He doesn’t seem to notice me, so I take the opportunity to be a total sneak and watch him.
I mean, I have to watch him.
To see how his muscles are working.
It’s my job.
And his muscles are working fine. He’s still in his shorts and blue Adidas training shirt, his muscles rippling with ease with each shot. It looks totally effortless, though I can see a determination in his eyes that says otherwise.
It doesn’t matter whether you call it soccer or football, the men who are at the top of their league have the best bodies in the world. The sport is relentlessly demanding year-round, and their bodies have to rise to the occasion time and time again. It’s admirable to see how they work, how they coax their bodies into giving all they can. Their body fat is often less than ten percent, their muscles taut and lean and stronger than you can imagine.
These men are built like warriors ready for a never-ending battle.
Their endurance is staggering.
And a warrior like Alejo, he’s pretty much in his prime. I can already tell that from now until he hits thirty will be the best years of his career, a time when the physical strength and endurance of youth couples with the mental capacity to stay driven, determined, and emotionally mature.
He would fuck you like a god.
The thought shoots into my head without warning, like someone else put it there, and now my body reacts like the traitor it is, my thighs clenching together to quell the throbbing heat.
And as if he could fucking smell me, Alejo turns ever so slightly and looks at me over his shoulder with a cocky smile.
“Did you get a good look or are you waiting for me to screw?”
My eyes widen. “Screw?” I repeat.
Did he hear my thoughts?
“Screw up,” he clarifies, and then before I can react, he’s lobbing the tiny basketball at my head.
My hand shoots out automatically, and I catch the ball before it slams into my face, my fingers pressing into the rubber.
Alejo laughs. “Good reflexes. Perhaps you’re a natural?”
He moves aside and makes a grand gesture to the game. “Want to play?”
I shake my head. “With you? I don’t think so.” I throw the ball back.
He catches it and then throws it in the air so it lands on his shoulder and slides down his arm to his hand, like a magic trick. “You’re afraid I’ll win? Or you don’t like games?”
“I like games when I know I have a chance.”
His eyes glitter with intensity as he gazes at me. “And you don’t stand a chance with me.”
I know what he’s getting at. It’s impossible not to mistake those words and that look for anything else.
And yet…
Something in me wants to stay. I want to play with him. I want to prove myself.
“Fine,” I tell him, raising my chin. “Let’s play.”
He grins at me, the kind of smile that makes his eyes crinkle and unleashes those butterflies in my stomach again. “Okay,” he says, and throws the ball back at me. I catch it as he says, “You’re up first. Ten shots each.”
I walk over to him, conjuring up some confidence. I played softball and tennis as a girl, and despite my size, I was actually pretty good at basketball. I used to play horse against my three brothers and won more often than not.
“From here?” I ask him, stepping up to what I think is an appropriate place to shoot from.
“Pfft,” he says from behind me. “Anyone can make the shots from there. Back up.”
I move back a foot.
“No, no,” he says. “Come to me.”
“That’s not fair,” I tell him. “You’re so much taller than me.”
He laughs. “That only counts in real basketball, not this one. You’re actually closer to the height of the net than I am.”
That’s not exactly true. I sigh and move back another foot. The ball is tiny, but so is the hoop and I’m pretty sure you’re meant to be playing it right up against the machine.
“This okay?”
He responds by mumbling something in Spanish.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Fine. If you must.”
The thing is, if I do score from here, it’s just going to look like it was only because I was closer than he was.
I end up shuffling right back until I’m standing just in front of him.
“Better, si?” he asks me, and with him looming behind me like this, I can feel his body heat. It doesn’t help that his already deep voice has taken on a huskier tone.
I swallow hard, totally aware that his presence is affecting me in ways it shouldn’t.
Don’t dwell on it, I tell myself. You just need to get laid, that’s all.
It’s true. It just can’t be with him.
“Better,” I manage to say. I take in a deep breath, hoping he can’t hear how hard my heart is pounding. I raise my arms and the ball, trying to focus on the net.
I shoot.
It bounces off the rim and back to us. Alejo reaches out and intercepts it before it has a chance to roll away.
“Concentrate,” he says to me. “Don’t be nervous.”
I pluck the ball from him and shake my ponytail over my shoulder. “Who said I was nervous?”
“I thought perhaps I make you nervous, standing so close to you.”
I give him a quick smile as my pulse accelerates. “Not at all.”
I try to shoot again, but this time the ball doesn’t even come close.
“I swear I’m good at this,” I tell him as I walk over to pick up the ball. I can feel myself getting flustered, not just because of him but because I hate to lose. It’s one reason why I never made a career of sports. I’m too hard on myself and prone to losing my temper and quitting out of frustration.
“I believe you,” he says as I walk back over to him. “You’re just doing everything wrong.”
I stop and put my hand on my hip. “Wrong?”
The tip of his tongue pokes through his teeth as he smiles. “Let me show you.” He makes the motion for me to turn around.
A wave of nerves comes over me as I turn around and step back into my position to shoot.
