"Lito?" I can't hide the concern in my voice.
"My grandfather," he says nonchalantly. "He's excited to meet you."
Whaaat? What in the fuck? He wants me to meet his grandfather?
"You want me meet your grandfather? No, I'll just sit where normal people sit. It's fine." I ramble on about special treatment not being necessary and that we would be perfectly suited to sit with the general audience of the stadium.
"Breathe, Izzy. He doesn't bite."
All I can do is stare. I'm speechless, but I manage to catch my breath.
"Diego," my voice barely above a whisper, "don't you think it's a bit too soon to be meeting your only living relative? I mean..."
I can't get my words out. They're there, but the moment I try to deliver them, my tongue is twisted.
He gives me a quizzical look. "Izabella, I just told him that I had a couple of friends joining him and Baz for the game."
"Baz? You mean Sebastian?" Shit. Sebastian and I haven't talked since before Diego and I went on our first date. I can feel my pulse racing and my breaths shallow. "Maybe this is a bad idea. I could just meet you back here after the game."
"Oh for fuck's sake, Izzy," I hear Mazzy say some distance behind Diego. "He's not proposing. Get out of the fucking car and let's go."
There's that tough love. The bitch. But she's right. If Diego is okay with me meeting his grandfather and he's still cool with Sebastian after...hmm...after what? It's not as if Sebastian and I were anything more than a first (and only) date. I shrug off the uneasy feeling, but recognize the small knot in my stomach over meeting Diego's grandfather.
"Okay," it's the only word I can muster up as I climb out of my seat. Diego, clearly has no qualms with public displays of affection as he wraps me in what can only be described as a bear hug and spins us around. When he's done, he's dipping me low to the ground and plants a kiss on me that literally takes my breath away. I gasp when he's done, holding me in place just above the ground staring at me like he's trying to find the answers to life's greatest mysteries in my eyes.
"Get a room, you two."
"Who needs a room?" asks Diego with a raise of an eyebrow and a smirk that asks if I'm game.
My eyes bug out and he sets me on unstable feet. "It would seem that Izzy isn't quite ready for something like that, D," Mazzy says using the nickname I’ve grown accustomed to using that consists of only his first initial. "But I'm game."
That snaps me out of my haze and stupor. "Hey! I'm not done with him yet." There's my wit. The feral look it earns me from Diego is my reward and it's Mazzy's turn to be stupefied.
"We'll pick up this conversation later, but now I need to get you to your seats," he trails off. "Unless you want to skip the introductions and fit in a quickie?" he whispers the question into my ear.
"Ugh, no. As appealing as that sounds, I think I'm nervous enough about meeting your grandfather, I don't need the post coitus glow to make it worse."
"Izzy, you're so adorable when you're embarrassed. Let's go," he turns us in the direction of the stadium.
"Where's Mazzy?" I ask just as she comes into sight as we round the back end of an SUV parked next to us. She's waiting at the gate chatting it up with some players that appear to play for the other team since they're not wearing the same uniform as Diego.
"Looks like she's flirting with the enemy."
"You up for playing spoiler?" I ask Diego, he can't miss the mischief twinkling in my eyes.
"What are you thinking?"
I explain my plan to make it seem like she's the third wheel in our ménage. Add what I vaguely know of Diego's reputation on and off the field and this demonstration should send her prospects for tonight's festivities packing.
Once within earshot of Mazzy and her admirers, I call out to her. "Hey, babe," I deliver while Diego's arm is snaked around my waist. "We were wondering where you disappeared to." Diego lets go of me and closes the distance between him and Mazz. Before she knows what hits her, he's swooped her around and dipped her like he did me a moment ago, creating what appears to be a very intimate kiss.
Our audience starts fumbling apologies and muttering excuses for their rapid departure. Removing themselves from our presence before Diego raises a very irate Mazzy.
"What the fuck was that?" she shouts once she's on her feet.
I shrug, giving her a taste of her own ridiculous go-to-answer.
"Hmmpfh." If I’m not mistaken, she stomped with her sound of annoyance. Her reaction brings back the silent hysterics. "You're—" I'm cracking up, "—welcome."
