by Holly Hart
I looked around conspiratorially. "No," I said, "keep it down. I'm not even sure if I'm allowed to be talking about it yet."
"Trust me," Tim grinned, "if people don't know yet, they will soon."
"You going to tell them?"
"Maybe…"
I closed the last couple of yards to our seats and groaned.
"What is it?" Tim asked with concern. "Something wrong?"
I pointed subtly to my left, making a disappointed face. "Dumb and dumber," I whispered, pointing at Ken and Frank. "Haven’t seen them in a while." They were sitting right behind Tim and me – only two rows of seats separated us, and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that told me what I already knew – they were going to cause trouble.
Tim looked at them dismissively. Hell, he kind of made it obvious what he was doing. I couldn't help but grin my approval. "Those two?" He chuckled. "Who cares what they think? They've been out of the loop for decades, and they still haven't realized it."
I laughed. "Keep it down!"
"What," he grinned, "they'll hear? If those two haven't got hearing aids already, they will soon…"
I elbowed him in his ribs and he cut it out. Finally! Beneath us, the crowd roared as the two teams made it out onto the pitch and their respective captains stood for the joint photo with the referees. The hyper, drunk, emotionally charged crowd alternated chanting the names of their favorite players with hurling abuse at their hated opponents. I couldn't help but flush with pride as I heard Alex's name sung louder and longer than anyone else's.
"Lo, lo, lo," they sang, "Alejandrooo. Lo, lo, lo, lo, Alejandroooo!" It was a booming, deep chant that sounded incredible when sung by the low, melodious voices of the Catalan crowd. It was warm, deep and emotional, and the crowd went wild as I saw, far below us on the pitch, Alex raise his arm in joyous acknowledgement. I knew he hated being called Alejandro – but I had the feeling he'd make this the one exception to his rule.
"They like your boy, don't they?" Tim shouted over the deafening roar of the crowd.
"Not as much as I do," I grinned.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that…" he joked. "Ever since he made that taxi driver's bar his local watering hole, the city's gone mad for him. You know how many players who don't play for half the season get this kind of reception?"
"No," I said haltingly, "but I'm willing to guess. Not many?"
"Nail on the head," Tim said as the coin toss happened below us. Barcelona won and decided to start the match attacking the north stand of the stadium. It was a good omen. "They love that boy like no one I've ever seen – at least since Roman Garcia!"
I was mulling that over when I heard Ken's reedy voice deliberately making its presence known. "I heard she's fucking a player," he said, pointing his forked tongue at me.
Frank replied with equal venom in his voice. "I heard she's fucking the whole locker room…"
I knew exactly who they were talking about. They couldn't have been any clearer if they'd sent a letter addressed directly to me and signed it themselves. I wasn't angry that rumors were beginning to spread about Alex’s and my fierce relationship – after all, we went to bars all over town together and made no real attempt to hide the fact that we were seeing each other.
Hell, the only reason things had been kept so quiet was that Barcelona's inhabitants were nothing if not fiercely loyal to the players they loved. Alex and I spent our time drinking and socializing in the city's local neighborhood bars – and they rewarded our patronage by keeping quiet.
It was inevitable, though, that eventually something would slip. I was honestly surprised that it had taken so long. Then again, it didn't exactly seem like Ken and Frank had come across much more than a rogue rumor. They definitely didn't seem to know the name of the player I was, quite rightly, sleeping with. They sure as hell didn't know that it was much more than just a torrid, physical affair.
Then again, it didn't exactly surprise me. Ken and Frank weren't exactly Pulitzer Prize-winning journalists, after all. In fact, I hesitated to even call them journalists!
Still, just because they didn't seem to know much about what was going on didn't mean I couldn't be offended, and I sure as hell was. In fact, I was bristling with rage. Who the hell were these two to insult me like this? Where the hell did they get off?
"Ignore them," Tim whispered, holding my elbow firmly. "They’re like jackals. They see an opening, they'll just harry at it until it breaks."
