“Let’s go,” Vera says to me, grabbing her purse that’s stuffed beside me on the armchair.
“I’ll catch an Uber later,” I tell her.
“Suit yourself,” she says, and to my relief she doesn’t seem to give it much thought. Vera goes to join Mateo who looks at me expectantly, and I know she’s telling him I’m staying. He gives me a dismissive wave, as if to say it’s your hang over, and then they’re gone.
With that, the great migration begins as the players start leaving and calling it a night.
For us though, I think the night is just beginning.
I wait, sipping on a glass of red wine, waiting until the last people, Rene and the goalie, stumble outside drunk, Rene calling a cab on his phone.
Then Alejo goes over to the door and locks it.
He turns around and gives me a smile that’s decidedly wicked.
Now that it’s just the two of us, I can’t help feeling nervous. Not in a bad way, in the way that reminds me of being young, like high school young, and finally getting a chance with a big, juicy crush of mine.
I suppose that’s what Alejo is, a big, juicy crush.
Alejo has a massive collection of rare vinyl records, and the current one, some metal band, is spinning. He walks over to it, puts on another record, and smooth jazz comes out, something a little sensual and dark.
He comes over to me and grabs my free hand while I put the glass of wine down on the side table, lifting me to my feet.
“Dance with me,” he says, immediately sweeping me up in his arms, moving back and forth to the decadently slow grooves.
I can’t help but let out a soft laugh, my heart growing warm inside my chest as he spins me around. I can’t remember the last time I danced like this. Probably at my wedding.
A pinch of disappointment forms deep in my gut, but I close my eyes and lean into Alejo, letting him sweep those cold cobwebs away. I won’t be tangled up in them now.
“Luciano taught me a saying,” I say after a moment. My voice is low. It feels wrong to speak loudly, as if it will break the spell.
“If it’s a Portuguese one, I hope you know they make no sense.”
“No. Well, there was one about a flea. Anyway, he said it was something that Mateo taught him. To compete, to win, to succeed, you have to be persistent and keep going. Don’t let any failures or setbacks stop you. You have to run that animal down.”
“Sí,” Alejo says. “It’s true. That’s what we need to do.”
I pull back to stare at him, smiling. “Is that what you’ve been doing with me? Am I the animal?”
He bites his lip thoughtfully, a stray lock of dark hair falling onto his forehead. “Si,” he says. “But you’re more like a rare bird. One that’s hard to find and even harder to catch.”
“Not a squirrel?”
He laughs, rich and joyful, the kind of laugh that makes your heart skip two beats at once. “Not even a squirrel.”
We sway for a little bit, slow dancing in an empty room.
And then his hands slide down the sides of my hips.
Curl around the hem of my cocktail dress.
Start pulling the dress up, over my hips.
I’m breathless at his attentiveness, at how slowly his fingers work, around my thighs, pausing before they slip to where I really want them.
“Am I making you wet already?” he says into my ear, causing icy shivers to cascade down my spine until they dissolve in warmth. “Shall I test and see?”
I let out a breathy, “Yes,” already so eager for him. There’s no point in trying to control my hormones or my body at this point. Alejo has opened up a reservoir of desire for me and I’m jumping right into the deep end.
With his gaze locked on my eyes, he slips his hand under my panties, and I inhale sharply.
He groans, his eyes fluttering as his fingers sink inside me. “You are soaked. So fucking wet. I could play a game and make you beg for it,” he says roughly. He brings his fingers away, and I feel cold without his warm hand there. He deliberately sticks his finger in his mouth, sucking, and then kisses me softly, teasingly, until I taste my salt.
Sweet Jesus.
My knees are starting to buckle, I swear. I grip his arms to steady myself.
“Or,” he adds as he pulls away, resting his forehead against mine, “I could get you to sit on my face. Eat you out until you’re wild and squirming for release.”
I gulp. Eyes wide.
“Yes, please,” I manage to say.
His mouth curves into a cunning smile, and he grabs me by the waist, spinning me around until I’m falling backward onto the couch.
“Turn around,” he says. “Take off your underwear.”
“Bossy boy, aren’t you?”
He raises his chin in defiance. “Not a boy. A man who’s going to tongue-fuck that sweet, pink coño of yours until you’re coming on my lips.”
Well, I won’t be making that mistake again.
And I definitely don’t need a translation for what coño means.
I get on my knees and turn around, reaching down to take off my underwear until they’re dangling on one foot. I kick off my heels and wait, my back to him, my heart marching in my chest, my limbs shaking slightly.
I hear him get on the floor behind me, the back of his head resting on the edge of the couch between my thighs.
His hands slide up my legs and grip my hips, bringing me down over his face as I hold along the top of the cushions.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, his warm breath on my pussy causing me to shiver, seconds before he makes contact with the wet slide of his tongue.
I immediately start quivering, my limbs stiffening as he sucks me closer to him with his warm, strong mouth.
Already my eyes are starting to roll backward. I want to prolong this, to give him a show, but I don’t think I’ll last that long, especially as he starts to kiss me like he’d kiss my lips, probing and delicate and sweet one moment, intrusive and rough and hungry the next.
