He pushes to stand and reaches down, pulling me to my feet.

He wraps me in a lukewarm hug, patting my shoulder awkwardly. “ Perdóname .”

Mortification rolls through me as humiliation burns my cheeks. I just… What the fuck was I thinking?

He just lost a game. He’s grappling with his career.

Why did I think I could somehow fix that? That a paltry blow job in a locker room would somehow solve the disconnect between us?

It was a terrible idea. And I’m… I glance down at my trembling fingers and dirty knees… I’m a desperate mess.

“I-I’m sorry,” I blurt out. Jesus, did I…try to make him do something he didn’t want? Disgust slams into me along with acute embarrassment and glaring rejection.

Ale doesn’t want this; he doesn’t want me. He doesn’t feel the same way.

He backs away slowly, his eyes darting from me to the showers.

I wish the floor would open up and fucking bury me.

I wish I never stepped foot in this locker room, or put myself so far out on a limb that when the tree branch snapped there was nowhere to go except down.

A free fall that slammed me into hard ground.

I feel the aftershocks fissure like pain throughout my limbs, in every cell of my being.

“I’ll see you at home,” I manage to say before turning on my heel and fleeing.

Except I don’t go home. I head straight to Corcho.

And just like I did on my first night here, I order a margarita and a shot of tequila.

Still, the taste of shame lingers. The look of horror on Ale’s face remains imprinted on my eyelids.

And no amount of alcohol can dull the pain that wraps around my heart.