Page 7 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Ale

I hate the idea of Marlowe staying in the same hotel as her ex-boyfriend. But a few hundred-euro notes slipped to the receptionist at the luxury hotel in the old part of the city confirms that the bastard is checking out in the morning.

Since Marlowe left her suitcase here, I figure this is the easiest option. It’s nearing seven a.m. and Marlowe is dead on her feet—jet lag mixed with alcohol and emotional duress causing her to sway from exhaustion.

“He’ll be gone by the time you wake in the morning,” I assure her, deciding I’ll come and physically put him in a taxi to the airport if I have to.

Marlowe shakes her head, her eyelids heavy. “I’m not worried about Gerard.”

No, she’s not. But I sure as hell am.

Erring on the side of caution, I book Marlowe a hotel suite for three nights, so she has time to rest, call her bank, and book her return flight before heading back to Rhode Island.

While I wave off the bellhop and roll her suitcase toward the elevator, noting my security guys waiting by the front entrance, and the small huddle of paparazzi outside, I know this is where I should kiss her cheeks, bid her good night, and disappear.

“Thank you, Ale,” she says sweetly as she steps into the elevator.

And fuck me, because I can’t walk away. Not until I know she’s good. That she’s not going to cry herself to sleep over Gerard or have some huge issue sorting out her declined credit cards.

Liar.

I’m just not ready to let her go. I liked being Ale, unrecognizable to a beautiful, intriguing woman. I liked it more than I should.

“Wow,” she breathes as she steps into the suite. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“You didn’t have to come to dinner and dancing with me either.” I lift her suitcase and set it up on the luggage rack.

“Give me a few minutes,” Marlowe says, digging into the suitcase for a pajama set and some toiletries.

I sit in a chair near the bed and drop my face into my hands.

What the hell am I doing? I’m not going to try to hook up with Marlowe the same night her ex-boyfriend cheated on her. And certainly not when she can barely keep her eyes open and has been downing tequila shots and vodka-based beverages with Bianca.

The last thing I want is for her to think that this night was somehow transactional. That my motives were rooted in the desire to sleep with her. Which, fine, they partially were. I’m not a fucking saint.

But I’m also not an asshole. I’m nothing like Gerard, and if I try to get with Marlowe, that’s who she’ll compare me to when she wakes up in the afternoon.

Dios mío. I nearly bite my fist as she comes out of the bathroom.

She’s changed into a soft pink satin pajama set—tiny sleep shorts and a camisole with straps so thin I could snap them.

With her skin still damp from a quick shower, her hair pulled back, and her face washed clean of the bit of makeup she wore, she looks younger.

Her freckles stand out across the bridge of her nose, and I have the irrational desire to run my finger over them, connect them like a constellation of stars as they fan out over her cheeks.

I need to go home, throw myself into a cold shower, and get my head screwed on right for my upcoming season.

I had my fun. I had my night. I got to be Ale for a handful of hours and wine and dine and dance with a gorgeous woman. It’s time to end this.

Standing from the chair, I pull back the comforter of the bed and tilt my head, indicating that Marlowe should slide under the covers.

“Are you leaving?” Her voice is soft as she slips beneath the sheets. She braces an arm behind her and her back arches. My eyes narrow at the sight of her pebbled nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her camisole.

“ Madre mía ,” I mutter, exasperated. Marlowe could tempt a saint and have no idea. And I’m no fucking saint.

I pull the comforter up to her chin to put myself out of my misery.

“ Sí , yes,” I answer her question, dropping back into the chair. I hunch forward, leaning my elbows against the tops of my thighs. “I have to get going.”

She yawns, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. “Tonight was one of the best nights of my life.”

My chest tightens at the admission. How does she do that? Make herself so vulnerable to a man she hardly knows?

It’s probably why that cabrón played her the way he did. I can’t comprehend how any self-respecting man could intentionally hurt a woman as pure as Marli.

Marli. What is wrong with me? I hardly know her and here I am, giving her an affectionate nickname.

Hell, maybe Andrés was right. Maybe I’m in a mess of my own making—for confusing decency with mixed signals.

I sigh heavily as Marlowe drifts off to sleep seconds after her head hits the pillow.

Her breathing evens out and her nostrils flare slightly on each exhale. She’s beautiful when she’s awake. Her expressions are animated and her eyes lively. But she’s angelic when she sleeps.

I hate that I have to walk away, but what other option is there?

I gave her the most I can offer—a night out to escape her heartache. A short stay in a luxury hotel to call her bank and rebook her flight home. And the respect she deserves so she can raise her fucking standards for men going forward.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. I hate the idea of her with another man. It’s irrational and insane.

Obviously, she’s going to date.

And it can’t be me because I’ve never had a serious relationship in my entire life. I’m married to fútbol . League Valencia is my life and everything else is a mistress of sorts—a temptation I can’t fully commit to.

Especially now when I need to prove that I can be a leader. That I can be responsible and dependable and keep my name out of the tabloid fodder.

I stand from the chair and move to her bedside.

Leaning over her, I drop a kiss to her forehead.

It’s a light brush of my mouth over her skin and still, a tiny smile curls her lips.

My eyes close as I recall our kiss from the dance floor—brimming with passion and possibility.

A groan sounds from the back of my throat as I force myself to straighten.

Marlowe sighs and my chest aches, hating that this is my final goodbye.

I move to the desk and scrawl a note, dropping the remainder of cash in my wallet, seven hundred euro, beside the note. While I’m sure her bank issues will be resolved when she calls tomorrow, a part of me can’t help but wonder if she’s in more financial straits than her declined card suggests.

