by Holly Hart
"I think I screwed up, Mom," I sobbed. "It's really tough out here – the only Americans seem to hate me, so there's no one to talk to, and I can't blame them, because I screwed up, and I'm beginning to think that I'm a horrible person—"
She interrupted again. "Don't you ever say that, chica," she chided me forcefully. "Whatever you've done, you're not a horrible person. Don't be silly."
"But I am," I continued sadly. "I thought I was going to have such great morals, perfect ethics – but the first time any of that was really tested, I just turned into a cheap hit journalist. I don't want to be one, Mom," I cried.
"So you made a mistake," she said. I could hear the smile on her face, and it touched me even in the depths of my despair. "That doesn't make you horrible deep down."
"Doesn't it?" I sniffed. "If I did it once, doesn't that mean it's just, I dunno, like part of me? Won't I just keep doing it?"
"Chica, stop crying," my mom pleaded. "Are you going to keep doing it?"
"No," I sobbed.
"Then you've got your answer, haven't you? Making a mistake doesn't make you bad. Would a bad person be so broken up about a little mistake?"
"I guess not," I sniffed, wiping my eyes.
"Then it's up to you, isn't it?" She laughed. "If you don't want to be horrible, it's simple – don't be. Have you apologized to whoever it was you think you've hurt?"
"Not yet, Mom," I smiled wanly, "but I'm just about to."
My eyes noticed movement ahead of me, and I saw a couple of players exiting the automatic doors that led into the enormous, modern training complex, most with huge Beats headphones wrapped around their ears.
"Mom, I gotta go," I said hurriedly.
"Are you sure you're okay…"
"Don't worry, Mom, I'll be fine," I said, and then punched my finger down to the screen of the cellphone, killing the line.
I stood up, quickly drying my tears on the back of my arm, and kept a keen eye out for Alex. One by one, the young athletes got into their cars, and the expensive supercars revved up and pulled out of the parking lot. It was like going to a car show, and for a few minutes, I wished I had a pair of earplugs in my handbag to shield my eardrums from the aggressive, throbbing noise of the high octane engines.
There were only two cars left in the lot – a sparkling red Ferrari that must've been worth at least a quarter of a million dollars, and a gunmetal grey Audi R8. I squinted against the sunlight to check that Alex wasn't the owner of the Ferrari, but reassured myself that he wasn't. The driver, who was still fiddling with his leather holdall, was at least two inches shorter than the man I was waiting for, and far from as handsome.
Even he departed, leaving me alone in the parking lot, about twenty yards away from what I presumed was Alex's Audi. I felt my stomach clench with anticipation – I was a bundle of nerves.
Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty, and before long, the sun was beginning to fall towards the horizon. I'd returned to my spot against a lamppost, but after half an hour in the shade, its heat was beginning to fade.
And then, finally, I saw him leaving the training ground. I gasped – he was even more handsome than I'd remembered. He was dressed in black jeans that were tight only because of the sheer power contained in his muscular legs, rather than because he was a follower of fashion; a plain white tee that similarly stretched against his bulging chest and biceps, and a black baseball cap pulled backwards over his head. His skin glowed with a deep, golden hue – I assumed as a result of the long, sunny days spent honing his craft on the training field.
I leapt to my feet and hurried over towards his car. He had his music playing, the tell-tale white earbuds clearly visible against his tanned face, and wasn't paying attention to the world ahead of him.
"Hi," I said shyly as he approached.
He halted and looked up curiously, but the moment he saw me, his face twisted with a visceral expression of dislike. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. "If you think you're getting a story out of me, you better think twice."
"No, no," I said, raising my palms peaceably, "it's not like that."
"I don't care what this is about, I'm not interested," he said, jacking the passenger seat of the Audi forward to create space to toss his sport bag onto the rear seats.
"I'm here to… apologize," I said haltingly. "I know I fucked up, and I just wanted to tell you I was sorry, and that I won't be causing you any more trouble."
