Page 5 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Ale

“Ohh, look who’s here! It’s been a minute,” my teammate Luca razzes me as I step past security into the roped-off section of the club.

With my hand still tucked into Marlowe’s, I hug him hello with one arm, slapping his back heartily. “Only you would have a birthday party for yourself.”

“And only you would call in extra security to someone else’s party,” he shoots back, his voice quiet.

When I pull away, I note the edge of concern in his eyes.

I shake my head. “It’s all good,” I mutter, letting him know there’s no real threat.

Now that I’ve invited Marlowe out for the night, the last thing I want is for her to have a run-in with paparazzi. Hiring two extra security guards while my regular bodyguard, Ramón, is on holiday, puts my mind at ease.

Luca nods before chuckling. He holds his arms out and glances around the space.

Around us, partygoers dance and drink but it’s still early.

The club won’t fill up for another hour at least and the party won’t end ’til sunrise.

“Glad you could make it, fratello ,” Luca says, his voice loud and jovial once more as he calls me brother in his native Italian.

“Rubén’s finally letting you out of the house? ”

I roll my eyes, used to my teammate’s ribbing.

It’s no secret that my father, one of the greatest fútbol players of his generation, Rubén García, gives me a hard time.

His expectations are nearly celestial, and I’ve spent my entire childhood and adolescence trying to achieve them. Hell, even now I’m grinding.

“I wouldn’t miss this,” I say, meaning it.

Luca is one of my oldest teammates and closest friends.

We came up through the fútbol academies together, along with Andrés Huntington, our half-Spanish, half-Australian goalie.

I tug Marlowe closer and note Luca’s eyes widen as he notices her. “This is Marlowe.”

“ Salve Marlowe! Welcome.” Luca grins, his eyes shifting from Marlowe to me and back again. I note the moment he understands why I called for backup security and his shoulders drop an inch in relief.

I keep my face blank, giving nothing away.

Not the clawing attraction I feel toward the woman next to me when I usually only feel a pinprick.

I conceal the extent to which I savored our dinner, enjoying her conversation, the emotions that traveled across her expression, and the open way she communicated.

By tomorrow, Marlowe will be gone. It’s in my best interest to enjoy the night for what it is—a one-off—and move on. It won’t help if my friends taunt and tease me about her just as the season begins.

“Happy birthday!” Marlowe grins enthusiastically.

At her genuine sweetness, Luca’s grin softens. “ Grazie .” He places a hand over his chest. “It’s my thirtieth. I’m an old man.”

Marlowe laughs. “Hardly. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You as well. Are you in Valencia for long?” he wonders, his eyes snapping to mine.

Marlowe shakes her head, and I can’t help it, I squeeze her hand as if that alone could convince her to stay. “No, just until tomorrow. Maybe the day after at most.”

“Well, I’m glad you could make it tonight. Get a drink.” Luca points to the table service where a petite woman in a short skirt mixes beverages.

“There he is!” Andrés tosses an arm around my shoulders. “How’s lockdown been?”

“Fuck off,” I laugh, waving off the beer Andrés offers. I want to make sure Marlowe’s taken care of and comfortable before I have a drink. “Meet Marlowe.”

She smiles at Andrés. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”

“You too, sweetheart,” he replies, his Australian accent stronger than it was a second ago.

I roll my eyes. My fucking teammates never miss an opportunity to charm a woman.

“García!” A woman pops up at Andrés’s side and I shuffle back a step when I recognize her, wincing at the use of my last name. Marlowe’s expression doesn’t change.

“Bianca?” I kiss her cheeks in greeting. “I didn’t know you were visiting this summer.”

Beside me, Marlowe remains at ease. She doesn’t pull her hand away or tighten up. She doesn’t cause a scene or cry the way other women I’ve taken on dates have done if I speak to any female that isn’t them.

In fact, as Bianca turns from me to Marlowe, kissing both her cheeks and introducing herself, Marlowe smiles at her. Warmly.

It’s jarring, how much her lack of jealousy, her natural confidence, slams into me.

But after the antics I’ve dealt with over the past decade, Marlowe’s natural, normal reaction stands out as extraordinary.