I looked at him, furious, but saw the sense in what he was saying. "Fine," I whispered back angrily, "have it your way."
It almost didn't matter for a while, because the game below us was engrossing. It was like a chess match, with neither side leaving an opening for the other – and the crowd around us didn't seem to care that no one had scored. Nor did I – even without a goal, it was the best game I'd seen all season. Every single player seemed to care, and was playing out of his skin – none of them could be accused of just picking up their paycheck.
The game had it all – aggression, crisp passing, shots from long range and incredible diving saves from both teams’ goalkeepers. Everything, that is, except a goal to break the deadlock, and as the halftime whistle blew, and both teams trooped back down the tunnel towards the locker room, the game was poised on a knife edge.
"Bet she makes them pay…" I heard Ken whisper loudly.
"Wouldn't you?" Frank replied. "Sure she makes a pretty penny opening her legs for the whole team to enjoy…"
I gritted my teeth and proceeded to ignore their biting comments for the entire break. As much as I pretended it didn't get to me, it did, and I was grateful to see the players trot back out onto the field for the second half – it gave me something else to focus on.
When I saw that Alex was among them, I forgot about my tormentors entirely. "He's been subbed on!" I said, gripping Tim's forearm with girlish excitement.
"Calm down, girl," he grinned, "you want everyone to know?"
I turned back and fixed Ken and Frank with a dull, furious glare. "I don't care," I said truthfully. The whistle blew, breaking the moment, and the teams resumed playing. Alex was out on the right wing – hugging the touchline. It wasn't his best position, but Ramon Garcia was playing in the "number ten" role that Alex coveted, and that, I figured, was fair enough. After all, Alex was coming back from a long-term injury – and he was coming back from that injury in one of the season's biggest games.
And anyway, I knew Alex was still better playing out of position than most other players on the pitch were at the positions they'd trained for all their lives…
Alex picked up the ball from the halfway line, and the "lo, lo, lo" chant resumed the second he touched it. It sent shivers running down my spine.
"They love him…" Tim whispered wonderingly.
It wasn't hard to see why. "Look at him," I replied, "he's running like he never missed a match." It was true. Alex was light on his feet, and doing what he did best – running straight at the defense. The Madrid left back was in no man's land – too far from his other defenders and out of position. Alex knocked the ball five yards past him and lowered his head to sprint towards it, and towards the Madrid goal.
The crowd screamed their appreciation.
The Madrid defender only had two choices – tackle Alex, or chase back after him and towards his own goalposts.
He chose the first option.
The crowd went suddenly, ominously silent as the defender crunched into Alex, the studs on both cleats showing as he tackled the Barcelona star, my boyfriend, with both legs off the ground. It was the kind of tackle had the potential to end a man's career. It was the kind of tackle that could have ruined Alex's life.
I stood up, and all around us, commentators spoke hurriedly, excitedly into their black microphones, describing what they were watching to an engrossed crowd across the globe in a hundred different languages. I didn't care about any of that. I was just terrified for Alex.
He went down hard, tumbling ov
er the ball, his legs entangled with the out-of-control defender. He tumbled over three or four times before coming to a halt, and lay still on the turf.
My heart was in my mouth.
The referee ran towards him, digging something out of his back pocket. The heavily partisan home crowd was now angered, outraged and baying for the Madrid player to take the long walk back down the tunnel. I was on their side, but by contrast, I was struck dumb with worry.
"He's off!" Tim shouted as the referee pulled a red card out and brandished it in front of the protesting Madrid player. "He can't have any complaints – that was disgusting. Diana – you all right?"
I wasn't sure – my eyes were fixed on Alex, who was lying on the turf and experimentally wiggling his just-recovered knee. He flexed it towards him, then away, and seemed to be satisfied, finally standing up and limping away from the spot where he'd been tackled.
"I think so…" I whispered as he started jogging back into position, regaining more and more mobility with every step he took.
"Don't worry," Tim said reassuringly, "it was just a knock."