He pulled himself up and out of the car, shooting me with a surprised, suspicious stare. "Whatever you're selling," he snarled, "I'm not buying it. You're a reporter, it's your job."
"Look," I said desperately, "I really didn't come here to pick a fight. I'm going to have to keep reporting on you, of course I will – hell, you're the only reason the network sent me out here, you know that?"
Alex's posture changed imperceptibly, his chest pulled back marginally, and he shifted his weight onto his heels rather than the balls of his feet – all in all, he suddenly looked a whole lot less threatening, and definitely less suspicious of my motives.
"I didn't…" he replied.
"Well, it's true. They think you're going to be a hit with the ladies back home, and soccer's becoming pretty popular."
"It is," he replied, still sticking to short, noncommittal words, seemingly not allowing himself to get too involved in the conversation.
"Listen, that's all I had to say," I finished lamely. "I'll keep out of your way as much as I can – I just wanted you to know that I won't be such an asshole in the future, okay?"
He stared at me for a few seconds, and I began to feel uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. Finally, he spoke. "Why didn't you tell me who you were?" he said softly.
My shoulders sank, and I shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "This is my first gig – but that's no excuse."
"No, it's not," he said. He didn't sound judgmental, just stating the facts. "Hey," he said, for the first time changing his expression – this time to one of concern. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I smiled weakly, "why do you ask?"
"You look like you've been crying," he replied, looking as though he was worried, but against his better judgement.
"Oh, yeah," I said, feeling ashamed. "Don't worry about it." The last thing I wanted was for Alex to think I was somehow playing him – trying to manipulate my way out of my screw-up.
He leaned against his car, a gamut of expressions flashing across his face. Finally, he sighed deeply, as though he'd come to a conclusion. "Listen, it's water under the bridge – alright?"
"You mean it?" I said hesitantly.
"Yeah – we're good." He smiled. "We've all gotta do what we've gotta do, right?"
"Right," I echoed.
"Just don't throw me under the bridge next time, okay?" He winked.
"You don't have to worry about that." I smiled with relief. "The last couple of days have been horrible. I feel terrible about what I did."
"Cut yourself some slack," he said. "It pissed me off at the time, but I got over it. You should too."
"Hey," I said curiously, "can I ask you something? How come you were out so much later than everyone else? I was beginning to think you'd just left your car here."
"I do sometimes," Alex replied, smiling to himself as though he was remembering a private joke, "but I was practicing."
"After everyone else leaves?" I asked, surprised. It didn't fit my mental picture of Alex – a naturally skilled playboy who relied on his talent, rather than hard graft.
"I'm the new boy," he said, leaning against his car with exhaustion, "and my teammates are the best in the world. I don't just want to be good – I want to be great."
I studied Alex's proud, confident stance and ebullient self-confidence pouring out of his face and was left under no doubt that he'd make it where he wanted to go – straight to the top. "I'm impressed," I said honestly.
"Didn't think I had it in me?" He smiled.
I blushed ruefully. "Well, you do hav
e a certain…"
"Reputation?"
"Reputation," I agreed. "Your picture’s in the newspaper, after all."
He shuffled his feet, flushing slightly with embarrassment. "I don't think they’re there to take photos of me…"
"No," I grinned, "I guess those pretty starlets always getting pictured with their arms wrapped around you are still slightly more famous." As I said it, I felt a sudden, unexpected pang of jealousy surge through my body. I could hardly credit it – but all of a sudden I wanted to know what it felt like to have my arms wrapped around his thick, powerful, muscled waist.
"For now." He grinned. I looked at him carefully – he was joking, mostly, but there was an underlying current of truth to what he said. He didn't just want to be famous, like so many aspiring athletes – he expected to be. And frankly, I wouldn't put it past him.
"For now," I agreed. "Listen," I said, readying myself to leave, "I just wanted to apologize – I won't keep you any longer."
