by Holly Hart
""Fine," he sighed. "See it from my point of view. I finally get signed by a European team – one of the biggest around, then this happens."
"How long are you out for?"
"About six to eight months, judging by the scan. I think five, the doctor thinks six, before I'll even be out on the training field. Worst case, it's eight."
"Okay, okay," I said, trying to get my head around the situation, "I get all that, but what the hell are you doing here? What's that monstrosity over the swimming pool, and why the hell are you sitting here in a half-built gym, covered in sweat and plaster dust risking your other leg? What the hell did you think would happen if your good leg gave way? Are you going to use your crutches to hold that weight off?"
Alex looked at me, startled. "Whoa," he muttered, "where the hell did that come from?"
"I'm worried about you, Alex. Seriously worried. Can’t you see that?"
He squeezed my hand. "I can, I promise. I'm sorry. Here, give me a hand," he said, stretching out an arm. I helped him off the leg press machine and acted as a crutch until he got his feet sorted out. "Come on, I need a cold drink."
"You're not trying to distract me, are you?" I glared.
He chuckled. "Hell no, I wouldn't dare! I've been pumping away in there for hours, ever since they put the first couple of machines together. I kind of… lost track of time."
I fixed him with a steely stare. "Living room, now," I ordered. "I'll get us something to drink." Alex started to protest, but I quickly retorted, "How are you going to carry anything – you need those arms to crutch with."
He shot me a sulky stare, but did as he was told. I joined him a couple of minutes later with two ice cold, clinking glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice.
"What are those boxes on the kitchen counter? I asked, curious.
"What boxes? Oh – those," he said, remembering. "Sorry – I've spent most of the last couple of days on Amazon. They're supplements."
I spluttered on my juice. "All of them? Christ – what are you taking?"
"A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Anything that'll help me get better quicker."
"What's the obsession?" I begged. "Your contract runs for another four years, doesn't it? You won't be out on the street anytime soon – that's for sure."
Alex sighed. "I wish it were that easy, Di. Sure, I'll clean up the next four years, but if I don't recover properly – what then? Then my career's over, and I'm a twenty-five-year-old orphan without a college degree. I'd have to start at the bottom, and I can't have that. I just can't."
"You'd hardly be starting at the bottom," I said. "What’s your contract worth – twenty million bucks?"
"Ballpark. Less Spanish taxes," he grunted.
"Still – it's huge!" I said, trying to lift his spirits.
"You don't understand," he groaned, clutching his bad leg as a jolt of pain shot through his body. I squeezed his hand, distraught that the only thing I could offer in this situation was my presence – it felt like a small comfort. "I trained for this every day for years. I didn't have friends growing up – it's hard to when all you do is try and score against them. All I did, all day, was kick a ball against a wall until it felt like a part of me – just an extension of my foot. If I'm not a soccer player, then what am I?"
"A man," I whispered, "just a man. But a smart, kind, sexy one – do you need to be more than that?"
He looked me directly in my eyes. His answer was simple. "Yes." I knew what he meant, it was the same base desire that drove me to do what I did.
"Then let's do it," I said decisively. "Let’s do it together. But you need to be smart about things. Your body needs time to recover—"
"But—" he tried to interrupt.
"No buts," I said, lifting a finger imperiously to cut him off. "Like I said – if you hurt yourself in the gym, you'll put yourself out even longer. Give your body a week to get over the worst of the pain, then kick on."
"Di," he hissed, "you don’t understand – I can’t."
"Why?" I asked. I was genuinely curious – I wanted to understand what Alex thought his reasons were – not just what he said, but the emotions that lay behind his words. After all, he hadn’t reached the highest echelons of world soccer by succumbing to passing flights of emotion. No – there was clearly something deeper at play. I had my suspicions, but I was determined to find out for sure.
The pain behind his eyes was as palpable as the glowing ember of worry burning a hole in his chest. He moaned helplessly. "You wouldn’t understand…"
"Try me," I said firmly. If I was right, then I sure as hell would!
