Lessons In Losing It (Study Abroad Book 4)

by Jessica Peterson

  Hell yeah I do, she says. He hasn’t put up a goal in five of the last six matches. Big contract, big disappointment. Also, he tried to eat you, so obviously I am not a fan.

  Didn’t know you kept up with the league, I type.

  I’ve been in Spain for four months. I know my football stats backwards and forwards.

  “Of course you do,” I mutter out loud, shaking my head again. Talking with her like this—it’s so damn easy. It’s fun. So much easier and so much more fun than trying to chat it up with the lads in the locker room.

  “You’ve gone and lost your mind now, haven’t you? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  My head snaps up at the sound of Alexsandr’s voice. He’s half a step behind me, reading my texts over my shoulder.

  “No one,” I say, shoving the phone in my pocket. “Just, uh, texting. Yeah. Texting with my mum.”

  “Then why are you smiling like a bloody idiot?”

  “Because…um…my mum. She’s funny?”

  Alexsandr blows out a breath. “How’s Rachel, then? Are the two of you married yet?”

  I scoff. “Rachel? I wasn’t texting with Rachel.”

  “I saw her name on your phone, you wanker. Why are the two of you chatting it up? Going to meet her later?”

  “No,” I say. I sound defensive. Fuck. Why am I chatting it up with Rachel? I’ve got no explanation. No excuse. “Rachel and I—we’re just friends.”

  He claps me on the shoulder. “Keep telling yourself that, mate.”

  “That’s my plan,” I grind out.

  A plan I’ve got to stick to.

  ***

  Sunday Morning

  I pull up to the nondescript grey building fifteen minutes early, and manage to steal a parking spot right up front from a bloke on a moped. He flicks me off, honking his tiny clown horn at me.

  I hold up my hands in apology, but I don’t move. Hey, it’s cold out, and I don’t want Rachel to freeze while walking out to my car from her dorm.

  Rachel. My body leaps at the prospect of seeing her. I sent my last text to her just after midnight; I woke up with a raging hard-on after falling asleep thinking about her.

  I took care of the hard-on in the shower, telling myself this would be the last time I’d fantasize about Rachel naked and panting in my bed. Fucking hell, I want to touch her. I want to get to know her better, be around her.

  But as much as I want all that to happen, I want the real deal more. I want to be in a relationship with someone, to fall in love with her, to have sex that doesn’t leave me feeling lonely or used.

  I’d also like to lose my virginity. I didn’t set out to keep it this long. Mum raised me to respect women; having random sex with strangers doesn’t strike me as very respectful on the part of either party. I was scrawny as a teenager anyway, and girls weren’t that interested in what I had to offer.

  But then I went to play at the academy in Munich, and a few years later, Madrid drafted me. The girls were interested then, but not for the right reasons. They wanted to sleep with me because I was going to be a famous footballer, not because they enjoyed my sense of humor, or fit in with my family, or liked me for me. They had no respect for who I was or what I wanted. I was just an object to them, something to be won, conquered, used. So, I passed on their advances. I still do.

  Yeah, Rachel may be different from these girls. But she’s still not relationship material. She’s leaving Spain in less than a month. I don’t want to lose my virginity to someone who won’t—who can’t—stick around for the long haul.

  I’m a bit sad, to be honest, that she can’t be the forever girl I’m looking for. As far as I’m concerned, she’s perfect. She respects me. She likes the same things I do. She’s ambitious and smart and down to earth.

  But she’s heading home. She’s got big things happening back in the states—I wonder if she got that internship she was telling me about. She has no reason to stay in Spain, and I have no reason to leave. My contract is up for extension; my agent is already negotiating with the football club here, and the numbers are looking good so far. Really good.

  So, yeah. Rachel and I will just have to enjoy our friendship in the meantime. When it’s time for her to go, we’ll say goodbye, and that will be that.

  I just wish I wasn’t so bloody into her. In my head, I know I need to keep my distance. My body, though—it keeps betraying me.