"I know," I smiled wanly. "I'm going to have to stop watching his games – this kind of stuff happens in every match. I don't know how I'd be able to face it all the time!"
Ken couldn't even give me a moment to myself. "Look, Frank," he said, nudging his bitter friend. "I bet she's sleeping with that Mexican kid Rodriguez. No wonder she always has stories before everyone else – that cheating slut."
I spun round, ready to open up on him, but Tim got there ahead of me. "You guys are pathetic, you know that?" he spat. "You really are. You want to know why no one in this business likes you? Why no one kicked up a fuss when you got shipped off to Madrid?"
Ken glowered back. "What makes you so special?"
Tim smiled. "Oh, nothing." He grinned, looking at me as if for approval. I had the faintest idea that I knew what he was about to do, and I nodded, smiling happily. "Nothing – except, should I tell them, Diana?"
"Oh," I grinned, "I dunno. You reckon they deserve to find out?"
"Not really," Tim said, as if considering the idea carefully in his head, "but you know what – I want to see the look on their faces."
I gestured towards him as if giving my approval, but kept one eye on the game. I wasn't sure whether it was because I didn't want to miss a second of Alex's return to the field or whether I was concerned for his safety! "Be my guest…"
"Ken, Frank – how long you been doing this?" Tim asked sweetly. When they didn't reply, he pushed on regardless. "Thirty years sound right?" he asked, turning to face me.
"More or less," I agreed, "In fact – maybe more, looking at them."
"You're right," Tim grinned, "they do look past their best. Let's say it's forty years. Forty years to get where?" he asked rhetorically.
"Go fuck yourself," Frank spat.
"No, thank you, I've got plenty of people willing to help me out on that front." Tim grinned. "Unlike you – I'd imagine. Anyway, like I was saying – forty years is a long time to get nowhere. You know what Diana and I just heard, Frank?"
He didn't reply, just stared silently back towards his tormentor.
"I'm glad you asked," Tim said smoothly. "I'll tell you. Diana here has been given her own chat show for the World Cup, and lucky old me – I'm going over there to head up the production side of things. I know, I know," Tim grinned sweetly, "I'm sure you can't wait to wish her all the best."
Ken spluttered, for once lost for words. Frank stepped in. "You saying this bit—"
Tim cut in sharply. "Watch your filthy mouth, Frank!"
The battle on Frank's face was as monumental as it was hilarious as he struggled to clamp down on his anger, noticing the funny looks he was getting from the Spanish journalists sitting all around. "You're telling me that she," he spat, "is getting her own show? With who? WBC gave her a chat show?"
Tim had a broad smile on his face as though he couldn't wait to answer. "Yep!" He grinned happily. "And after only a couple of years in the business. How long you been doing this, Frank?"
A sly, cunning look crossed Frank’s face – the look of a man who thought that he was about to get one over on a hated enemy. I still had no idea what it was – other than the fact that the hand of fate had dealt me a vagina, not a cock, that he and his slimy companion had against me. "Oh ho," he crowed. "And how would Grant feel about your little affair with Alex down there?"
Ken chimed in. "That’s right, girlie, we know all about that…"
I chuckled, no – in fact I just laughed out loud. Judging by the looks on their faces, that was the last thing I expected. "Jesus, Frank," I said, reveling in the fact it was my turn to crow, "how out of touch are you? Grant retired last week. WBC’s got a much more modern sports director coming in. Do what you want."
Frank's face went scarlet with rage, and I filled with a mixture of schadenfreude and pride as I saw him appreciate just how comprehensively I’d outmaneuvered him. Suddenly, the crowd roared behind us, and my focus snapped back to the action on the field – rather than the drama off it. Alex was about to provide exactly the kind of cherry on top that a victory this sweet demanded.
Once again, Alex had picked up the ball forty yards away from the Madrid goal, and once again, the white-clad defenders were filled with panic – especially now that there were only ten Madrid players left on the pitch after their teammate had been sent off. Once again, Alex ran directly at the defense, flicking the ball from side to side as he ran, languidly testing the defender's reflexes.
