Page 6 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Marlowe

Gerard is here, his arms around another woman—this one, a brunette—his lips on her neck.

Jesus, how many women are there?

How many red flags?

I shake my head, wanting to clear him from my mind, from my heart, from my history.

“I got you.” Ale’s voice is steady, and I relax further.

My eyes flicker to his in surprise as he begins to dance bachata with me as raggaeton pulses through the club.

“This isn’t the right music!” I holler, too distracted by Ale to think about Gerard.

“But it’s the right woman.”

Around us, people surge forward, their phones pulled out, already recording.

My eyes dart to Ale’s in confusion, in alarm, but he holds me closer, ignoring everyone but me.

And holy shit, Ale can dance. It’s not the sweaty, body-on-body grinding that the music calls for, but a sensual give-and-take.

Swaying back and forth, forward and backward, and on the fourth beat, a hip roll that has my core connecting with his very solid thigh.

I gasp, and Ale’s fingers flex on my hip, that half grin ghosting his lips.

“Wait,” I panic. “I don’t know how to dance like this. I don’t know the steps.”

“Could have fooled me,” is his low reply.

A second later, the music changes and a cheer ripples through the crowd.

The opening notes of what is clearly a popular song, although I’ve never heard it, floats through the club and the air tightens.

My heart hammers, my stomach fluttering with a million incandescent butterflies, as Ale single-handedly captures the attention of the entire dance floor. The entire club.

He dances with me like no other person, no other woman, exists, and it hits me like a shot of pure adrenaline.

He leads me through the steps with ease, his steps so sure that I’m able to follow even though I have no clue what I’m doing.

The dance is intense and intimate, with body rolls and caresses that build anticipation.

Expectation. As the crescendo of music mounts, Ale pauses and tosses me a knowing wink.

A moment later, a beat drops, as the DJ mixes the song with electronic dance music. The dance floor erupts as the club goes wild.

I laugh, shaking my head at him in disbelief. He grins back, not remotely flustered, not a care in the world that we’re taking up most of the dance floor.

I miss an obvious step and wince, but Ale shakes his head, leading me smoothly into the next step.

“I got you,” he says soothingly.

And I believe him. What does it mean that I believe him?

The club spins—color, lights, noise. My head pounds—bass, vodka, heartache.

Hope.

My hand grips his shoulder, finding purchase in his shirt. His hand cinches my waist, pulling me into his frame as we move. The top of my head rests just below his chin and when I suck in a breath, I breathe in his scent.

Soap and citrus and sea. I savor it.

Ale hugs me closer as the song ends, and we begin to sway, like two lovers at midnight, under a beam of moonlight, rather than two strangers, sweating and panting, in a club. This moment shouldn’t be romantic—but it is.

This —not the years I spent with Gerard—is my mom and dad dancing in the kitchen, soapy bubbles still in the sink.

It’s Dad taking Mom out on the sailboat at sunset to witness the bright colors fade into night on Narragansett Bay.

It’s the thoughtful acts and gestures I watched my parents exchange daily until Mom passed. And now, Dad doesn’t recall them.

Only I do.

Again, Ale’s hand gathers my hair to move it behind my shoulder. He keeps his large hand fisted at the nape of my neck as he drops his mouth to my ear. “Are you okay?”

I nod.

“Do you want to leave?”

It’s a generous offer but the thought of ending this night, of severing my connection with Ale, hurts nearly as much as walking in on Gerard and the blonde.

“No,” I say resolutely.

Ale drags his other hand up the column of my neck. His thumb lifts my chin, and I hold his gaze.

Vibrant green flecked with gold. Hypnotizing. Centering.

We’ve stopped swaying and are standing still as the rest of the club moves around us. I melt into him, comforted by his concern, his compassion, his protection.

“Want to make him jealous? Make him crazy and needy for you the way most of the men in this club are?” His tone is threaded with a quiet rage, an urgent need.

I nod. Yes, I want to make Gerard jealous. I want to make him feel the same embarrassment and shame that I felt seeing him in that hotel room, pounding into the blonde stranger from behind. Listening to him dismiss me, discount the years we dated, like our entire relationship was inconsequential.

Ale’s thumb swipes over my cheek again. “Do you trust me, Marli?”

“Yes,” I reply. And it’s raw. Honest.

Alarming.

I hardly know him and yet, I trust him.

I don’t have time to question why that is. Because in the next breath, Ale’s mouth lowers to mine and he kisses me.

My hands slide down to his hips and hold as I press even further into his embrace.

Ale drops my hair, his hand sliding to my lower back and I arch into him, wanting every part of me pressed against his hard muscle.

I tilt my head, and he deepens our kiss, his tongue slipping into my mouth and gliding against mine.

I see stars. My heart gallops and my breathing is erratic.

Around us, the club fades away. The flashing lights, the thumping bass, the crush of swaying bodies—it all ceases to exist. Nothing matters in this moment other than the feel of Ale’s mouth on mine.

His tongue coaxes little moans from me and my legs turn to water, barely capable of keeping me up.