He comes up behind me and puts his hands — those large, warm hands — on my upper arms, moving me in place. “Just relax,” he says in a low, gravelly voice that makes my hair stand on end. “Let your body be loose. Let it be easy.”
“Loose and easy, that’s how you like it, huh?” I say under my breath.
“Loose and easy, tight and hard, I’m not too picky,” he remarks, and though his tone is light, there is definitely an undercurrent of desire in his voice.
What the hell are you doing?
“Stop overthinking,” he says, sliding his hands down my biceps and over my forearms until they rest at my wrists. “That’s your vice.”
“Vice? I have other, better vices than overthinking,” I tell him.
“Such as?” he says. His thumbs glide over the top of my thumbs. “Let them be loose.”
I try to let my thumbs be loose. I mean, how loose can your thumbs be, really?
I inhale through my nose and try to relax.
He’s not making it easier.
“I like red wine too much,” I admit.
“Who doesn’t?”
“I swear too much.”
“I swear in two languages.”
“I can eat an entire bag of sour candies in one sitting.”
“I can eat a lot of things in one sitting,” he says, and fuck me if that’s not innuendo. “Now look at the net and shoot.”
I do as he says.
The ball goes soaring right into the net, then rolls down into a hole as the electronic scoreboard starts tallying up.
“I knew you could do it,” he says to me.
I burst into a grin and scamper over to the machine, picking the ball up. I throw it to him and he throws it right back to me.
“Don’t lose the momentum
, keep going. You have nine more shots. This time I’ll let you do it on your own.”
“Oh you’re letting me, are you?” I tease him.
He shrugs and steps out of the way.
I take shot after shot and in the end, I end up scoring seven times out of ten.
“I’m starting to think perhaps you were, how you say, hustling me,” Alejo says, stroking his chin.
I throw him the ball. “You’re up next.”
Alejo gets nine out of ten shots, which was to be expected, but still I’m glad I held my own against him.
“You should be resting,” Mateo’s voice booms across the game room, and the both of us turn around to face him. “You too,” he says to me.
“This is resting,” Alejo says. “Helps me relax. Why put a game room here if it wasn’t for this purpose?”
“I didn’t put it here,” Mateo says. He looks strung-out and worried, not the unflappable coach I’m used to seeing. I guess everyone reacts differently before game day. “Meet in the warm-up room in twenty minutes.”
And with that he disappears down the hall.
I look at Alejo, questioning. “Is he okay?”
“Mateo? Sí. He’ll be fine tomorrow. It’s always the day before where he seems to lose it.” He pinches his thumb and finger together in demonstration. “Un poco.”
“Thank god you seem to have it together.”
“How can I not be fine playing games here with you?” he says. “Besides, I have my superstitions.”
Now I’m intrigued. “Like what?”
“That’s for another time,” he says and starts walking toward the door. He chucks the ball behind him like an afterthought and then kicks it back with his foot.
The ball somehow arcs up and goes right in the net, the scoreboard lighting up.
He gives me a cocky, knowing smile, because he knows how good he really is, and then leaves.
Chapter 6
Alejo
Game day.
I wake up before my alarm, not sure if I even slept a wink all night. Rest is important to us, enough so that Mateo has us logging our sleep schedules into a silly app, but I certainly can’t sleep the night before a big game. I’ve seen the greats like Marcelo or Luciano conk out and I’m sure it helps them, but my heart races and I get too nervous to sleep.
I used to hate the way my nerves played up before games but Mateo taught me about controlling those nerves and turning them into energy. If I have nerves plus focus, then I can do what I need to do during the game. I can attack, assist, score.
I could probably stand to sleep in since the game isn’t until seven p.m. but instead I get up and go about my rituals. I wasn’t kidding when I told Thalia I had a few superstitions. The first one is that I stand on the balcony and face the field, saying a prayer that the trials we have learned on the practice pitch will serve us well in the game.
After that, every room I enter that day must be with the left foot, otherwise I have to make the sign of the cross three times.
I use my lucky deodorant which is three years old and only used on game days (it still works, don’t worry).
Then I text my brother Armando and my mother and say Hala Madrid.
They text back immediately, having been waiting for it.
Hala Madrid!
Training is light to nonexistent on game days, usually just a warm-up if that, but even so I like to hit the pitch as soon as I can with my noise-cancelling headphones on and just run through the motions and get my head in the zone.
I get changed in my room, slip on my headphones and then head out the door.
I don’t hear her coming.
I run right into Thalia who is holding a big mug of coffee, having just come from the kitchen.
The scalding hot coffee spills onto her shirt and arm.
“Ahh!” she cries out as the mug falls to the ground.
“¡Lo siento!” I tell her. “I am so sorry, so sorry.”
I whirl around to press my thumb against the electronic reader and my door opens. I grab her hand and pull her inside my room.
“I’m so sorry,” I say once the door closes behind us. “Are you burned? Are you hurt?”
She’s staring down at her shirt and then glances at her arm, which is red. “Ugh.”
