Now I’m here in Madrid, picking up the pieces, and I don’t even have a blueprint. I don’t know where to start. I just know I have to.
This is the very start of your new beginning, I tell myself. Cut yourself a slab and eat the ham.
We don’t stay at the divey place for long. Vera is astute and suggests that Mateo pick the next establishment. I’m fully prepared for Mateo to tell her the night is over, but to my surprise he picks a place.
It’s not too far away from where we are, so we walk through the narrow, winding alleyways of La Latina, all of us a bit tipsy, my gait unsteady as my heels try to negotiate the cobblestone. Vera takes my arm, propping me up so I don’t eat shit, leaving Mateo to wander ahead of us.
The bar we eventually come to doesn’t seem like much more than a dark wood door among shuttered businesses. But after Mateo rings a buzzer and a man in a suit answers, I realize there is so much more to this.
We go up a narrow staircase and then meet a bouncer on the second floor. He nods at Mateo and we pass through a red velvet curtain until we’re in a surprisingly huge nightclub that seems to go on and on.
“What is this place?” I ask, looking around in awe. It’s pretty dark, everything is either mahogany wood or red velvet, the waiters are wearing tuxedos, smoke billows out from cigars and cigarettes, and funked up house music plays from the speakers.
“This is the last resort,” Mateo says. “Literally, Último Recurso. We come here because it’s controlled and we know what we’re going to get.”
Now that I’ve had a moment to look around, I know what he means. Everyone seems to be somebody here. Whether actors or TV personalities or sports stars or models, this seems to be the place they can come and have fun and not be bothered. Kind of like the Soho House in LA, albeit with more music and a European flair.
Mateo leads us over to a roped off area at the back, where a man in a suit promptly lifts the rope for us. There are a few velvet couches, and before we can even say anything, a man comes by, giving us a bucket of three champagne bottles, saying a few quick words in Spanish to Mateo with a little bow, then giving me a quick wink.
“What was that about?” I ask. “He winked at me.”
“Everyone is winking at you,” Vera says, reaching for the bottle. “Have you seen you? Hell, I’m winking at you when you’re not looking.”
I wave that off while Mateo says, “That’s the owner. He wanted to wish us good luck next week and that you’re a welcome addition to the team.”
I’m pretty chuffed at that. “Thank you,” I tell him. “I mean, you can tell him that when he comes by.”
“Don’t look so surprised. When new people are brought in, we usually see it as a good thing. Especially with the therapists.”
“Yeah, especially after Doctor Dumbass did that shit,” Vera says as she pours us all a flute of champagne.
“You mean Doctor Costa?” I ask.
“Vera,” Mateo chides her.
“What?” she says. “I’m just repeating what I read in the papers. I keep the stuff you tell me in the vault.” She makes a motion of zipping her lips.
I look at Mateo. “What happened?”
Mateo sighs loudly. “I really don’t want to get into it here. Not tonight. This is supposed to be fun.”
“Oh, so now you know what fun is?” Vera asks with a smirk.
“Hablando del rey de Roma!” a familiar male voice yells from behind me. I watch Mateo’s face break into a grin and then I turn around to see who it is.
It takes me a moment to recognize them in this environment since I’ve only seen them in either shorts or training gear, but Alejo Albarado and Luciano Ribiero are standing on the other side of the rope, dressed like a bunch of models. The men in Spain really do seem to have a leg up, style-wise, on the rest of the world, and these two are no exception.
“We were just talking about you, patron,” Luciano says and comes over to us after the rope is lifted. He looks exceptionally dapper in a black blazer and grey jeans, a white v-neck t-shirt underneath that gives a hint of chest hair, and a shiny gold watch on his wrist. His dark eyes are warm, his brow black and low set, and he’s clean shaven compared to the scruffy version I’ve seen all week. His hair is black and thick and wavy, and lightly peppered with grey.