My eyes remain closed as I lose myself in the kiss, in the moment, in Ale.

And two thoughts collide in my mind.

1. I’ve never been kissed like this.

2. Maybe Gladys was right; I have been missing out.

I smile against his mouth, and he pulls back slightly, his eyes catching mine. “You like that?”

I nod, biting my bottom lip. I wrap my arms around his neck and tug him closer. “I’ve never been kissed like that, Ale.”

Frustration blazes in his eyes as his lips twist. “Don’t tell me shit like that, Marli.”

Nerves scatter through me. “Why not?”

He sighs, dropping his forehead to mine. “Because I’m…I’m trying to do right by you.” His eyes shift to where Gerard was standing earlier. “Mission accomplished.”

I start to turn but Ale grips my chin, growling, “Don’t look at him. Don’t waste another second of your time on that cabrón .”

I hold his gaze, noting the intensity in his irises. Lifting my face slightly, my lips catch his. He murmurs a swear in Spanish but doesn’t push me away.

So, I close my eyes and kiss him again.

Wholly, deeply, desperately. Right now, I don’t want to come up for air. I want to stay in this moment. I want to embrace this version of myself and keep her.

At least until sunrise.

The rest of the night is a blur in the best way possible. Ale makes sure I hydrate with water, passing me bottles of San Pellegrino to keep me steady on my feet.

“You don’t want to wake up with a hangover,” he advises as Bianca rolls her eyes.

Deep down, I know he’s right and I chug the water in between the DJ’s sets, clearing my head so my decision to embrace the night is a conscious one.

I stop worrying about Gerard and what he’s doing with other women. I stop caring about my responsibilities and keeping all the balls in the air as the master juggler.

Instead, I dance. I lose myself in the center of the dance floor pulsing with strangers, save for Ale.

He dances like men in movies—smooth and suave and natural.

He spins and dips me like I’m an extension of him—each flick of his wrist and step of his feet part of a pattern that comes to him as easily as breathing.

His steadiness allows me to follow effortlessly.

With him, I’m a version of myself I didn’t know existed.

We cut across the dance floor like partners who have been together for years.

It’s as if we’ve memorized each other’s bodies and have intimate knowledge of each other’s thoughts.

For a handful of hours, I belong to Ale in a way I’ve never belonged to a man before. And he claims me fully.

It’s a heady, complicated, thrilling knowledge and part of me wants to keep the night going infinitely so I don’t have to lose this, him , in the morning.

As the club winds down, Bianca pulls me into the women’s bathroom. We clutch each other’s arms, giggling and talking, as we reapply our smudged lipstick and twist our hair, sweaty from dancing, into low, messy buns.

There’s a camaraderie between us that I haven’t felt since college. Since Hazel.

“Here.” Bianca passes me a travel-sized cylinder of perfume.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, spritzing some onto my neck and wrists.

“We’ll get breakfast now,” she explains.

“Breakfast?”

Bianca grins. “How else will we sleep?”

“What time is it?”

Bianca glances at her watch. “Almost five thirty.”

My mouth drops open and my new friend laughs.

“I’ve never stayed out this late in my life,” I admit.

I understand the Sewing Circle’s urging now.

I have been missing out. I’ve been omitting entire portions of the life I could have been embracing and enjoying if I wasn’t tied to Gerard and exhausted from keeping Dad’s diagnosis concealed while trying to save the business.

“Really? Girl, it’s about time,” Bianca says, taking the lip gloss I set down on the ledge of the sink and swiping some across her lips. She smacks her lips together and pouts in the mirror. “I like this color.”

“Keep it.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “No, I didn’t mean?—”

“Keep it,” I repeat, grinning at her. “I had fun tonight.”

She smiles, dropping the lip gloss into her purse. “I did, too. I haven’t spent much time in Valencia in years. I’m happy I met you.”

“Me too.” I mean it. Bianca may be the first friend my own age that I’ve connected with since… I started dating Gerard.

The red flags are there.

Gladys was right. And I wasted so much time, so much life, ignoring them.

Well, not anymore. I link my arm with Bianca’s and we step out of the bathroom where Ale, Luca, and Andrés wait, casually leaning against a wall.

“Hungry?” Luca asks.

“Starving,” Bianca says.

Andrés grins, tossing an arm around her shoulders as we turn toward a back exit.

“Come, Marli.” Ale extends his hand, and I take it. “Let’s eat and then I’ll get you home. Just in time for sunrise.”

I wince, not wanting him to know that I haven’t lined up a hotel room yet. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can grab a cab or?—”

“Where are you staying?” he asks as he ushers me into the back seat of a waiting black SUV.

I note Bianca, Luca, and Andrés slip into the SUV in front of ours.

Fastening my seat belt, I blush and bite my bottom lip.

Understanding washes over Ale’s expression and he squeezes my hand reassuringly as he closes the SUV door. “Don’t worry about anything, mi nina . We’ll get it all sorted.”

And I believe him.

Is that a mistake? Another red flag I’m not skilled enough to notice?