  I run a hand across my face. Fuck me, I need to get a grip. This is not my first rodeo. I know how to do this. I know how to control the desire I feel for Rachel. The attraction. I’ve always been a mind over matter sort of chap.

  Only it’s never been so difficult before. It’s never happened so damn quickly—the attraction. The connection.

  I sigh, tug at my jeans. Double check in the rearview mirror that I don’t have anything in my teeth. Run my hand across my face again.

  I spent longer than I usually do at the sink today, shaving my face to within an inch of its life. I spent even longer getting dressed, settling on a nice version of my off-duty uniform: dark jeans, button down (I went over it again with an iron, because I’m a wanker), sweater, watch, suede boots, jacket. Nothing fancy, but I wanted to look good.

  I haven’t had a lot of time to travel outside of football, so I’m excited about seeing Salamanca. Rachel and I texted a bit more last night to get the details in place. I offered to drive instead of taking the train—more privacy this way—and Rachel agreed.

  I turn on the passenger side seat heater. She’ll probably be cold, right? Or maybe she’ll be warm from getting out of the shower? I don’t know. I also can’t think about her in the shower. She’d be naked, wet, her skin lathered up in soap…

  God damn it.

  I decide to leave the seat heater on.

  I check my watch. Eight-fifty-one. Jesus, is it just me, or are the minutes crawling by? I glance at the dorm building’s glass doors, glowing with the yellowy haze of fluorescent lights. Rachel can’t be here soon enough.

  I nearly eject out of my seat when my phone starts to vibrate. My first thought is no—no, no, no, it’s Rachel, and she’s cancelling on me. I didn’t realize just how excited I was about this trip until now.

  I dig it out of my pocket, then sigh with relief when I see it’s just my sister calling. I pick it up.

  Hello, Sophie, I say in German. I can’t really talk right now.

  You don’t usually have stuff going on during your days off, she replies. I can hear her nine-month old baby, Lilli, making cute baby noises in the background. Lilli says hello Uncle Fredrik!

  Tell Lilli Uncle Fred says hello back, I say, smiling. I miss that baby. And I, uh, have a thing today.

  Oh my God, Sophie replies. You have a thing with a girl, don’t you?

  I sigh. Again. I can’t hide anything from Sophie.

  Maybe, I say. But she’s just a friend. It’s nothing serious.

  Tell me everything, she replies.

  Her name is Rachel, and that is all I’m going to tell you. Because we’re just friends, Sophie.

  Fred! I’m so happy for you.

  I squeeze my temples between my thumb and first two fingers and close my eyes. Sophie, seriously, she’s just a friend. I barely know her. Please don’t tell mama that I’m getting married or something. Because I’m not.

  Mama would be thrilled, my sister says.

  Like I don’t know my mom would lose her mind if she knew I met someone. It’s all mum ever wanted for me—to settle down in our lovely hometown with a nice girl in a nice house to start a nice little family of my own. I think she’s still mystified, how many years later, that I decided to leave all that behind—leave her behind—in pursuit of playing professional football. Mystified, and more than a little hurt. Sure, I still want to find the nice girl, but that doesn’t make up for the fact that I left home at fourteen and have no plans of going back for good anytime soon.

  Dropping my hand, I glance out the window. My heart leaps.

  The
re she is. Rachel. She’s standing just outside the door, hiking her bag higher onto her shoulder as she checks her phone.

  She looks gorgeous. Her hair, long and silky, hangs in loose waves over one shoulder; she’s wearing a black wool coat over black jeans.

  Her lips are red, redder than I remember. She’s a bit done up, but she still looks like herself. She’s not covering anything up; she’s only enhancing what she’s got in the best, the best, way.

  Hello? Sophie is saying in my ear. Are you there? Fred? FRED!

  Sorry, Em, I have to go, I say absently, my eyes never leaving Rachel. It’s like I’m scared she’ll disappear if I look away even for half a second. Give Lilli a kiss for me, okay?

  Have fun with Rachel, Sophie replies. I expect a full report tonight!

  I tell Sophie goodbye and hang up. Immediately I scroll to Rachel’s contact and hit the “call” icon.