“This is Luca’s sister,” I explain. “She lives in America.”

“New York,” Bianca supplies.

“Oh! I’m from Rhode Island,” Marlowe shares.

“I’ve never been,” Bianca admits. “But I hear it’s beautiful.”

“It is. Are you just visiting?” Marlowe asks and I hear the warmth in her tone—something more sincere than basic politeness.

Are all her friends really in the octogenarian club? Does she not hang out with anyone in her own age group?

“I hope not,” Bianca says with gusto. “I arrived last week and forgot how much I love it here.” She shrugs. “I’m kind of in between jobs right now so I’m going to try my luck here. I saw a gorgeous apartment this morning and have some gigs for side jobs lined up next week.”

“Neither of which are necessary!” Luca calls out, having overheard the conversation.

We all ignore him.

“I’m sure something will work out. That’s brave, making a big move on your own.” Marlowe touches Bianca’s arm sweetly. “I’m not sure what’s next for me either,” she murmurs.

Bianca blows out a breath, her bangs lifting from her forehead. “Come. You’re empty-handed and I could use a drink.” She tugs on Marlowe’s arm and Marlowe follows her, slipping away from me.

The heat of her hand in mine dissipates and I don’t want to examine why I miss it.

“And here I thought you were flying under the radar.” Andrés whistles. “Instead, you’ve been shacking up with?—”

“I just met her today,” I cut him off.

Andrés’s eyebrows arch. “Seriously?”

I nod.

“And you brought her here?” he questions. It’s not in my nature to bring women around the team.

I keep my personal and professional lives separate and pray to the Virgin Mary that they don’t intersect.

At my silence, Andrés chuckles. “This is why your car got keyed. And man, that shit blew up on the socials.”

“It’s just a car,” I mutter, not admitting that the damage gutted me. I spent months comparing models and packages. Not because of the price, but because of preference. Because I have a hard time committing, but when I do, I’m all in. “And how is this similar to Lucia fucking up my ride?”

Andrés is still grinning, shaking his head, as he looks to where Marlowe and Bianca stand. Their heads are bent together, Marlowe nodding and laughing as Bianca recounts a story with gusto, her hands moving as quickly as her mouth.

“You’re headstrong,” Andrés tosses out. “You always think you can control the narrative. You meet a woman you want, you go for it.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. If you weren’t trying to become the top futbolista in the world. If you didn’t want to be named as team captain. You can’t have your entire personal life be in a state of constant chaos and expect your professional life to balance it out. You have to be all in or nothing.”

I glare at him, annoyed that he’s making sense. “So, the only two options are to act like a saint, be a family man, and become League Valencia’s captain, or enjoy life as a single bachelor and commit to being a team player instead of a team leader?”

Andrés nods and slaps my back. “Exactly.”

“There must be a third option.”

“I don’t make the rules, mate. But we’re nearly thirty; Luca’s already there. At this stage in the game, it’s easier, smoother, to be fully committed or no-strings-attached.”

I grunt in response. “What about you?”

He lifts his hands defensively. “I prescribe to the sex-only, no-strings club. But I’m not trying to fill Rubén García’s cleats.”

I scoff.

Andrés gentles his tone. “You want every woman you interact with to meet you where you’re at—easygoing, fun, one night only.

You’re too damn big for that, mate. Women see you, they want more.

Whether that’s a payday or an introduction to a modeling agency or a summer on a yacht, it’s more than one night only.

You charm them hard and make them believe that possibility exists.

Then, you’re gone with the sunrise, leaving a bag of churros con chocolate behind for breakfast.” He clucks his tongue.

“That shit sends mixed signals. And that’s why you’re all over the tabloids with a fucked-up Lambo,” he laments.

But I hear the words he doesn’t say. That’s why your leadership was called into question.

That’s why Carlos Lopez—and not you—is our team captain for the upcoming season.

I don’t voice that thought though. Instead, I swipe a bottle of beer from a nearby bucket and pop the top, taking a long swig. The tangy taste centers me and when I look up, I note Bianca and Marlowe toasting with cranberry vodkas.

“This should be interesting,” Andrés remarks, following my line of vision.

