“Not gonna happen, man.” Javi yawned. “He’s one of the best.”
Ale shrugged. “I’ve seen better. Fernando Osorio, for example.”
“Isn’t he in the States?”
Ale nodded. “He is. But I bet he’d move if Sport Union Madrid asked nicely.”
“If Sport Union Madrid paid nicely.” Javi laughed. “Nobody’s doing shit for prestige alone.”
“Of course not. Asked, paid—same difference. He’s excellent. Who the hell even knows what he’s doing in the States? More than one European club would kill to have him.”
During the pause, I glanced down at Kaia. Her breathing was steady, eyes closed.
“You wore her out.” Ale smirked. “Let her nap. Come on, help me in the kitchen.”
Javi stretched with another yawn. “I’ll nap too. Wake me when it’s time to leave.”
“Slacker,” I mouthed, easing Kaia off me. I settled her on the couch and pulled a throw over her, courtesy of Ale.
He was already at the sink when I carried in a stack of saucers and cups.
“You outdid yourself with dinner,” I said, setting everything on the counter. “Thanks for nothing. I’d rather Kaia keep thinking no guy cooks as well as I do.”
Ale laughed, sliding the cups into the dishwasher. “I’m pretty sure she prefers your cooking.”
I leaned a forearm against the fridge. “Why was Dawson acting so weird? Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
“I did.” Ale frowned. “But it’s best if you ask him.”
“What do you mean? Did he tell you something?”
“You know him.” Ale took the plate I passed him, slotting it neatly between the others. “He can be moody.”
“Yeah, sure—only he got moody after seeing me kiss Kaia. I thought he’d be okay with it.”
Ale shut the dishwasher and straightened, wiping his hands on a towel. “I really think you should just talk to him, mi niño. Don’t overthink. It’s probably nothing.”
It was never nothing. And even if I didn’t give a damn about most people’s opinions, part of me wanted Dawson in our corner.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Asher
Javi had gone back to Madrid a few days ago. Today it was my turn to return to training. The mix of rubber and gasoline hit me the second I stepped into the garage, where Dawson crouched beside my bike.
“Hi,” I said.
He slipped off his glasses. “Good morning.”
“How was your New Year’s?”
“Not bad.” Dawson braced his hands on his knees and rose to his full height, tucking the glasses into his shirt pocket. “I’ve checked your bike. Everything looks good, but I could adjust traction control.”
“Let me do a few laps first,” I said. “It’s dry. I might turn it off. Listen, can we talk?”
I hadn’t seen him since dinner at Ale’s. Even though we didn’t cross paths daily the way we had in Spain, the silence between us felt off—especially after how he’d acted that night.
Dawson moved to the coffee maker in the corner, poured a mug, and handed it to me like some kind of peace offering. “What about?”