  It rings.

  Rachel is still looking at her phone, but all of the sudden this giant, genuine smile breaks out on her face as my call comes through.

  This girl is killing me. Seeing her so genuinely lit up makes me feel like I could fly.

  Seeing her also makes my chest hurt, just a little—just inside my breastbone. It’s not bad, this hurt, but it’s new. Strange.

  In the back of my mind, a voice says that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. I haven’t even spoken to Rachel yet, and already I feel myself losing grip on the very good reasons why I can’t be into her. Why I can’t touch her.

  She swipes her thumb across the screen and brings the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?” I can even hear the smile in her voice. It’s that giant. That real.

  “You look fucking beautiful,” I blurt. Christ, I’m a tit.

  She looks up. Glances around. “Thank you. Where are you?”

  “I’m in the grey car over by the steps.” I wave. “Do you see me?”

  Rachel keeps glancing around until her eyes lock onto mine. She waves back.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Bye. Or hello, I suppose.”

  “Hello, Fred.” She’s hurrying toward me, and her voice is breathless now.

  I lean my elbow against the window and watch her approach. Even the way she moves turns me on. Everything, everything about this girl turns me on. “Hello, Rachel. How did you sleep?”

  “Well. How’s the finger feeling? Still attached to your hand, I hope?”

  I pause at the unexpected flush of warmth that moves through me. “Still attached, though a bit worse for the wear. That bastard has sharp teeth.”

  “That guy is such a piece of shit. They should cut his ass already and make that trade for Rudolfo—did you see his hat trick the other night in Milan?” Rachel is at the passenger side door now.

  Not even ten seconds into our conversation, and already we’re talking hat tricks—when a player scores three goals in one match.

  I run a hand across my face. Why does the girl who’s leaving Madrid make it so fucking easy to like her?

  “Have I seen it?” I say. “Rachel, I’ve only watched the replay of that match about a thousand bleeding times this week. My manager is obsessed with it.”

  “How insufficient did it make you feel?”

  “Quite. Hat tricks are not my specialty.”

  “Well, yeah, obviously not, because your specialty is Bavarian beer.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from wincing at the desire that grips my heart and squeezes.

  “You know me too well,” I say.

  A blast of cold air invades the car as she climbs inside. The door shuts behind her. Her perfume—something feminine, and clean—fills my head.

  Still holding the phone to her ear, she grins up at me. “Can we hang up now?”

  “Yes,” I say, dropping my phone onto the dash. She tucks hers into the front pocket of her bag.

  “Hi,” she says.

  I’m struggling not to stare at her. She’s even prettier than I remember. Her eyes dance as they meet mine.

  “Hi.”

  I lean forward and press quick kisses into her cheeks, the smell of her perfume, of her fucking skin, making me see double. Her breath hitches; in the glare of the bright winter sun, I can make out the thump of her pulse just below her ear.

  Her heart is pounding.

  Jesus Christ. She’s not faking her attraction. She’s not forcing it.

  She’s also not fighting it.

  And that’s driving me bloody crazy, because I want to stop fighting it, too.

  I pull back, giving my jeans a discreet tug. “So. Thanks again for letting me drive. Much easier for me this way.”

  She runs a hand through her hair, making it fall into her face. “No problem.

  Do people usually bother you when you’re out? Because, you know, you’re this super stud footballer who’s super famous in Spain?”

  I shrug, glancing in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know if it’s because I’m tall or I’m blond—”

  “Or you’re really, really famous for being really, really great at your job.”

  “Or that,” I say, grinning. “But people do tend to recognize me. A hat sometimes helps, but you never know when someone will stop me in the street. I apologize if they do.”

  Rachel waves away my apology. “Don’t sweat it.”

  I put the car in gear and nudge out into traffic.

  “I like your car,” she says. “An Audi—how very Christian Grey of you.”

  “Christian Grey?” I ask, shifting gears.

  “You know, Christian Grey? The billionaire guy from the book Fifty Shades of Grey?”

  Huh? Am I supposed to know who that is?

