“She’s hormonal,” Ale explains.
“She’s perfect,” Carla tosses back, narrowing her eyes at her brother.
“She’s right here,” Marlowe tosses in, smiling at me. “It meant a lot to me that you thought of me, Luca.”
“You’re family, Mar,” I reply easily, noting that the García siblings glance in my direction.
Alejandro with gratitude. Carla with curiosity.
I sigh. “So, we’re all going to Carla’s girls’ game on Saturday?”
“We’ll be there,” Ale confirms, taking Marlowe’s hand and giving it a little shake.
“I hope,” Marlowe murmurs before standing from her chair and hurrying to the bathroom.
“Mierda,” Ale swears, following his wife.
Carla and I exchange a sympathetic look. She continues to eat her dinner. But I’m not as hungry as I was fifteen minutes ago. Even though I have no right to be jealous—after all, of course Carla has a dating history—I hate that she’s still on good terms with her exes. And I worry that she’ll find a random reason to end things with me one day. Will I even see it coming?
But most of all, I hate that she calls them up for help or support and hasn’t asked me for anything. I want to show her that I’m invested in her and her dreams.
My mind turns over ideas. What’s something Carla doesn’t have access to on her own? What’s something her girls would love to experience? What can I do to surprise her and her team?
By the time Ale puts Marlowe to bed and returns to the table, I have the perfect plan to surprise Carla and her girls. And it’s going to be epic.
League Valencia’s stadium is a living piece of history. It’s set in the center of the city, solidifying its place among the community. Home to over sixty-thousand seats, it wraps around the field like a massive hug. And tonight, with the pitch lights flickered on and our mascot, a giant Valencian orange named Óscar, I see it the way I did when I first stepped on the pitch at fourteen years old.
I was here for a training session with some of the legends I idolized as a kid. Alejandro’s father arranged it for Ale, Andrés, and me for Ale’s birthday. It was a moment infused with magic and possibility.
Right now, watching the awe and joy wash over Carla’s girls’ faces, I recall the memory with perfect clarity.
“Bienvenidos al campo,” I greet them. Welcome to the pitch.
“Oh my God,” one of the girls whispers.
“¡Increíble!” another mutters.
“Wow,” a third chimes in, turning in a circle. Her arms are held wide, her face lifted to the stands, as she spins.
“Are you ready to play fútbol, chicas?” Carla asks the girls, clapping her hands together.
“Sí!” a chorus rings out.
Carla laughs, her eyes darting to mine. Her gaze is filled with so much appreciation and warmth that I wish I could take her in my arms and kiss her. Obviously, that’s not an option with her impressionable team staring on, their eyes flickering between us as if they sense the attraction we’re helpless against.
“¿Qué pasa?” Andrés asks, stepping onto the pitch.
“Madre mía,” one of the girls breathes. “It’s Andrés Huntington.”
“¡Hola, chicas!” Alejandro steps beside Andrés and the girls nearly fall over each other, gripping onto each other’s shirt sleeves and jerseys with awe in their eyes.
I fight my laugh. There are few players who have the star power, the full package, like Ale. Paparazzi trail him, people on the street frequently stop him for his autograph, and he can’t go anywhere without security.
As a kid, it’s the high-profile career you dream about, but as an adult, and a close friend to Ale, I wouldn’t wish that level of external scrutiny on anyone.
“Vamos a jugar, de verdad. Pero…en plan amistoso, ¿eh?” Andrés grins. We’re really going to play…but keep it friendly.
A squeal sounds from the girls.