Diego walks us right past the attendants at the gated entrance. We continue past a few sections in the stadium, arriving at a section marked reserved. I recognize Diego's grandfather immediately. The resemblance between grandfather and grandson is uncanny.
Deep breaths, Izzy.
Even with my internal pep talk, my steps falter. “It’s okay, Izzy,” Diego whispers into my ear. His attempt at calming me does double work when my mind considers the fact that the gesture comes off as more intimate than friendly. With a sigh, I return to moving.
“Lito, this is Izzy and her friend Mazzy. Izabella es la mujer que yo te dije."
"You've been telling your grandfather about me?" I ask.
Diego is sporting the deer caught in the headlights look. I'm guessing that my understanding of the Spanish language has shocked him. He's quite adorable with that "Oh, shit" look on his face. I suppose this was my turn to stun him into silence.
"Izabella, mucho gusto. Mi nieto me ha dicho cosas maravillosas sobre ti." So Diego has been telling his grandfather about me, wonderful things according to my understanding. "My name is Lorenzo, but you may call me Enzo."
"Much gusto, Enzo. It appears I may have broken your grandson,” we both quirk an eye in his direction. “My apologies."
"Hijo, don't you have a game to play?" Enzo questions Diego.
"Uh, yeah." He looks so confused, but he gives his grandfather a hug. "Sebastian should be along soon."
"He's already been by. He said something about meeting up with some guys from class. He’ll be back by the time the game starts."
Turning his attention back to me, I notice Mazzy diving into conversation with Enzo. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" I don't answer, I simply let him guide me away from within earshot of others. "So, you speak Spanish?" I nod. "What more don't I know about you?"
I chuckle. "We haven't got the time nor is this the place to let you in on all my secrets, but if you play your cards right, maybe we could play an interesting game of Truth or Dare tonight."
His eyes light up, but the excitement is quickly replaced with frustration. Did I say something wrong? "Fucking Izzy," he starts before I can ask, "it's not going to be easy playing when I'm rocking a fucking hard on." He presses into me. "With as revved as you've got me with your bilingual tongue and the visions I've conjured for the dares, I'm not sure how many truths I'll discover about you."
The hunger in his eyes traps me in his stare, I fail to notice that he's closing in for a kiss until his lips are on mine and he's maneuvering his tongue to pry them open. With his hands framing my face, the world around us is lost. Any qualms I might have had about public displays of affection are null and void.
When he pulls away, I can only stare. Curious about what it means to be kissing me in such a way in front of any one of the thousands of people surrounding us that wants to look. "What was that for?"
"Just making sure everyone here knows you're fucking mine."
"I'm yours?" I squeak the question.
He just gives me a nod with a look that says, "Duh."
"Okay, it's time for me to stretch and warm up. Did I tell you how fucking hot you look?" I shake my head. "You'd look even hotter in one of my jerseys." I fight the panic his words stir inside my overactive brain. I struggle to keep my breathing under control. "Relax, Izzy. I'm just talking about wearing my jersey to my next game."
"Ha ha. We haven't even gott
en through this game and you're already inviting me to the next?"
"It's not a long term commitment. My next game is Tuesday."
The truth in his words causes me to blush. I'm being ridiculous, making more of something than there is. So, I decide it's my turn to take charge. Snaking my hands up from my position on his chest and around his neck with one hand I grab the hair at the nape of his neck and pull him into me for another kiss. This time it's my turn to take his breath away. I'm met with no resistance and Diego is quickly taking over.
Breaking the kiss, Diego holds me in his arms. "I really gotta go now, but we'll continue this after the game?" he questions.
"We better," I retort.
"Watch for me, okay?"
I look at him curiously. Isn't that why I'm here? "But how will I tell you apart from the rest of the soccer studs on your team?"
That earns me a loud laugh. "You'll see me," he declares simply. "I'll be the one jukin' fuckers and scoring."
And he was right.