Leaning against the wall, I cross my feet at the ankles and study the beauty I met tonight.

She met me exactly where I am, right? One night only—dinner, drinks, dancing. She’s leaving the city in a couple days at most and has no idea who I am. There are no expectations, no further possibilities.

Besides, Marlowe’s the furthest thing from trouble. She’s nothing like my usual type, and yet, I’m more curious about her than any other woman I’ve met in recent years.

Is it because I’ve been on lockdown for weeks?

Is it because she confided in me with openness and trust?

Is it because I can pick out pieces of myself in her—loyal to her family, passionate about a sport, open to a new experience—despite how opposite our lives seem?

She glances up and her eyes meet mine. They hold and flash with interest but not recognition.

Damn. I fight a grin. I already like her more than I should.

And that promises to be some kind of trouble.

I don’t make my move until hours later.

Instead, I do the small-talk thing with my teammates, nurse the same beer, and watch Marlowe have the time of her life with Bianca.

The two of them toss back shots. They chat with a few guys on the team and the random women my teammates brought along. But no matter how hard they try to fit in, they still stand out.

When Marlowe and Bianca migrate to the dance floor, I push off the wall and relocate to the banister where I can keep an eye on them. They move to the center of the dance floor right as the DJ drops a new set and flashing lights fill the space.

Marlowe closes her eyes, lifting her arms above her head and twirling her wrists as she begins to move her body. Lost to the music, she rolls her hips sensually. And fuck if it’s not sexy as hell.

When some dude steps behind her, I narrow my eyes. A surge of protectiveness fills my veins when he touches her, holding her hip and splaying his hand wide.

Her eyes pop open and even from here, I note the spark of fear that shoots through them before she steps out of the dude’s grasp, stumbling slightly.

But then her eyes catch on something— someone —and she shuffles back a step, right into the guy’s frame. He wraps an arm around her waist, banding her to him as his other hand clamps down on her thigh.

Marlowe’s gaze remains trained on the person she saw. My neck swivels but I have no clue who she’s looking at. She stands shell-shocked for several seconds, the man dancing behind her too drunk, or straight-up uncaring, to realize she’s not into it.

Then, panic fills her eyes and she’s pushing at the dude’s hands, her gaze darting around for Bianca.

I’m already moving down the stairs. I hear one of my security guys yell out, but I don’t turn around. I need to get to Marlowe, and I know he’ll follow anyway.

“Where the hell are you going?” Andrés asks. “You stopped dancing in clubs after the tabloids published you jumping off a bar!”

“Don’t end up on the front page,” Luca warns, chuckling.

But my reasons for staying out of the spotlight dissipate at the idea of some random getting handsy with Marlowe. They cease to matter when I realize that she’s starting to panic and the fucker behind her needs a goddamn lesson in civility.

Anger roars through me, fury pulsing in my temples, as I try to pull my shit together. I can’t end up on the front page of gossip magazines for breaking this dude’s fingers, but I need to make sure Marlowe is safe.

What the hell spooked her?

I close the space between us, relief choking me as I near her.

My security crew keeps the crowd back, blending in but doing their jobs.

I forcibly grasp the man’s hand and fling him away from Marlowe. He stumbles back, too out of it to take note of me.

I pull Marlowe into my arms, and she comes willingly, her hands fisting in the material of my shirt at my hips.

“You okay, Marli?” I hum, my mouth pressed against her ear.

She shudders against me as adrenaline leaves her body. I tighten my hold, one palm settling in the center of her back, the other gathering her hair and twisting it behind her shoulders.

Marlowe looks up and nods. Her eyes are wide, that alcohol glaze nearly gone from her brush with adrenaline.

“Gerard’s here,” she murmurs.

My stomach sours at the sound of his name.

That’s who fucking spooked her. Fucker.

I shake my head, not bothering to look over my shoulder. I don’t want to see him, don’t want to know who the fuck he is.

“Do you care?” I ask, even though it’s clear that on some level, she does. The wounds he inflicted are too fresh, still bleeding rather than scabbed over.

“Will you dance with me?” she asks instead, a needy thread in her tone.

I nod, releasing her hair to take her hand and draw her closer. “Come here, mi nina .”