Sighing, I make a mental note to call the hotel in case she needs more funds to see her safely home.

Then, I cast one last look at the woman who gave me a rare gift—the chance to be myself—and leave.

My driver gives me a ride home to avoid the paparazzi even though I’d prefer to walk. Outside the SUV window, I watch as guys head to the gym for a morning workout, as mothers stroll babies in their prams, as shopkeepers wash the sidewalks in front of their stores.

The rest of the city sleeps peacefully. It’s still another hour or two before the streets are busy with the usual bustle and commuter traffic.

I let myself into my flat, take a quick shower, and collapse into bed. In a few short weeks, my season will begin and nights like these will become a distant memory. It’s good that I have last night to savor for the long, arduous training ahead.

Buenas noches, Marli. Good night.

The banging on my door jars me awake.

“ Qué ?” I yell, sitting up. My housekeeper, Sandra, has a key and never intentionally disturbs me. Who the hell is it and what do they want?

A sharp knock rings out again.

“Alejandro!” Papá hollers through the door.

Mierda. Shit. I sigh, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Papá continues talking in angry Spanish as I stride to the door and pull it wide open.

He stops speaking and glares at me.

I raise an eyebrow.

He holds up a stack of printed screenshots in response.

Fuck. My eyes close in resignation.

Because splattered across each page is Marlowe and me. Holding hands. Dancing bachata. Kissing. Checking into the fucking hotel together.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Papá explodes, his voice sharp, his Spanish rapid.

“You are supposed to stay out of the gossip blogs, not end up trending on them. And who is she?” He enters my flat, striding past me and into the kitchen.

He tosses the papers down on the kitchen island, so they spread out.

Every photo of Marlowe and me on full display.

“One night out to celebrate your friend’s birthday and this is the result?

” Papá continues. “I swear, I’m going to end up in an early grave from the grief you children cause me.

At least Carla doesn’t test me like this.

And now, Valentina is married. But you?” His eyes snap to mine, his expression severe.

Papá gestures toward where I stand, clad in only boxer shorts.

“You are the eldest and the biggest headache of my life!”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He’s clearly on a tirade, even though he isn’t saying anything I haven’t heard before.

“Your grandmother thinks the woman is beautiful.”

I snort. Abuelita for the win.

“Your mother wants to know where you met her.”

At a bar.

“And I want to know why you are so hell-bent on ruining your career.”

Well, that’s dramatic. I’m one of the highest-paid fútbol players in Europe.

I even scooped up several lucrative endorsements in America over the past year after signing with a powerhouse, American agent, Callie James.

But the failure of not being named League Valencia’s captain hangs over me, looming with my papá’s shadow into something that often feels insurmountable.

Papá collapses onto a barstool at my kitchen island and drops his face into his palms, as if asking a higher deity for patience. Or wisdom.

“Would you like a coffee?” I offer.

He lifts his head and narrows his eyes.

Shrugging, I set to fixing myself a cortado.

Papá is silent for several moments. With my coffee in hand, I lean against the kitchen island, my eyes cutting to the photos.

My fingers brush over one image and I study it closer, lifting the paper to my face.

The snapshot highlights Marlowe’s beauty. She’s smiling widely, naturally, her eyes glancing over her shoulder to hold my gaze.

Our fingers are hooked loosely together.

And I’m looking at her as though she is the answer to every single prayer I’ve ever had.

Dios mío . I’m staring at her, drowning in her, in a way that I’ve never looked at a woman before.

It’s impossible. We’re impossible.

She just got out of a relationship—literally last night. And she’s flying home—to a country that isn’t Spain—in the next twenty-four hours.

And yet, as I drop the paper, my eyes roving over the other images, one thing is certain. We can’t take our eyes or hands off each other.

Papá continues to lament his existence as my father as well as the state of my fútbol career, but my mind spins with other thoughts. Dangerous ideas.

“What do you think your coach is saying?” Papá continues. “Team management? Your agent?”

I look happy. Relaxed.

“Your teammates can afford these distractions because they don’t have your potential. Your legacy,” Papá adds.

Tonight was one of the best nights of my life. That’s what Marlowe had said.

Mine too. Last night was one of the most carefree, thrilling, and fun nights I’ve ever had with a woman. There were no expectations to live up to, no pressure to act or say a certain thing. There was just the moment.

Just us.

Papá sighs heavily before asking, “Who is she? What type of damage control do we need to do?”

I polish off my cortado and set down the small glass. “None,” I admit, laying my palms flat on the countertop. “Her name is Marlowe. She’s American. And she’s—” Before I can admit that she’s leaving to return home, Papá’s phone rings and his eyes widen.

He holds up a hand, cutting me off, as he lifts his phone to his ear.

I narrow my eyes as he speaks in clipped Spanish, his face turning redder by the second, at whatever the caller is saying through the line.

“ Mierda ,” Papá swears.

“What? What is it?” I take the seat across from him, my concern spiking—is it Mamá, Abuela, one of my sisters?

Papá ends the call and tosses down the phone. It skitters across the table, and I catch it before it can clatter to the ground. Not that Papá gives a damn. He’s glaring at me like he’s about to jump across the table and ring my neck.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again.

“A news story just broke. That you didn’t sleep at the hotel with this woman last night. That you left only fifteen minutes after you checked her in. That you paid for three nights total,” Papá rattles off these facts as though they’re the truth.

And for once, whoever broke the story is correct, because it’s all true.

I don’t reply. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and wait. Papá’s nostrils flare and his eyebrows recede into his hairline.

“Who is this girl, Alejandro?”