The Portuguese player is not just the captain of the team; he’s thirty-seven, the oldest guy on the team, and maybe even La Liga. People have been whispering for a long time about whether he’s got what it takes to continue and that this might be his last year. I guess we’ll just have to see. Having gone over his records, he seems to be in top shape, aside from a shoulder injury in the past.
My eyes then go to Alejo. Perhaps I’ve been avoiding looking at him. I haven’t had much interaction with him this week, which is good because there’s something about this beautiful boy that makes me feel like an old pervert when I’m in his vicinity.
And right now is no exception.
He’s wearing a black t-shirt that fits his body perfectly, hugging his broad swimmer’s shoulders and long, lean torso, plus black jeans and black Adidas Gazelles on his feet. But despite his professional athlete’s body, it’s his face that I want to keep gazing at.
His eyes are a crystalline blue, like a glacier meeting the sea with just a tinge of green, and the way they look at you, framed by black arched brows, just brims with a type of intensity that’s hard to put your finger on. It’s like he’s made of pure energy and confidence that radiates from every pore. And even though there’s often a smirk on his lips, there’s something in the depths of his eyes that remind me of an old soul, despite the fact that he’s just twenty-three.
It’s okay to just look, I tell myself. He’s young, he’s gorgeous. He knows it.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Alejo grins at me. His smile is breathtaking, making him look older somehow, the contrast of his white teeth against his tanned skin and the crinkles near his eyes. “I did not expect to see you here, Señora Blackwood,” Alejo says.
I clear my throat. “Please, it’s just Thalia.”
“And it’s Señorita,, if you’re going to use that term,” Mateo says, gesturing to the couch. “Now the both of you sit down and stop hovering, but you need to get your own champagne.”
Luciano eyes the waiter and gives him a nod as he sits down beside me, Alejo on the couch beside Vera and Mateo.
“No Señora? You’re not married?” Alejo asks me in surprise. “I could have sworn you were.”
I paste a smile on my lips. “Divorced.”
The word feels like a stone sinking in my chest.
Divorced.
Will it ever stop sounding so ugly?
“Lo siento,” Alejo says gravely. “I am so sorry.”
To his credit, he really does seem sympathetic.
“Thank you, but it’s fine. It’s for the best.” I straighten up, trying to look like it has no effect on me.
“It’s absolutely for the best,” Mateo says. “Just look at me. Had I not gone through a divorce of my own, I would have never found the love of my life.” He grabs Vera’s hand and kisses the top of it passionately. “The right person for you is out there.”
I exchange a glance with Vera, who looks annoyed. “Well, perhaps Thalia isn’t looking right now,” she says. “She’s got bigger things to think about. Like dealing with the likes of you boys.”
“That’s right,” Luciano says. “You’ll be married to the whole team in no time. Sorry, but I snore.”
I laugh and grab a glass of champagne. “I look forward to it. To settling in a bit more, not the snoring part.”
“You’re doing great so far,” Luciano says. “Even with Costa, how you say, micro-managing you.”
“See?” Vera says.
“Vera,” Mateo warns her.
“What? It’s Luciano who said it. El capitán!”
I look at Mateo and raise my brows, hoping he’ll let us continue since I really want to hear this.
H
e sighs, running a hand down his face, and gestures to Luciano. “You explain it. I have no part of this. I’m not here.”
“Explain what? That the doctor obviously has a problem that you hired Thalia?” Luciano nudges my shoulder with his. “No offense, of course.”
“A problem? With me?” I ask, my stomach turning into knots. What did I do?
I glance at Mateo, but he’s staring into space, quite purposely. I then look at Luciano, urging him to go on. “What problem?”
“It’s a long story, but I’ll give you the short version,” Luciano says, lowering his voice as a waiter drops off a bucket of champagne for him.
“Can I just interrupt and tell you that there is no short version when it comes to this guy?” Alejo says.