They were too slow. He flicked it past the center back and turned on the afterburners, beating him for pace in just seconds as his arms pumped desperately by his sides. He reached the slowing ball and knocked another five yards, directly into the path of the panicking goalkeeper.
Two Barcelona players had joined Alex rushing towards the box – Rodrigo, and Alex's old rival, Ramon Garcia.
"No way he passes," Tim muttered at my side. "He’s going all the way. He wants the glory."
It was like time had slowed right down in front of my eyes. I watched Alex run as though time applied differently to him. Rodrigo was to his right, Ramon his left, and the goalkeeper was rushing straight at him. He could take the shot – and knowing Alex, he'd probably score, but it was the kind of moment in which coaches always drilled players to pass – because passing meant a definite goal.
The only problem was that strikers like Alex weren't normally the most selfless players – they were always out for their own personal glory.
That was normally the case, anyway…
I watched in slow-mo as Alex noted Rodrigo to his right and Ramon to his left.
"Shit, he's going to do it, isn't he?" Tim hissed.
Alex dummied his body as if to shoot, pulled his foot back and drilled it forward hard. The goalkeeper dived to the ground, just like he was trained to do, because ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that would have saved the shot.
This was that one time.
The second before Alex's foot struck the ball, he killed its speed entirely in a way only the very best players could do and lightly touched the ball, feathering it towards the waiting, grateful – and surprised – Ramon Garcia.
He tapped it into the open net, and the crowd went wild.
"I thought they hated each other…" Tim whispered.
I stood up. I didn't need to see the rest – I knew how this story ended. "I guess people change…"
Epilogue Part Three
Diana
I pressed my ear against the door to the locker room, listening out for any signs of life inside. I was well aware that it would look sketchy as hell if anyone saw me, but then again, I didn't want to walk into a locker room full of half-naked soccer players.
Actually, thinking about it…
It didn't sound like anyone was inside, so I took a chance and pushed open the door. The room looked like a bomb had hit it – jerseys and cleats and shorts and shin pads were strewn ever
ywhere, and it had an odor of sweat that was either slightly sickening or faintly arousing, depending on whose sweat I was smelling.
I was about to call out and ask if anyone was there when I turned a corner, passed a row of wire cleat lockers to my left, and saw Alex sprawled out on a bench, alone, his shin pads still hanging loosely off his ankles. He had a faint smile on his face, like I caught him in the middle of the happy dream.
I snuck towards him, doing my best to stay completely unseen while stepping over the discarded, muddy jerseys and clods of dirt that littered the floor. I wasn't stealthy enough. My toe clattered quietly against a lone cleat, and I brought myself to a complete halt, standing guiltily in the center of the room with one foot raised off the ground.
"Oh, hey…" Alex said sleepily, opening one eye and looking right at me. "I was hoping you'd come down…"
I swore. "Dammit. I thought I was being so sneaky!"
"Better luck next time." He grinned, beckoning me over. "Jesus, Di, you look hot!"
I looked at him and visibly and exaggeratedly wrinkled my nose. "I didn't know you'd given up showering? You could have said – it would have saved me a trip down here…"
He grinned, and the boyish smile took my breath away, as it did every time. "I don't want to take it off," he said, indicating his muddy kit, "not yet, anyway." He paused for a second, then resumed speaking in a hushed, reverential tone. "I didn't think I'd make it here, not after the injury, anyway…"
I walked over towards him, swaying my hips seductively. "You sure there's nothing I can do to, you know, change your mind? I think you deserve a bit of a celebration after that match…"
Alex sat up and rested his back against the wall, splaying his legs so that his thick, soft cock protruded down one leg of his shorts. He followed the direction of my eyes and chuckled. "You’re insatiable, you know that?"
I pouted. "Hey, that's not fair!"
Alex grinned and beckoned me towards him again. I padded over obediently and paused a couple of inches away from him. "How’s that not fair? I didn't say it was a bad thing!"
