Page 34 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Ale

The hurt on Marlowe’s face haunts me.

I run another set of speed drills, hoping the exhaustion will block out her sad expression and pain-filled eyes.

But I couldn’t use her like that—use her for my own desperate release—when I care about her the way I do. She’s not a nameless face. She’s not just a hookup or a fling. She’s not even a girlfriend.

She’s the woman I’ve fallen in love with.

What the hell was I thinking?

I move onto the cone drill, sizing up the ladder already laid out for my next circuit.

The way she dropped to her knees.

Her tentative touch.

The desperation in her eyes.

I shake the image from my mind.

I don’t deserve Marlowe Claire Prescott. I never fucking did.

I run the circuit again. And again. Over and over until I’m dripping with sweat, and my muscles scream in protest.

“Hit the shower before you overdo it,” Carlos advises, eyeing me from where he’s lifting free weights.

I don’t bother replying. Instead, I head to the locker rooms.

Just seeing that bench has bile rising in my throat. She offered herself to me and I refused her. Not because I didn’t want her—God, I always want her. But because taking her for my own selfish needs would have been wrong. It would have crossed a line I can’t come back from.

As if you haven’t done that already , my conscience retorts blisteringly.

Fuck off. I flip the shower head on, dunking my head under the freezing spray.

I rinse off quickly and change into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. This afternoon was a recovery day with my teammates logging in individual workouts.

On a normal day, I’d be grateful for the opportunity to return home early. To take Marlowe to dinner. To hang in and watch reality TV with her. Lead her into our bed and make love to her.

And now, I have spare time, and home is the last fucking place I want to go. I can’t face her. Can’t witness the pain in her eyes, knowing I put it there.

I have to let her go.

Pushing out of the stadium, I swear when I note the few journalists waiting to ask players for comments.

I lift a hand, indicating I’m not taking questions today. I keep my head down, hoping to blow by the small group but of course, my plan doesn’t fucking work.

“You’re having an unlucky streak, Alejandro,” one of the journalists starts up. “Do you think your lucky charm turned on you?”

“Are you fighting with your girlfriend, Ale? Is that why you’re so distracted lately?”

I seethe with anger, clashing my teeth together to keep from responding.

“Come on, mate. Give us something,” a third guy calls out.

“Must be trouble in paradise. Maybe she’s fucking someone else,” a passerby hollers.

I see fucking red. Whirling around, I pounce on the unsuspecting cabrón with the big fucking mouth. Before I check myself, my hand is around his neck, my other fist in the front of his shirt and I’m hauling him against the side of the stadium.

“What did you say?” I spit in his face, my Spanish clipped, my anger raw.

“I-I’m?—”

“Don’t fucking talk about my girlfriend,” I fire off, shoving into him before releasing my hold and stalking to my SUV.

“Alejandro!” a journalist calls out. “Do you have?—”

“No fucking comment,” I yell back, relieved when I slide behind the steering wheel. I start the engine and pull out of the stadium as quickly as possible without colliding with another car or clipping a biker.

The closer I get to Abuela’s flat, the faster my rage leaks out of me, like water from a balloon.

Fuck. I know that was all captured on camera. I know the press is going to have a field day. Javi and Ricardo are going to be pissed. Callie will spring into damage control mode. Papá is going to flip out.

And still, not a goddamn thing has changed between Marlowe and me.

Callie calls before I make it to Abuela’s front door.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I say by way of greeting.

Callie sighs through the line. “It’s all over social media. The man can press charges. You can’t lose your head like that, García.”

Abuelita pulls open the door and when she sees my face, she holds her arms wide open.

I step into them, and she wraps her arms around my waist, her ear pressed against my heart.

I toss an arm around Abuela and listen as Callie loops Angela Torres in for public relations.

My phone buzzes with a slew of incoming messages.

Marli

Ale, are you okay? Are you coming home?

Rafa

Where’s your head at, tío?

Valentina

Is everything okay, Ale? I saw the social media posts…

Carla

Not to steal your thunder but the German and I broke up.

Valentina

Were the pretzels the final straw?

I snort, grateful for my two sisters.

“Callie, let me call you back,” I say, noting the concern in Abuela’s eyes.

“Fifteen minutes, García.” She hangs up.

I tuck my phone into my back pocket.

Abuela studies me, her gaze curious yet careful.

“I messed up, Abuela,” I admit, dragging a hand over my face.