He fixed me with a worried stare, as though worried that revealing the source of his pain would somehow impugn his masculinity. Thankfully, he relented. "This is everything I’ve ever worked for. Every day when I was in care – this is what I dreamed of, what I worked towards…"
"I know," I whispered, to keep him talking.
"So, what if this is it?" Alex hissed. "What if I never play again?"
"You’ll play," I said encouragingly. He cut me off.
"On the big stage," he said dismissively. "I don’t care about just participating. I want to be the best."
"I know," I insisted. "You think this is easy for me? I had to look over my shoulder to even get here! I’m risking as much as you, Alex."
"No, you’re not."
I wanted to slap him.
I wanted to slap him. "What the hell do you mean by that? Are you trying to say that my job is somehow less important than yours?"
"Kicking a soccer ball around a field?" He laughed in spite of himself, and in spite of his misery, "get real."
"Then what!" I cried in frustration.
"Oh, nothing," he smirked, "it's just I don't think you'll be hearing from those reporters that were bothering you again. Not for a while, anyway…"
I looked at him, gobsmacked. "What did you do?"
"Nothing much," he beamed with a pride that made his words a lie, "except have them sent to Madrid, that is…"
I grasped his arm with shock. "You what?"
"Madrid," he repeated. "That's far enough away, isn't it?"
I choked with surprise. "Far enough… Are you kidding! How?"
"Oh, a guy's got to have some secrets, doesn't he?"
I fixed Alex with a glare, fully aware that as much as I wanted to find out, I was equally happy with the fact that for at least a few moments, his mind was off his future. That was almost enough for me. Almost…
"Oh, okay," he laughed, "I'll tell you."
"You better." I muttered.
"You remember Roberto?" He asked.
"Your press officer?" I replied. "What about him?"
"The club's press officer," Alex corrected me, "although sometimes I guess he probably feels he has to give me a personal service. But yeah, him. Turns out he's got quite a lot of sway when it comes to stuff like that. He simply rang up their papers and told them they wouldn't get access anymore if those guys were around. Madrid's the only place they could go, really. It's the only place with another really big club…"
I leapt towards Alex, holding myself back at the last second to make sure not to hurt him, and enveloped him with a hug. "Thank you!"
"No problem," he sighed. But as he did so, I got a sense of the worry that still pervaded his every thought. And worse, he had just cleared the blockage standing in the way of my career, but there was little to nothing I could do to help his…
I took a different angle, hitting the heart of the matter head on. "Do you know why my surname is Lopez?"
Alex faltered. "What?"
I repeated myself. "My name. I'm a bit pale to have a surname like that, aren't I?"
He shot me a curious look. "I guess so," he said. "I'd never thought about it."
"We'll believe me," I said, "I have. Every day, growing up. You want to know why?"
He nodded.
"I can tell you one thing – it's not because my mom took another man's nam
e. I never knew my parents," I confessed. "My bio parents, I mean," I said, correcting myself.
"You said you were in foster care," he murmured, "I didn’t realize it was because you’d lost your parents, too."
I grinned, doing my best to break the tension. "I don't exactly go around telling people. Believe me, Alex – I know what it's like to not know who you are or where you're from."
"You don't—"
"I do," I said firmly. "Sure, I grew up in a happy family, and you didn't. But we lived hand to mouth most of the time, too. So, believe me – I know what it's like to grow up scrapping for every meal."
"I guess," he said, not looking entirely convinced.
"You had a harder life than me, Alex," I said truthfully, "but I think I know why this injury has hit you so hard."
"Yeah?" he said, noncommittally.
"Yeah," I agreed. "I get it. You didn't have much else going on, so you made soccer the thing to get you out of bed in the morning. You made it your goal, hung your view of yourself on it, because you didn't know what else to do – who else you were. I get it."
"Do you?" Alex said dubiously.