Diego's game went quite well. Enzo proved to be quite helpful in explaining the game of fútbol and how it’s played. Admittedly, the concept is so foreign to me that it might take me a lifetime to understand it. Mazzy and Sebastian seemed to hit it off well. I wondered if there might be a love connection there. Baz, as Diego calls him, was cool with me even though I felt guilty as sin.
“So, what did you think?” he asks with that easy going come and get it smile. “Was it boring?”
I just give him a shrug. I’ll let him sweat it a little longer. I can’t tell him that it was incredibly hot watching him run around on the field. At times, it was even awkward as I felt myself gaping at the way his muscles flexed and knowing his grandfather sat right next to me.
“We’ll see after the next game,” I deadpan.
Chapter Five:
The Way You Make Me Feel
August 2006
Since learning of the pregnancy, Diego and I are both eager to share the news, but we understand that while the odds are in our favor, they’re still a one in four chance that I could miscarry in the first trimester. Of course, that didn’t stop us from telling Lito, Mazzy, and Baz.
Mazzy’s first response was to claim, “More champagne for me.” Of course, she would rub that in…if there’s one thing this pregnancy is going to make me miss it’s my bubbly. Lito was so excited; he was ready to hop a plan across the pond to come help take care of me. Like grandfather, like grandson. Baz was the most hilarious, “Only time will tell if you’re the father, D. Izzy and I spent a lot of time together.” Diego wasn’t as amused with the joke. The man sees red when he thinks about me with any man other man than him. In fact, he woke up the next morning unexpectedly upset with me. Apparently, he’d had a nightmare that involved a Jerry Springer type of paternity show and the results were in, he was not the father.
This last week has flown by. Today is Diego’s first game with London United. I swear the man is a machine. Between shopping for furniture, unpacking, and organizing the new house, he’s still managed to make his promotional appearances and all his practices.
He’s made me the center of his undivided attention, making sure I’m eating the right foods to help with my iron deficiency, hounding me to take my vitamins and supplements—I’m terrible at remembering this shit, researching natural ways to combat morning sickness, which seems to have become an everyday thing and not just in the morning.
Somewhere within all this madness, he’s managed to read What to Expect When You’re Expecting all the way through and has now moved on to The Expectant Father: Tips and Advice for Dads-to-Be. I’ve tried to get him to relax a bit. I’m a little concerned he’s going to burn himself out with his intense workout regimen, settling into our new home, and his constant concern over me and the pregnancy.
However hard I try to get him to slow down, I have no effect on what he considers his job. At this very moment, I can smell the breakfast he’s making me. He insisted that I be properly fed before heading to the stadium. We’re getting there early. Diego’s eager for me to meet Mr. Stafford, the owner of the London United.
"Morning, bella," Diego greets me with a tray in hand that puts a five star hotel's room service to shame.
"Oh my gawwwwwd. That smells divine. What did you make me?"
"I tried something new. I combined some of you most recent cravings with what I know you love. One egg, two egg whites omelet with Monterey Jack and Feta cheeses, sautéed spinach and mushrooms, tomatoes, and avocado," he says pointing to the beautifully plated omelet. The orange slice and strawberry garnishes evident he's picked up a thing or two from his master chef best friend. "No coffee, but after failing miserably at finding your favorite tea, I enlisted the help of Grace and she delivered. This here is a cup of vanilla honey chamomile herbal tea. And this here is good ol' apple juice.”
Fuck yeah! Apple juice! It's the simple pleasures, really...but for some reason apple juice is my new liquid gold.
"Don't just stand there. Give it to me already," I demand.
"Oh, I'm gonna give it to you, Mrs. Santo." I catch the twinkle of mischief in his eye. "But for now," he holds up the tray to me, "your breakfast."
While I dig into my breakfast, Diego is going on about the game and the buzz Mr. Stafford says there is about his debut with the team. He's so adorable when he's this excited. He mentions something about a party for one of his teammates in a few weeks, a photo shoot for an ad campaign for a line of bath products for men, and another photo shoot and interview with one of Europe’s premier sports magazines.
I don't know if it's just in my head or what, but I manage to make my breakfast disappear unusually speedy for me. I'm finishing the last of my apple juice when Diego walks back in with the PlayStation 2.