She shakes her head, a slow smile crossing her face. Her eyes glimmer as she lifts a hand and pats my cheek. “Falling in love is never a mistake, Alejandro.”

I close my eyes, feeling the blood drain from my face. “How do you know?”

“Because I have two eyes,” she claps back.

I open my eyes and snort. “I nearly punched a man, most likely a fan, for speaking about her.”

Abuela shrugs. “Then he deserved it.” She turns toward the kitchen. “Your papá is here.”

I stop short.

She smirks at me over her shoulder. “He’s having horchata and fartons in the kitchen. Venga .”

I sigh, following Abuela into the kitchen and dropping into the chair beside my papá.

He doesn’t say anything, and the silence eats at me.

“Did you see the news?” I ask finally.

Papá dunks a farton into his horchata before taking a bite of the pastry. He nods, his eyes studying me, his expression strangely thoughtful. It’s disquieting and I turn my attention to Abuela.

“What are you going to do about Marlowe?” she asks.

“Abuela, it’s not that simple. I have to let her go.

I need to end this between us so she can go back to America.

We were never—this wasn’t supposed to…” I trail off not wanting to admit to my octogenarian grandmother and my overbearing father that I engaged in a fake relationship to improve my standing with my team.

“Things are too complicated now. It can’t last.”

Abuela places a glass of horchata in front of me and gestures toward the tower of fartons. By the look in her gaze, I know that she knows more than she’s letting on. But neither of us says anything for long moments.

“Have you talked to her, Alejandro? Really spoken to Marlowe and told her what’s in your heart?” Abuela asks.

I shake my head.

She smacks the back of my neck, half scolding, half affection. “That’s where you should start, mi nieto .”

I snort and bite into the pastry, the glazed sugar topping falling to her pristine tablecloth.

She taps the table with her index finger. “I have something to show you.” She turns toward her bedroom.

Papá clears his throat. “She’s right, you know? You need to talk to Marlowe. Be honest with her.”

I arch an eyebrow at Papá.

He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “I know I’m hard on you, Ale. But it’s because you have more potential than I ever did.”

I nearly choke on my farton, my eyes flying to his.

“And I know, in the past, I’d give you a hard time for getting physical with a fan.

” He shakes his head. “But not over this. If someone ever said anything to me about your mother, I’d have put them in the hospital.

” He shrugs. “In the past, you’ve pushed the envelope too far.

But that doesn’t mean that the envelope doesn’t need to be pushed.

I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself and for Marlowe, even if that cabrón presses charges. ”

I chuckle in disbelief. “You’re serious?”

Papá nods. “It may not have felt like it, but I’ve always been on your side, Ale. You’re capable of a hell of a lot more than you realize and I never wanted you to settle for less. I think you’re starting to realize that.”

My stomach twists as I note the sincerity in his gaze. He’s telling the truth. He’s…proud of the man I’m growing into, despite League Valencia’s five straight losses.

Guilt over the ruse I started with Marlowe slams into me, but it quickly fizzles out because…I’m in love with her. And loving her changed me in fundamental ways, regardless of how she feels about me. Being with Marlowe has made me into a better version of myself. A better man.

My phone rings and I swear. “It’s my agent. I-I gotta go?—”

“ Venga .” Papá flicks his wrist in understanding.

“Tell Abuela?—”

“She knows,” he cuts me off, nodding. “Talk to Marlowe, Ale. Setting things right with her will settle things for you on the field.”

I lift my phone to my ear, listening carefully to Callie’s instructions, as I leave Abuela’s flat.

“You need to lay low,” she says. “Tomorrow morning, go right to the stadium and get on the team bus to Barcelona for your away game. Lock yourself in your hotel room. Do not speak to any press. Do not engage on social media. Lay low, García.”

“ Vale . Okay,” I agree as I point my SUV home, knowing what I have to do next.

And it doesn’t include taking Abuelita’s or Papá’s advice—at least, not in the way they meant. Because setting things right with Marlowe means letting her go. It means setting her free.

“You’re home!” She bounces up from the couch the second I enter the flat and I cringe.

“Marli.” My voice cracks on her name.

At the sound of my voice, she halts. Her eyes fly to mine and hold. And I know the second she correctly reads my expression, because her face falls, her shoulders slump, and I’ve never hated myself more.

“We need to talk,” I say quietly.