Page 36 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Ale

Team morale is in the gutter as we board the bus to head back to Valencia. My teammates are quiet, most wearing headphones to drown out their thoughts as well as the jeers and taunts from Barcelona fans.

But the loss barely registers for me. Instead, I’m consumed by thoughts of Marlowe. The image of her, wild eyes brimming with hurt and disbelief, have haunted me from the second I closed my flat door and walked away from her.

I thought it was for the best. I thought I was doing the right thing. But with every kilometer that separated us, my panic grew. By the time the team bus pulled up to the hotel in Barcelona, I felt frantic by the outcome of my decision. It was a mistake.

I should have talked to her, like Abuela, like Papá, recommended. I should have told her my true feelings and my fears. I should have done right by her, for her—not what I thought was right, and therefore, easier for me.

“García,” Coach Javi calls out.

I snap my neck up as he walks down the aisle and slides into the seat beside mine.

“Coach,” I mutter.

Javi looks at me for a long moment. “Today was a tough loss.”

“It was,” I agree. But losing Marlowe is harder. Feels a million fucking times worse.

“We’re going to have a team meeting on Monday, talk through some things. I’m going to be making some changes.”

“ Vale . Okay,” I agree, wondering what changes he’s inferring but knowing he won’t tell me shit if I ask. I remain silent.

“You’re coming to the charity event tomorrow.” He pulls up the Notes app on his phone and his eyes narrow as he reads something over. “You’re in charge of the blue team. You need be at the stadium at two p.m.”

I clear my throat and nod. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” He stands and taps my shoulder. “Team’s counting on you.”

I nod in understanding, even as my throat tightens.

I try to read between the lines— in charge, team’s counting on you, making changes.

But what? He can hardly move me into a leadership position when I’ve been playing like shit.

My head’s been twisted up over Marlowe more than it’s been focused on fútbol . What is Coach thinking?

Between Coach’s cryptic message and Marlowe’s radio silence, I’m ready to burst out of my skin by the time the bus arrives at the stadium in Valencia. I can’t wait to go home, to apologize to Marlowe, to fix things with her and finally tell her the truth.

I love you. I’m an idiot. I made a mistake. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay and be with me and together, we’ll figure everything out. Prescott Sail and fútbol . Your dad’s health and my commitment here. All of it. Together.

I race home from the stadium, blowing off Luca as he hollers my name. The closer I am to my flat, the more desperate I feel to see Marlowe, to drop to my knees and apologize for the shitty things I said, for the way I fucking left.

“Marli.” I throw open the door to my flat and rush inside, dropping my bag on the ground. “Marlowe!”

I rush into the living room, my eyes zeroing in on the empty couch. She’s not there, with her feet propped up, a spread of food on the coffee table, and La Isla de las Tentaciones on television.

No, the room is quiet. Empty.

I check the bedrooms next.

Is she out with Bianca? Meeting with José Costa?

But the space feels wrong. It’s…too quiet.

My blood pressure kicks up, adrenaline unfurling in my veins. I look around the space again, with a more scrupulous eye. Her hairbrush isn’t on the bathroom vanity. There’s no paperback on the table. And…no shoes stacked by the front door.

Striding to the closet, I pull it wide open and swear when empty hangers greet me.

She’s…gone. She left.

Because I fucking pushed her away.

Panic blazes in my chest as I look around my flat, unseeing. Pulling out my phone, I call Luca.

“Ale—”

“Where is she?” I growl.

He swears. “America.”

“What?”

“She went home, fratello . She’s gone.”

I hold the phone to my ear as he explains that she had a family emergency, that she needed to go home to care for her father. He admits that Bianca is furious with me for hurting her friend, who sat at Corcho drinking tequila like the first night I met her.

“I’m coming for you, García,” Bianca yells in the background.

I don’t blame her. I hurt Marlowe and now, she’s gone. She left to take care of someone she loves, but…who is taking care of her? Who is showing up for my Marli?

I shake my head, thanking Luca for the information and disconnecting the call.

Then, I call Callie and beg her to book me on the next flight to Rhode Island. I pack a quick bag, leave Javi a voicemail bailing on tomorrow’s charity event, and drive to Abuela’s.

She grins the moment she sees me. “I knew you’d come to your senses eventually.”

“I fucked up.”

“Language.”

I narrow my eyes; her smile widens.

“I have to show you something,” she says, reminding me that she wanted to show me something the last time I was here.

“Abuelita, I have to go. I don’t have time,” I remind her.