He makes another guttural moan that I feel travel through me, and I squeeze my thighs around his head, wanting so badly to get off.
The room fills with the sound of him eating me, the wet smack of his lips, the breathless little noises I’m making. It’s the biggest fucking turn-on that just pushes me over the edge.
I fall willingly.
The orgasm blasts through me like pure, wet heat. My hips start bucking wildly, slamming my pussy into his mouth like I’ve gone rabid, like I’ve lost my mind and all control of my body. A torrent of gibberish falls from my mouth, alternating with the sharp cry of his name.
“Alejo!”
Alejo, what are you doing to me?
But just as the throbbing wanes, and the orgasm fades enough for me to catch my breath, I hear a knocking sound.
I freeze, listening.
There’s someone at the door!
“Shit,” Alejo swears, lifting me off his face and getting up.
I flip around, my thighs drenched, and see movement at the frosted glass panels that bracket the door.
He doesn’t have to tell me to hide. I get up and scamper behind the couch, throwing myself behind it and staying still.
I hear Alejo walk across the room, clearing his throat.
The door opens, and I hear a voice in accented English say, “I’m so sorry, Alejo. I forgot my phone. I was halfway home before I realized.”
It’s the Belgian goalie.
“No problem,” Alejo says, just a hint of an edge in his voice.
I hear the Belgian approach the couch, shuffling through the cushions, so close to discovering me, when Alejo announces quickly, “Found it.”
I exhale as quietly as possible.
“Thanks,” the goalie says, and then pauses. “What’s that all over your face? What have you been eating?”
Oh god.
“Flan,” Alejo says proudly, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Best fucking flan in the world.”
“Okay
then,” he says. “Sorry about that. I’ll leave you to your flan. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks, man. See you tomorrow.”
I hear the door close and then Alejo exhaling.
My heart is pounding so hard from the adrenaline of almost getting caught and the orgasm I can still feel throbbing between my legs that I’m shaking.
“Hey,” Alejo says, poking his head around the top of the couch.
His mouth is absolutely shining with me. No wonder the Belgian was concerned.
“Let’s go somewhere a little more private.”
He reaches down and pulls me to my feet, taking me through the living room and up the stairs to the second floor.
This is the first time I’ve been up here. As he tugs me along to his bedroom, I count five other doors down the hall.
“You have so much room in this house,” I tell him as he closes the door to the bedroom behind me. “What are you planning to do with all of it?”
“I use it to store my trophies and other shit that tells the world how good I am,” he says, sliding his hands in my hair and drawing my mouth into a long, sweet, deep kiss. I can still taste myself on his tongue.
He pulls away. “And one day, I will have a wife and a family. A big family.”
I don’t know why but his words are a punch to my gut.
One day he will be married and have a big family, but it’s not going to be with me.
And why would you ever think any differently?
I close my eyes and kiss him, because I don’t want him to see these thoughts in my head, because I want to stop thinking and let his body blur out the world.
He kisses me back and we stumble backward to the bed.
Chapter 17
Alejo
A miracle happens at a time it’s needed the most.
A week before El Clásico, with Thalia’s permission, Mateo puts me on the pitch to train alongside the team. I’ve been taking part in practice lately, and I’ve been doing a lot of training with Thalia and the assistant coach to get me to one hundred percent. I’ve been doing speedwork, corework, drills, running up a ramp while attached to weights, I’ve been giving it my all.
But this is the first time I’ve been able to fully train with my teammates without the brace.
After practice, and once Dr. Costa gives me the final once-over, I am deemed healed enough to play in the game.
I couldn’t be more elated.
All this time I’ve spent with my knee, sitting on the sidelines and watching others play the game that I love, made me realize how much the game matters to me. Being out there on that pitch, using my God-given talent and the body I’ve been blessed with, it’s like every puzzle piece in my life is sliding into place.
Yet I know that’s not just the game that’s making things fit again.
It’s Thalia.
I’ve become completely infatuated with the way she’s slipped into my life, sliding into the seams, holding everything together. There’s not a moment that goes by where I’m not thinking of her in some way. The only time my mind seems to clear of her is when I’m on the pitch, and thank God for that, because that could get messy fast.
Instead, it’s like I can’t imagine my life without her in it, which I suppose is a little dramatic, even if it’s completely true. She makes everything else make sense and grounds me while letting me soar at the same time.
She’s like the sun.
El sol de mi corazón.
The sun of my heart, but a sun that’s always rising, always beautiful, a sunrise that makes you stop and stare and wonder.
Right now, she’s standing behind me on the airport bus that’s zipping across the runway at Madrid International Airport. The whole team is packed on here, standing, holding on to the bars, and the excitement in the air is unbelievable. We’re finally all together as a team, heading to Barcelona for the annual match, and we’re going to win this fucker.
The bus comes to a stop outside our private jet, which is an Emirates plane since they’re one of our major sponsors, and when the stairway is pushed to the open door, we all start climbing into the plane.