Luciano gives him a steady look before twisting in his seat to face me. “Doctor Costa used to be in charge of hiring all the therapists, though now he just does the medical team. Mateo hires the physios. This is because the man is a misguided egomaniac. Costa, not Mateo. Maybe a little.” He makes a back and forth motion with his hand and eyes Mateo devilishly.
Vera snorts at that.
Luciano goes on. “Anyway, he started to make calls that the physios disagreed with, the players too, and some got fired. He thought I needed shoulder surgery when I didn’t — thank god Mateo intervened. This was years ago of course. It got to the point that Cris, you know, Ronaldo, made a clause in his contract that he could hire his own physiotherapist since the ones we were left with were the ones that Costa approved. No one trusted them.”
“So why is Dr. Costa still with the team?”
“Because he’s best friends with the boss,” Alejo says knowingly.
“He signed a long contract that’s up next year,” Mateo speaks up, his voice calm. “And yes, we don’t see eye to eye, and he doesn’t like the fact that I make the hiring and firing decisions now. But it was the best I could do. If it were up to me, he would be out of here.”
“As much as we’re at the top of the team, we still have to answer to someone,” Luciano says.
“Yeah, someone who would rather you boys not be out drinking so late with a game next week,” Vera points out.
“Probably not,” Luciano agrees. “But this one dragged me out.” He points his champagne glass at Alejo.
Alejo sits back on the couch, his long legs splayed in front of him, and gives Luciano a charming smirk. “Admit it, I make you feel young again.”
Luciano lets out a hearty laugh. “You make me feel old the next day, capullo.”
“How is this for a leader, huh?” Alejo says to me. “Using such language in front of the lady.”
I raise my hands. “Please. I was part of Manchester United for long enough, I’ve heard worse, believe me.”
“Okay, fine,” Alejo says smoothly. “Perhaps the language is worse. We are the romance language, are we not? But you must admit, we are much better looking.”
He’s got me there. Alejo, Luciano, Mateo, and half the guys on the team seem like they’ve walked out of some photoshoot for handsome Spanish manly men.
“Yes, you are much better looking,” I admit.
“Careful,” Mateo says. “You don’t want this going to their heads.”
“Oh, it’s far too late for that,” Vera says, and then takes a champagne bottle out of the ice bucket. “Okay everyone, it’s going to go flat and we’ve got two more bottles to get through. Drink up, drink up.”
A bottle pops and the cork goes flying.
Chapter 4
Alejo
I can’t take my eyes off her.
I know I probably should.
I know from the way Luciano keeps frowning at me, that perhaps it’s a little noticeable. Though, if we’re being real here and we take my reputation into account, I suppose I might stare at a lot of women that way.
But Thalia Blackwood doesn’t seem to be most women. At least, not the ones I’ve met.
The moment I ran out onto the field and saw her at the beginning of the week, I knew she was going to be trouble. I don’t have any problems having a female therapist, but someone like her might make things a bit difficult.
Luckily, for my sake, I got over it. She didn’t even have a chance to touch me, didn’t even come near me all week, but I have been watching her. Watching her adjust to the job, watching how she takes everything in with those inquisitive dark eyes. Thirsty for information, to succeed, to prove herself. In some ways, she reminds me of me when I first started.
The way I still am.
I’m watching her now as she sips her champagne, not quite relaxed around us yet. She listens attentively to Luciano speak, because everyone listens to Luciano and that’s what makes him a good captain. Maybe I’m a little jealous, for no reason at all. She’s sitting beside him, leaning in, hanging onto his every word. But Luciano doesn’t seem to react to her the same way I do.
She is quite stunning. Gorgeous seems like too plain of a term for her, so stunning it is. Her nose is cute enough to bite, her lips glossy and pouty, her skin smooth and clear. She shines with beauty and her eyes shine with sadness. When I asked if she was married, when she told me she was divorced, I could see the pain ripping through her. My mother always said I had a supernatural knack for looking in deep, to see the things people try to hide, and with Thalia it’s no different.