“Trust me, Ale, you have time for this. You should always make time for the woman who holds your heart.” Then, she pats my cheek, leads me into her bedroom, and pulls out something exquisite.

Something important.

Something made with love and memories and hope.

“I’m going to Rhode Island,” I say, picking up the small package Abuela wrapped.

“As you should. Good luck, Ale. I hope she takes you back,” Abuela says, her eyes warning me that Marlowe might not forgive me. That I haven’t earned shit.

“Me too,” I murmur, kissing her cheeks. And then, “I’m going to call Papá from the airport…”

She sighs and pulls me in for a hug. “ Venga, mi nieto. Go.”

Three hours later, I’m in the airport lounge with Abuela’s package carefully nestled inside my carry-on.

I help myself to a coffee and snack and kick back in front of the windows that highlight the planes landing and taking off. I’ve already spoken with Papá and his understanding—his encouragement to go and be the man he raised—rings in my eardrums.

It was the last thing I expected him to say and now that we’ve said our goodbyes and my phone is tucked into my pocket, I realize I needed to hear it.

For years, I’ve needed his acceptance of the man, more than the athlete, that I am.

Right now, maybe more than ever. And he gave it—his support, his understanding, his love. He gave it all freely.

My gratitude for being Rubén García’s son swells, and I sip my coffee, thinking about my father in an entirely different light. For the first time, I consider the sacrifices he made and the challenges he confronted during his illustrious career.

After a few minutes, a man sits beside me and clears his throat. “I was wondering if I would see you here.”

I turn, my eyes widening as I take in José Costa. “Mr. Costa?—”

“José.”

“José,” I amend. “What are you doing here?”

He chuckles, folding his newspaper and leaning back in his chair. “I’m heading to Rhode Island. Providence.”

I narrow my eyes.

“I suppose you are, too,” he continues.

“I’m going to see Marlowe,” I admit slowly, trying to connect pieces I’m obviously missing. Why is he traveling to Rhode Island? “Did Marlowe call you?”

“We spoke.” He holds my gaze, his eyes searching.

Does he know ? Shit, he must know something. He’s looking at me like my abuelo might, if he was still alive. With a little pride, a little disappointment, and more understanding than I deserve.

I sigh. “I made a mistake.”

“Did you?”

I tilt my head. “I let Marlowe go.”

“And now you want her back?”

“I’ve never not wanted her,” I admit, wondering why I’m confessing this to him, when I haven’t even had the balls to confide in Marlowe.

“We…our relationship started out wrong. It was…it was an arrangement, a mutually beneficial agreement between Marlowe and me,” I confess to the shrewd, but kind, businessman.

Instead of his scowl, he smirks. His eyes lighten and he crosses one foot over his knee, turning toward me. “Do you regret it?”

“No. But I regret not admitting when the arrangement turned into something real.”

“Does she know that?”

“No.” I shake my head, averting my gaze. “That’s why I’m going to Rhode Island. To apologize. To come clean.”

“Good man,” he mutters. “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t tell anyone else about this relationship starting out as a fake arrangement.

You kids are too damn honest. Anyone who sees you together knows that your feelings for each other are real.

Uncontrollable even. Whatever the reason for your starting out on the foot you did, it’s in the past. Take another step forward and do right by yourselves, by each other, this time.

But you don’t owe anyone else the first version. Not even me.”

“Marlowe told you the truth,” I guess, since he’s not at all surprised by my confession.

“She did.” He nods. “And that’s why I’m heading to Rhode Island.”

“Why?”

“She’s under the assumption that our deal was made in bad faith.

” He laughs lightly. “Business is business, Alejandro. And Marlowe negotiated one hell of a deal, one that will benefit us both, regardless of how she got her foot in the door to meet with me. She’s smart and honest—maybe too honest. But I won’t fault her for that. I hope she forgives you.”

“Yeah,” I agree, recalling Abuela’s warning. “I hope she does too.”

He chuckles again but doesn’t offer any additional encouragement as he flips open his newspaper and begins to read.

We move to our gate and board the plane thirty minutes later.

And I spend the entire flight to Rhode Island bargaining with the Virgin Mary for Marlowe’s forgiveness, for another chance, for the opportunity to show her how much I love her.

Even as my sisters blow up my phone, Coach Javi sends a pissed-off text, and the internet breeds gossip about my pulling out of the charity event.

But for the first time in my life, fútbol is not the most important thing.

Marlowe is.