"We're gonna play in here?" I ask.
"Figured why leave bed until you absolutely have to?"
"You know when we play in the bedroom that I fight fire with fire. You prepared to lose, Santo Feo?" I taunt. I can see that my words are jogging his memory back to one of the handful of times we played FIFA as part of his pre-game ritual. I'm ridiculously awful at any of these games that don't allow me to just rapidly press whatever fucking buttons I want and score, win a fight, whatever the fuck ever. So, the first time he talked me into playing with, or rather against, him, frustration led me to strip and lay naked in front of him. I didn't end up winning, but instead of losing with a goose egg to his dozen, I managed to get within one point of tying.
"Oh, Izzy," he tsks, "I've been onto your evil ways for some time now." He removes his shirt. "I think you might have bigger challenges," he finishes with a flex of his delectable abs.
Fuck me and be still my heart. I need to concentrate. I hate losing, but damn he's edible. Unfortunately, the fact that I devoured the breakfast he made me doesn't make me any less hungry for my ab-licious husband.
He hands me my purple glitter-fied and bedazzled controller, "You ready?" I look in the direction of the television and there on the screen is the start menu option for the game. I'm screwed. I was so focused and distracted by his abs that I didn't notice he had moved on and connected the game console.
"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," I sigh.
Despite my attempts to remain focused on the game we were playing, the muscles in Diego's back were too distracting and the first game ended with Diego having an insurmountable score and me calling the skunk rule. I fared better the next couple of games only because halfway through game two, I called a timeout for a potty break, but instead put on my sexiest piece of lingerie. He was so distracted I managed to pull ahead by a point. In the end, I still lost the games, but I called it a wash because I've never scored so many points against him even on one of the rare times I had won.
As per our game day ritual for him, we take a shower when we're done with the customary three games of FIFA. Ever the doting husband and father-to-be, Diego takes care of my needs first, washing my hair and then scrubbing the rest of me from head to toe
, paying extra attention to my belly. He's so in love with him or her, I'd be jealous if this bundle of joy at the center of his attention wasn't mine. Plus, there's no denying how much the man adores me.
"Diego," I whine, "I don't have a jersey to wear." topping off my complaint with a pout for the good it does me; he's in the bathroom trimming his beard down.
"Bella, could you grab the box on my dresser in the closet?"
"Sure," I grumble. He's either ignoring my pout or he didn't hear me. Either way, I'm annoyed. "Here," setting the box down on the counter beside him unable to disguise my irritation.
"Ha ha...what's got your panties all twisted, Bizzy?"
Bitch Izzy? Really? That's what he's going with right now?
Rather than open my mouth to foot-in-mouth disease, I turn to leave.
"Izabella," calls out Diego. "You're forgetting something."
I whip around to give him a mouthful to discover him holding out the box I just brought him. My eyes go wide. "What?" incredulity lacing my voice.
"Open it," he demands. Because I feel like a bit of an ass getting all huffy with him, I hesitate. I suppose his patience is my reward for our early years. Shaking my head, I lift the lid on the small box.
"Wha—" I gasp. I drop the box and leap onto the most amazing husband ever. He stumbles with my abrupt motion.
"I take it this should fix our pouting situation?" he inquires.
I'm planting kisses all over his face. I can't help it. He thinks of everything, every time. I don't know why I thought today would have gone differently. So, yeah, I'm feeling like an ass right now, but I think the barrage of kisses I'm covering his face with is a good start to making it up. I climb down my Adonis' body.
Inside the small white box is a rhinestone studded red t-shirt custom designed to look like his jersey with a shallow V from shoulder to shoulder in black rhinestones and the team’s logo on the left breast in red and clear crystals. Picking the shirt up from the box on the floor, I see where there would be sponsors listed on the sleeves, on mine there’s a rose with a halo framed in a black crest of crystals on one, on the other, . I turn to see that the back is sporting more of the rhinestone work from on the front. There's his number twenty-four in clear rhinestones, but it's the name across the top that gets me. My eyes fill with tears as I re-read what he's had written for my name in black crystals: His.
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