I thought that I detected a hint of disappointment flashing across Alex's face, but I wasn't sure.
"Are you sure I can't give you a lift?" he asked, pointing at the shiny Audi we were standing next to. "There's space for a little one…"
"Thank you," I smiled, "but it's fine. I really should start getting to grips with the buses here."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
I wanted more than anything to take him up on his offer, and the sudden and very vivid imagery of my legs wrapped around his body in the small, cramped front seat of the sports car that flashed across my mind's eye did nothing to dissuade me, but the last thing I needed in my life was a fling with the very man I'd been sent out here to cover. I felt as though agreeing to share a ride with him would be somehow pivotal – it would change our relationship in a way I wasn't sure I was happy with.
"Really," I said firmly. On impulse, I leaned forward, resting my hands on his angular hips, and pecked him on the cheek. "Thanks," I said softly, "for letting me apologize." I didn't want to let go – he smelled clean and fresh, and the aftershave that was dabbed delicately on his neck imparted the faintest hint of spice.
His arms suddenly swept forward and encircled me, gathering me up in a tight embrace. His body was tight – I could practically feel the ridges of his abdominal muscles pressing against my stomach through the thin material of his white tee, and the arms that held me tight against him were thick and muscular.
For a second, I felt as though I'd been transported to another world, and I gave serious consideration to leaning upwards and planting another kiss on him – a proper one, this time.
"Any time," he said huskily. I had no idea whether Alex was hitting on me, or whether this was entirely innocent and I was the one taking things the wrong way. "I've already forgotten about it."
My breasts were squashed up against his chest, ensconced in the tiny crater beneath his broad, defined pecs, and my nipples were suddenly on fire. I felt like any moment now, my legs would simply give way and I'd collapse against Alex's hard, athletic body. Seconds that felt like minutes ticked away, and suddenly he released me.
"Sure I can't give you a lift?" he asked.
I was weak at the knees, my breath was ragged and there was a definite, undeniable wetness between my thighs. "No," I panted, "I'm fine."
His eyes raked my body up and down. "If you sure…" he said, eyes lingering on my chest. I had the uncomfortable thought that perhaps he could see my suddenly hard nipples, but the bra wire digging awkwardly into my back reassured me that at least they were hidden, even if my flushed cheeks were definitely on show.
I nodded quickly. If he asked again, I didn't know whether I be able to refuse. "I am."
"In that case," he smiled, "I'll see you around." He opened the front door of his Audi sports car, jumped in and gunned the engine – and just like that, he was gone.
I had to sit down, just to still my trembling legs.
Was I imagining things, or was there a bulge in his pants?
8
Alex
People in any other walk of life thought that professional athletes had it easy. And hell, I'd be the first to admit that I'd way rather play soccer on an immaculately maintained grass field for ninety minutes than spend fifty hours a week down a coal shaft.
Routine, though, was a killer.
Wake up at eight, have breakfast: two slices of toast, half an avocado, two eggs.
Yoga at nine – needed to stay flexible, didn't want to get injured.
Drive to the training ground, be there by half ten.
Fitness training until half eleven. Mid-morning snack – always eating, had to get those nutrients in somehow.
Team training until lunch, working on technique, strategy.
Stretching.
Eat a snack.
Tactics meeting until three.
Go home, eat another meal.
Take a nap so the muscles can recover.
Go for a swim. Eat dinner.
Don't go out, because alcohol inhibits recovery.
Sleep.
Then wake up and do it all again.
Okay, I wasn’t saying I was a saint – but if I got through most of that, I should be able to treat myself every now and again, shouldn't I?
And ever since Diana had apologized to me yesterday, the only thing I'd been able to think about was the sensation of having her tits pressed against my chest. I felt like I was going crazy – and I knew there were only two things that would cure my current obsession with her perfect, taut body: drinking and fucking.
I intended to do both.
"Rodrigo, it's Alex, como estas?" I asked down the phone.