Perhaps her sadness is what makes her beautiful. It’s all about the balance.
Either way, she intrigues me. I want to know her story. How she became so sad. Is it more than her divorce? Is it something else? Where did she come from?
Mateo gets up and announces he’s going to bar to get something else to drink other than champagne.
“Alejo,” he says to me, a command to follow.
I do as I’m told and follow Mateo past the velvet rope and to the bar.
He leans against it, looking as debonair as ever, waiting for the bartender’s attention.
“What are you having?” he asks me.
“A beer would be fine.”
He raises his brow. “Vodka soda. You know you need to stay away from beer.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Mateo can be a little bit meddling when it comes to our lives, though to be honest I don’t mind it as much as I should. It keeps me in check, and if anyone knows what he’s doing, it’s Mateo. I trust him. I’ve trusted him as a coach and as a friend since he joined the team two years ago, and he has led us to victories ever since.
As he places the order with the bartender, I say to him, “I have to admit, right now I feel a bit like a kid who has snuck out of the house.”
“And got caught by his father, yes?” he says. “All I’ll say is you and Luciano are free to do whatever you want, and as long as you’re with him, I trust you.”
“You don’t trust me on my own?”
He smiles and gives a slight shake of his head. “Definitely not. Especially if you’re with Rene. Then who knows where you’ll end up.”
Rene Alba is our striker, and at just a few years older than me, he’s as much of a troublemaker as I am. The media likes to print me as the womanizing ladies’ man, but the truth is, it usually just looks like I am. Rene is the one who goes around breaking hearts. I’m just along for the ride. But I guess there have been one or two occasions last year where we’ve gotten pretty damn drunk — in the off season, mind you — and made the news. Who knew there would be such a reaction to climbing on top of the lion statue outside the parliament building?
“Thankfully Rene isn’t here. I’ll go to bed when the sun comes up. Don’t worry.”
“It’s my job to worry,” he says, handing me my very unappealing vodka soda. “That’s why I’m the coach.” He narrows his eyes, examining my face. “Are you ready for next week?”
“Of course,” I tell him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“First real game of the season. It sets the tone for the rest of the year, and nothing comes easy in La Liga. When we step onto the field in UEFA and the other
teams see our badge, they cower. Bayern. Paris. Chelsea. They lose. When we play here in Spain, we’re no better than the rest of them.”
“We are better, though,” I tell him. “That’s just the truth.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. “I can always count on you for your blind optimism, Alejo.”
“It’s not blind,” I tell him. “You’re the coach. The manager. You know what we’re capable of.”
“I know, I know. But the truth is, other teams are capable too. The difference is, when we play Sevilla, when we play Barcelona, when we play Atlético, they don’t cower. They just think, it’s Los Blancos, we can beat them. I just want you to go into the game thinking there’s a chance we can lose and that we must do everything in our power to not let it happen. We can’t get cocky.”
This isn’t the first time that Mateo has had a talk with me over being too “cocky.” The press say it’s my downfall, that I’m magic on the pitch, that I can handle the ball like no one else, like it’s stuck to my foot, and I can get it into the goal like a magnet.
But then I let it go to my head. I relax. I lose my edge. I know this about myself, but there can’t be a downside to thinking you’re the greatest, can there?
“We will win on Saturday,” I assure him. “It’s Sevilla and they’re on our turf. We have all of Madrid backing us. We will win. I will score the winning goal, you’ll see.”
“You know, even when I was your age, I wasn’t this confident,” he says, amused.
My chest grows tight at that. “I’ve overcome a lot to be here,” I tell him, my tone serious.
He nods, giving me a sympathetic smile. “I know you have.”
I don’t want to get deep, not now when I’m drinking. I gesture over to where everyone else is sitting. His wife Vera is animated, telling some story, waving her hands around. “What do you think about the new girl?” I ask him.
The Younger Man: A Novel Page 5