  “Sorry,” I say. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Really? Fifty Shades of Grey is, like, this giant cultural phenomenon. It’s sold a gazillion copies worldwide. They’re even making it into a couple of movies. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it. The aliens living on Mars have heard about the red room of pain, for God’s sake.”

  I feel Rachel looking at me.

  I thrust the car into third. “Football keeps me pretty busy. Very busy. I don’t have a lot of time for extracurriculars.”

  She scoffs. “Extracurriculars? Is that what you’d call reading a book? Going to the movies? Talking shit with your friends?”

  Truth be told, I can’t remember the last time I read a book (other than Harry Potter, obviously) or went to the cinema. I’ve been so focused on my career, so bloody obsessed with making it work and being the best football player I can be, I haven’t thought about stuff outside it. Honestly, I enjoy being out on the pitch more than I enjoy really anything else.

  “I’ll have to pick up a copy,” I offer, lamely, in reply.

  “Maybe I’ll pick it up for you. Could be very useful for, uh. Future extracurricular activities.” Rachel says, settling into the seat. “Oooh, this feels nice. Is the seat heater on?”

  “It is,” I say. I look at her. “I thought you might be cold, so…yeah.”

  She smiles. “You’re so nice.”

  You’re unbelievably gorgeous, I think.

  An image flashes across my thoughts—Rachel standing in my bedroom, undressing for me slowly, slowly, as I reach between her legs. I’d take her bare shoulder in my mouth. She’d be wet. Ready. So soft—

  I blink, refocusing my gaze on the road. I have to get it the fuck together.

  ***

  Rachel

  Despite the awkward Fifty Shades of Grey bit, I meant it when I said I liked Fred’s car. It’s exactly what I imagined him driving: a sleek yet understated sports sedan, a car that shows he takes himself seriously but not too seriously. He uses it to get from point A to B, not to impress the guys on his team or show off how much money he has.

  I can’t stand loud, flashy cars; I think there’s some truth to the rumor that guys who buy them are compensating for a small you-know-what. Fancy cars are just ano
ther layer of the douche cake. The crowd Mom associates with in Dallas are a perfect example of that. Everyone in our neighborhood back home makes sure to park their Jaguar or Mercedes in the driveway, so people can see just how fancy, or really how insecure, they are.

  The thing I like most about Fred’s car is the way the inside smells—like your run of the mill boy body wash cut with a hint of sultry sandalwood. I’m guessing that the sandalwood is Fred’s aftershave; I smelled it when he kissed my cheeks.

  I seriously almost fainted it was so delicious.

  Fred looks amazing, as always. The guy could wear a shower curtain and make it look good. He’s casual but put together in a green jacket and jeans, and it allows me to glimpse just enough of his tall, powerful physique to have me squirming in my heated seat. Still a little wet from the shower, his pale hair is combed back, giving his whole look a slightly hipster vibe.

  I dig it. I really, really dig it.

  But that’s as far as I let myself go. As much as I want to maul Fred right now, as much as I want to discover whether Fred’s enthusiasm for sports extends to the bedroom, we’re just friends. He told me point blank he’s not interested in anything casual. I’ve got to keep my pants on today.

  I stayed up way too late working on my résumé; of course I slept through my alarm this morning. I tried to throw myself together in the twenty minutes I had before Fred was supposed to pick me up. I managed to brush my teeth, put on some mascara and lip stick (bright red—a gamble), and change my shirt three times before settling on a white sweater. I kept telling myself that I was being silly—that today isn’t a date, so it doesn’t matter what I wear—but Fred is freaking hot, and I wanted to feel hot, too.

  Judging by the look on Fred’s face when he saw me, I suspect the lipstick gamble was one worth taking.

  We make small talk as we move through the congested tangle of Madrid into the arid, wide-open Spanish countryside. The contrast is night and day. Madrid’s drab suburbs give way to bare, jagged hills, burnished yellow by the ardent morning sunshine. The hills dip into shadowy valleys, the few trees grey and still. It’s so remote and so untouched it looks like a colorful moonscape.