I nodded. "I do, seriously. I did it too. Not the same way – but you ever wonder how I'm fronting a news show from abroad at my age?" I caught myself. "And don't you dare say my looks!"
He grinned, looking me up and down and checking me out. "I wouldn't dare," he said, his expression straightening. "How then?"
"I worked. Every day, harder than anyone else in my college. I didn't do spring break – I was such a nerd, I spent the time finding internships and work experience all over – doing that in the day and then waiting tables at night so that I could afford to eat. There are plenty of pretty girls just like me aching to get this job, and there are only two ways to get it – fuck your way to the top—"
He interrupted me with a horrified look on his face. "You didn't!"
I shot him a filthy look back. "Of course not!" He had the good grace to look shamefaced, and I cut him some slack – he was hardly in a positive state of mind. "As I was saying – the other way is to work harder than anyone else, and longer, too."
"Sorry," he mumbled.
I grinned, letting him know he was off the hook. "Don't worry about it. Just believe me when I tell you – I know exactly how hard you've worked, and exactly what this means to you. Don't be an idiot – don't ruin it all by trying to get back in the saddle too soon. You're young – there’ll always be next season."
"What about the World Cup?" Alex interjected dejectedly. "The longer I wait, the less chance I have of making it…"
"The longer you wait," I corrected him, "the better chance you have of making it next time. Like I said, Alex," I said, turning and preparing to leave him to his thoughts, "I can't make your mind up for you, but think about it. Really think about it."
I took a few paces to the door before he spoke. "Wait," he croaked, "don't leave."
I turned and looked at him. He was crestfallen, and seemed shocked by both my revelation and just how closely my experiences growing up mirrored his.
I saw the battle going on behind his eyes, the fire raging in his soul. The part of Alex that had seen him through those dark, lonely years in foster care wanted to rail against my assumed authority, wanted to bat against it until I crumbled and he was free to do what he wanted.
But thankfully, the soft, kind and gentle part of him that I'd fallen head over heels for prevailed. "Fine," he moaned, "I can't believe I'm agreeing with this. With you," he said, fixing me with a glare. "I’ll wait until the doctors say I’m ready."
I leaned over him, overjoyed, and planted a kiss on his lips, overjoyed not that he’d agreed with me – but because he’d seen sense. He responded hungrily, as if he were trying to exorcise every iota of rage, fear and frustration that had been flooding through his body for the last few days through the power of well, love…
"Stop," he groaned, "we can't."
I looked at him, upset. "What is it?"
He didn't speak, just indicated downwards at his stirring cock. He would have had an embarrassed look on his face, but Alex Rodriguez didn't do embarrassed. This was about as close as I’d ever seen.
"Oh…"
"Oh," he agreed. "I can't fuck you, not like this. I can barely move the good leg without the bad one screaming in pain."
"Who said anything about you fucking me?" I asked, faintly amused.
"I did," he hissed. "Do you know how horny you've got me? Damn, girl, it's like you've got a hold on me. I've never known my cock to act like this except when I'm around you."
I reached down and danced the tips of my fingers across the swollen head of his thick cock. "Diana…" he groaned, "stop!"
I looked at him frankly. "You said you couldn't fuck me, right?" I grinned mischievously.
"Right…" he agreed uncertainly. "I can barely move."
"You never said I couldn't use my mouth…"
His mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of surprise.
Epilogue Part One
Alex
Six months later…
The walls of the corridor that led to the home team locker room were lined with framed, signed shirts of former club legends and squad pictures taken after success in one or other of the many hundreds of trophies that the grand old club had won over the decades. The corridor itself was filled with club functionaries – old, retired players wandering around looking for someone to talk to about the old days, harried looking staff members carrying clipboards, and most of all – soccer players.
It was easy to tell who they were because they towered head and shoulder over everyone else.