“Take off your shirt,” I tell her.
She glances up at me hastily, her brows scrunched together. “What? No.”
“You’re just going to wear that all day?”
“I need to run water on this arm,” she says, going over to the bathroom and running the tap.
She’s being bashful and stubborn, which is kind of adorable. I go into my bedroom and rifle through the drawers until I bring out a white match jersey from my early years.
“How is it?” I ask, going to her side in the bathroom. I peer at her arm in the sink. It’s more pink than red, and it’s not blistering.
“It’s fine,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “It’ll be fine.”
“I’m sorry I ran into you. I didn’t hear you,” I apologize.
“It’s okay. I was walking fast anyway,” she says and then shoots me a shy smile. Her gaze drops to my hands. “What’s that?”
“Put it on.”
“I’m not taking my shirt off here.”
I can’t help but grin at how she’s acting. “I’ll turn around. Did you even bring a spare shirt for today?”
“I’ll go talk to Mateo about it,” she says. “They must have extras.”
“For the game, sí,” I place the shirt in her hands. “Until then, here you go.”
Then I close the door so she can have privacy.
She’s in there for a long time. I’m about to tell her that I’m going to go leave so I can practice when she comes out.
My shirt is absolutely swimming on her and I wish for nothing more than to see her in just this shirt. No pants. No underwear. Just this shirt as she climbs onto my bed. Then I’d slowly peel it off of her, taking my time to explore her body and make her see that I really am absolutely good at everything. Especially fucking.
And I’d be especially good at fucking her.
“It’s too big,” she says, seeming kind of awkward.
“No such thing.”
Her bra and other shirt are bunched up in her hand.
“Was your bra en peligro?” I ask.
I wasn’t sure if she understood what I was getting at but she does. Her bra was compromised. Her cheeks go pink, and naturally my eyes drift to her chest where her nipples are hard and poking through the material. For fuck’s sake, now I’m getting hard too, and these track pants leave nothing to the imagination.
She swallows hard as her gaze momentarily goes south. She abruptly looks away, as if the rest of my room is suddenly interesting. “I’ll give it back to you when I get a change of clothes.”
“Keep it for as long as you like. Though I’m not sure if it’s clean or not.”
She brings the collar up to her nose and sniffs. “It smells good.” She shrugs.
“That’s just my lucky deodorant.”
Her eyes go to mine in surprise. “You wear lucky deodorant?”
“I’m wearing it right now. One of those superstitions I told you about. Now, I bet you have a lot of work and planning to do today. So do I.”
I head toward the door, and I swear I hear a sigh of relief from her. I guess she thought I had more nefarious reasons for bringing her into my room.
We head out into the hallway, and before we part ways she says, “Take it easy out there. Don’t train too hard. You need all the energy you can get for tonight.”
“Believe me, I can go all day and all night. Just call me your Spanish Energizer bunny.”
It sounds cheesy coming out of my mouth, but it makes her smile, so it’s worth it.
* * *
The rest of the day passes as if it’s happening to someone else.
The noise-cancelling headphones block out the world, allowing me to zero in, deeper and dee
per, until everything that I am is a narrow world of focus, and everyone knows not to disturb me.
I do shooting drills on the pitch, getting as many balls into the goal as I can.
I eat.
I warm up.
I get changed into the sharp navy suits we normally wear to the away games, but since it’s our first game of the season, it feels appropriate. We pile into the infamous bus that takes us to Santiago Bernabéu Stadium in downtown Madrid. The motorcade leads the way through the sunset, as the blocked-off streets are lined with throngs of passionate fans, running alongside the bus and cheering us on.
But I don’t see much of it. It’s too easy to get swept up in the fans’ expectations of you.
I only have expectations from myself.
My game day playlist plays in my ears. I did my drills to Led Zeppelin, I ate to Paul Simon, did my warmup to Deftones, and now I’ve got “Insomnia” by Faithless going, the last song, its eight minute-length cued to end just as the bus pulls into the stadium.
I’m hyped up.
I’m a beast.
A soldier on the frontlines.
A warrior stepping into battle.
I’ve got so much energy I feel like I could kick a million goals, run around the pitch a hundred times, and scream while I absolutely slaughter the other team.
I’m right where I need to be.
We pile off the bus, giving quick smiles and stern looks to the photographers waiting outside, then make our way through the lower halls of the stadium to the locker room.
We get changed and it’s only then that I take my headphones off.
The world roars around me.
I glance at my teammates. Luciano is serious too, but gives me a wink.
We get into our warm-up gear.
Head out onto the field.
The stadium is still filling up, the excitement and energy visible, palpable.
We’re only out there for fifteen minutes, shooting a few goals, getting our muscles ready and our head in the game, and then we’re coming back in.
We get changed into our game kit.
The white uniforms for Los Blancos.
I stare at the back for a moment, as I always do, seeing my name and my number. Knowing all that I’ve sacrificed and worked for to be here.
The Younger Man: A Novel Page 8