"Alex, I'm good – how you doing man?" he replied. His tone was upbeat, but I knew better – deep down, he was bored as fuck.
"Not bad, not bad," I agreed, "just playing FIFA."
"The soccer game?" He laughed. "They got you in it yet?"
I looked at the little character who represented me on screen. He wasn't anywhere near as handsome as me, but he wasn't bad for a pixelated computer game. "Oh yeah." I grinned.
"Feels good, doesn't it," Rodrigo asked, "to know that millions of people around the world are playing as you every day?"
I hadn't thought about it like that, but Rodrigo was right – it did. It felt damn good. Still, I didn't want to spend my Thursday evening in at home playing on my PlayStation, nice as my new villa was. I leaned back on the grey suede, L-shaped couch and tossed the controller to one side.
"You're right, man, it does. But I get to do it for real – that's what really feels good."
"Too true," he agreed. "Why you calling?"
"Fancy going out for a drink?" I asked. "I'm losing my mind in here. I need to find a woman."
Rodrigo laughed. "Have you got laid since you got to Barcelona?" he asked. "What's it been, two weeks now? I'd be going crazy, too."
I cast my mind back to a perfect, tanned brunette that I'd picked up after leaving Adria's bar a few nights before. She'd been a good lay, but I felt nothing for her. Certainly not enough to call her up and have her back over, though I knew that was exactly what she'd expected when she'd punched her number into my cell phone before putting her bra back on.
"Of course I have," I laughed, "but you can never get enough, you know?"
"I feel you, Alex," he replied. "I heard about a party at the W Hotel down by the beach – want to check it out?"
"Sounds good. See you at ten?"
"Alex," he laughed, "remember this is Spain – not America. I'll see you in the bar at midnight."
"Midnight," I repeated, "got it."
Six hours to kill, I thought, stretching languidly and casting my eye around my new villa. I'd gone straight from foster care to college, and the sum total of my possessions when I'd signed for Barcelona had added up to about three cardboard boxes – moving in had been pretty easy.
The previous owner had died, or gone bankrupt – something like that, and my lawyers had negotiated
a package deal for the villa and the furniture in one. As my eye danced from possession to possession, though, I wasn't particularly impressed by what I saw. Green leather, bronze-studded lounge chairs bracketed the tall, dark mahogany bookshelves, and the only possession I'd added so far – the grey suede couch I was lying on – looked conspicuously out of place.
Still, not bad for a twenty-one-year-old orphan.
And I hadn't bought the white-walled villa for its interior design, because I had every intention of ripping that out and replacing it with something entirely modern. No, I'd bought it because it was set in acres of green space only a short drive down the Mediterranean coastline from Barcelona – just off the promenade at Sitges. I'd had enough of inner-city living as a kid, and though Barcelona was about as far away from Compton with its soaring fifteenth century architecture and thousand-year-old cathedrals, I still yearned for open space, and freedom.
Having my own pool was pretty nice, too.
I drained my gin and tonic, noticing the faintest scent of lemon tickling my nostrils as I raised the glass to my lips. The ice cubes tinkled as I set it down on the long oak wood dining table. I didn't bother clearing it away – I was pretty sure the villa came with a cleaner, and if it didn't, it would soon…
After all, I had better things to do. Right now, for example, I wanted to get laid. I caught my reflection in a window and adjusted my brand-new suit jacket. I felt like James Bond, not Alex Rodriguez – but the more I caught glimpses of myself around the villa, the less I could tell the difference. The suit looked incredible – midnight blue, open collar and tailored to fit the ridges and lines of every one of my trained, thick muscles. Actually, it'd be more accurate to say the suit looked good, but I looked incredible in it.
I'd always been tall, tanned and tantalizingly attractive – but on top of that, I was now wealthy enough to wear a three-hundred-dollar shirt under a two-thousand-dollar suit. And unlike the rest of the crew I'd run with as a kid, I'd made it without slinging drugs.