Ordinarily, a reporter wouldn't have been allowed within a hundred feet of the club's inner sanctum – especially not half an hour before a match – but Di wasn't an ordinary reporter. Not anymore, anyway – not now the whole squad knew she was dating Alex Rodriguez. It was a miracle the news hadn't been made the public yet, especially as she was living with me, and had been for months!
The quiet, concentrated hum of a club on match day was ripped apart by a cat-called whistle.
"Rodrigo!" I yelled. "Cut it out."
I batted away the joshing, the amused punches and the jokes flung at me by my teammates as I walked towards my girlfriend. "One day you'll understand," I grinned, smiling back at the French goalkeeper – Florian, "what love is…"
He smiled in amusement. "Alejandro, you young pup – I'm married!"
I darted out of his way, prepared for a retaliatory punch. "Is that right?" I mused. "In that case, I feel sorry for your wife…"
Florian spluttered in astonishment, but looking at the grin on my face, refrained from hitting me. I'd have deserved it if he had – not that he would have caught me – I was far too slippery for that. "Someone," he grumbled, "needs to get back out onto the pitch…"
A younger, more fiery Alex Rodriguez would have spat back an insult and called to attention the fact that as a backup keeper, Florian himself rarely made it further into the stadium than his seat on the bench. This time, however, I found that I didn't even need to bite my tongue to hold back. I knew what my goal was, now – I wanted to captain this team. And those weren't the actions of a leader. I had somehow matured over the past few months – and the reason for my growth was standing right in front of me, blushing at the ruckus she'd caused in the locker room.
"Hey," Diana whispered, doing her best not to draw any more attention to herself than absolutely necessary. I knew how the athletes around us thought – I'd thought just like them for years, and it was clearly too late for that. No – there was no way she – or I for that matter – was going to fly under the radar. We had to embrace it.
That's what I told myself, anyway.
I leaned forward and grabbed her, snaking my arm around her and pulling her into a long, passionate kiss. The locker room around us erupted in hooting cheers and hollers – and not a few disappointed groans – as my jealous teammates caught an eyeful of exactly wha
t they were missing. I knew exactly how they felt – Diana was a catch. Not just a catch, but my catch – and none of them got to have her. For fit, young, competitive athletes like the men around us, it must've been hell. But hell if I cared.
"Wow," she panted breathlessly as I tore my lips away from hers, "I wasn't expecting that!"
I grinned and looked over my shoulder at my green-eyed teammates. "Nor were they," I said, grabbing Diana's hand and leading her to the relative privacy of the corridor outside the locker room. "What are you doing down here?" I asked, drinking in her intoxicating scent.
"I wanted to wish you luck," she said, breaking eye contact with the slightest hint of embarrassment in her pink cheeks. "How's the knee feeling?"
I looked down, noticing a sharp jab of phantom pain at the mention of the injury that had taken me off the field for almost six months. "Sore," I grunted, "but it'll be fine. Anyway – I'm on the bench," I grumbled. "It's like coach doesn't know a thing about the game."
"Yeah…" Diana agreed haltingly, looking unconvinced.
"Oh, go on," I sighed, "spit it out – what is it?"
Diana looked at me uncertainly, then clearly made a decision to go with her gut and tell me what was on her mind. "Well," she said nervously, before her voice strengthened, "there's no way you're fit enough to play the whole game yet, is there?"
"I'd like the chance!" I said indignantly, feeling as though the one person who should back me unconditionally, well – wasn't.
Diana glared at me, and my shoulders sank back as the bravado ebbed away in the face of her frank, guileless honesty. "Don't you dare go out there and try to play a whole match," she hissed authoritatively. "Do you know how dangerous that would be? You've rushed yourself back to fitness too quickly as it is!"
"Okay," I said, raising my hands in submission, "okay – I get it. Anyway, I don't have a choice in the matter. Maybe I'll get twenty minutes at the end, who knows…"
Diana put her hand on my cheek comfortingly. "I know this is hard for you," she murmured, "not being able to play in your first cup final. But look at the long-term – the big picture—"