I’m completely tempted to sit beside Thalia. I want to keep looking at her. This is the first time she’s been on a private jet (she told me as much the other day), and she’s taking it all in with complete awe and wonder, and I want to be a part of that.
But the team sits near the front and everyone else is at the back. All I can do is occasionally look over my shoulder at her, hoping to catch her eye, but she’s staring out the window with her headphones on, lost in thought.
I can’t imagine how sweet it would be to actually be with her, out in the open, nothing to hide. Can that ever happen between us? Are we forever going to be a clandestine secret, hidden behind closed doors? Can I even go much longer without telling the world how much she means to me? Feelings like this, the ones that have been building in my chest for days and weeks and months, are intense and unyielding, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it to myself.
Granted, Luciano kind of knows, but I know he doesn’t quite understand either. I think it would be hard to see what Thalia and I have if you’re outside of it all.
But I’m inside it. Deep inside.
I don’t think there’s a way out for me.
And I don’t want there to be.
The flight to Barcelona is short. We could have taken a six-hour ride on the bus, but that leaves a chance for things to go wrong.
We land and are greeted by photographers and Madridistas with banners, shouting our names as we pass through arrivals. I smile for each and every photo, especially with so many people telling me how happy they are to have me back in the game. Every now and then I look behind me at Thalia, who trails behind with the assistant coaches, trainers, and the medical team, and I catch her smiling.
She looks so proud.
It makes me feel like a king.
“It’s too bad you’re not making your return in Madrid,” Luciano says to me as we get on the bus that will take us to our hotel near the stadium. “I can’t imagine what the reception would be like when you first step onto that pitch.”
“You’re right. I’ll probably get booed or whistled at here.”
“Good old-fashioned rivalry,” he says. “You know those whistles really mean that they’re scared. Scared they’re going to lose now. We’re going to run that animal down.”
“Fuck yeah we will.”
Luciano gets up and turns around in his seat to yell at the rest of the bus. “What are we going to do tonight? We’re going to run that animal down!”
Everyone cheers.
“I didn’t hear you!” Luciano yells, miming with his hand to his ear. “What are we going to do tonight?”
“Run that animal down!”
The bus practically shakes with the yelling and cheers, like warriors doing their battle cry. I catch Mateo’s eye, and damn it if he doesn’t look proud of us. Confident.
We’ve got this.
I’ve got this.
I won’t let my team down again.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. I have to drown out everyone, even Thalia. I slip on my headphones and sink into my playlist as we get to the hotel, settle in our rooms, do some push-ups and sit-ups on the hotel room floor to try and get rid of my nerves, even though I know that my nerves aren’t going anywhere except into energy.
Stay focused, I remind myself. Run that animal down.
I repeat the mantra as we get to the stadium, Camp Nou.
I repeat it as we get changed from our suits into our warm-up clothes, and head out onto the pitch to train a little.
The tension is high, a twisting rope that wants to snap.
I don’t hear the crowd with my headphones on. I don’t want to hear the crowd right now.
I try and concentrate on doing some passes, even though my eyes are trained on Barca’s best players, the incomparable Lionel Messi, their captain and arguably one of the best
players in the world, and then there’s Gerard Piqué, one of the best defenders that ever was (also shacking up with Shakira, so he’s no slouch in that department either). I’m going to have to watch out for him because he’s going to be right on my ass this entire game, and if I show any weakness at all with my knee, he’s going to exploit it for all he’s got.
In fact, just as I’m thinking that, he looks over at me from where his team is warming up, and our eyes meet. I’ve talked to him a lot; he’s actually a great guy, but on the field we are mortal enemies.
Right now is no exception.
He’s going to try and run me down.
I won’t give him that option.
When warm-up is over, we head back into the locker room, and I get changed into our kit and become Los Blancos. I take my headphones off and Mateo says a few words.
“I know we’ve had a rough go,” Mateo says as we all gather around him. “I know I’ve been giving you a hard time lately, but I’ve also been giving myself a hard time. Losing is not acceptable. Failure is not acceptable. That’s not what royalty does. That’s not what Real Madrid does. And that all ends tonight. Tonight, we come together as a team, as a full team.” At that he looks right at me. “We keep our cool, stay focused, and do everything we can to get those balls in the goal. Once Barcelona gets control of the ball, it’s very easy for them to keep it. I’m counting on each and every one of you to not let that happen and to get it back at the first opportunity. And, let’s not forget, this is the first game back for Alejo. They are going to be on him. Do what you can to keep Alejo free. Both teams will fight dirty if we have to.” He raises his arms out to the side. “Let’s go out there and introduce a little anarchy!”
“Yeah!” We all yell, fist-pumping and clapping before Luciano pulls us all into a huddle.
“Now that our coach has faith in us again,” Luciano jokes, “it’s time to have faith in ourselves. Okay? And remember, it’s a game. It’s entertainment. Entertainment that people have millions riding on. We’re going to give them a show they’re going to remember.”
I’m pumped. My energy reservoirs are at capacity and spilling over. My veins are filled with electricity.
The Younger Man: A Novel Page 21
