The Younger Man: A Novel

by Halle, Karina

  Something that managed to catch the attention of Mateo, who gave me a discerning look in return.

  I need to be more careful.

  I don’t go into the locker room when they’re changing if I can help it, so I hang around outside until I see a staff member, Freddie, who notices me.

  “Thalia,” he says, throwing his arms out for a hug. “It’s really you!”

  “In the flesh,” I tell him. Freddie was always a good guy.

  “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You haven’t seen the papers? Oh god, load of rubbish they are. They said you wouldn’t come because of Stewart.”

  “They said what now?”

  “All speculation of course. Said the chances of you showing your face and being here were low. Glad to see you just proved all those wankers wrong.” He smacks my shoulder hard. “Good to see you again. Keep that chin up.”

  He walks off, and I am livid.

  I go into the locker room, not caring about whose dong I happen to see, and I pull Mateo aside.

  “Have you seen the papers? The local papers here?” I ask him in a hushed voice.

  “No. Why would I?”

  “There were stories about me, wondering if I would even show up. Said the chances of me showing my face were low.”

  Mateo looks sympathetic and dismissive at the same time, and I can’t really blame him for the last part. “You’re here now. You showed them. Don’t let this worry you, okay?”

  “What’s happening?” Alejo asks, appearing at my side.

  “It’s nothing. Just the fucking press,” I tell him.

  “She’s fine,” Mateo says, putting his hand on Alejo’s shoulder and trying to push him away.

  “I’ll see if she’s fine,” Alejo says, giving him a hard look, not moving. I stiffen at that because Alejo more or less just talked back to his coach, and that’s usually a no-no.

  Mateo holds his gaze for a moment and then moves on into the rest of the room.

  “What did the press say?” Alejo asks.

  “It’s nothing. Really. I shouldn’t even care, and it’s definitely nothing for anyone else but me to worry about.”

  But Alejo does seem worried and a little worked up.

  I want to kiss him, hug him, even just put my hand on his shoulder, but we can’t do any of that, especially as I feel Mateo’s eyes boring holes into us, so I just step away and say, “Have a good game, okay?”

  Alejo frowns and nods, and I’m terrified that I’ve already distracted him in a really bad way.

  The game is getting ready to begin.

  I go out on the pitch with the rest of the medical team, sticking by David who is my closest friend on staff, keeping my chin up, head held high, mentally giving a “fuck you” to every naysayer in the crowd.

  I do not look over at Stewart’s area.

  I do not look over at my ex-colleagues.

  I look straight ahead and go into a trance of sort until the players do their walkout.

  The game begins.

  It’s already intense.

  Luciano, Luka, and Rene are playing really well, quick on their feet, good at dribbling, long and short passes, looking out for the best ways to score.

  Alejo, however, is running like a bit of a wild card. I’m not really sure what he’s doing, but when the ball is passed to him and a defender gets on him, he makes some moves that are a little bit aggressive. Usually, he’s just so light-footed that he can kind of dance his way with the ball, like you’re watching some kind of art come to life, doing acrobatics with his feet. He doesn’t need to be aggressive.

  But tonight, he is.

  It’s enough to put me on edge; it’s enough that I can see Mateo is on edge, pacing up and down his area, hands continuously moving in some sort of display of emotion or trying to give instructions.

  I manage to sneak a peek over at Stewart in the technical area right next to ours, trying to see how he’s receiving the game, if he’s collected and calm.

  That was a mistake.

  The minute I look at Stew, my heart lurches.

  Not in any response to lost love, but because he was once my husband who meant the world to me, and now I’m looking at him like he’s a total stranger.

  The only thing I feel is disappointment, that I wasted those years of my life on someone who would cast me aside for someone easier, younger, and more uncomplicated in the end.

  I really, truly thought he was the one when I married him.

  I was so in love, for the first time in my life, and I thought what we had would last me until the end of time.

  How very fucking wrong I was.

  Looking back now, I wonder how I didn’t even notice his true colors, or if I did notice and overlooked it, because when you’re in love that’s what you do. You overlook the bad and say a hope and a prayer that it will get better in time.

  Sometimes it does.

  Oftentimes, it doesn’t.

  It didn’t for us. It took tragedy for our real selves to come out, and while I’m still searching for me, he was quite happy being himself.

  As if he knew I was looking, Stew turns his head away from the game and looks behind him, right at me.

  Our eyes meet.

  He gives me a tight smile.

  I give him nothing.

  I look away, back to the game, back to Alejo, who is actually staring at me.

  Not at the ball, not at the pitch, not at Mateo, but at me.

  Just as the Slovenian kicks the ball to him.

  Alejo reacts but just a split second too late. The ball misses him, going right into the legs of Mark York who takes it and passes it to another player who then scores.

  Manchester United has a goal.

  Real Madrid has none.

  And the Slovenian is losing his mind, making hand gestures at Alejo, as in how the hell did you miss that?

  And Mateo is pulling out his fucking hair and yelling, losing his shit over that sloppy play.

  I look down at my hands, not wanting to be a distraction anymore.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  This was my fault somehow.

  I got under Alejo’s skin where he was once impenetrable. I’ve found a way to fuck up what is most sacred to him, his game.

  Fucking hell.

  David swears beside me in Spanish, and I can only nod.

  Yeah. Yeah to all of that.

  Thankfully, things pick up for a little bit, though I can only look in bits and pieces, not wanting to get into Alejo’s headspace again. Luciano scores and it’s tied.

  We celebrate cautiously.

  On the pitch, however, Los Blancos really play up that victory, hugging and hollering, Luciano showboating with a long slide on his knees.

  Then things take a turn for the worse.

  A player from Manchester kicks the ball. Alejo leaps up to head it off, his height coming in handy. York does the same, and Alejo pushes him off with his hand. It’s slight, but it’s not allowed and Alejo knows it.

  The officials give Alejo a yellow card.

  If we were playing at Bernabeau back in Madrid, the fans would be whistling by now. They’ll turn on you fast if you’re taking too many chances and not playing right.

  The yellow card is just a warning of course, and Alejo is allowed to continue playing.

  But then United scores.

  And then again.

  The score is three to one in their favor and it’s not even halftime.

  I can see desperation on their faces. Luciano seems unsure.

  Alejo’s eyes look wild.

  Mateo is going to have a heart attack and lose his hair if he doesn’t stop pacing and pulling at his head.

  Marcelo passes the ball to Alejo, and he has a fairly good shot at the net if he can find a way through.

  But York is coming right up on his side.

  Alejo sidesteps and deliberately steps on York’s right foot, causing him to tumble fo
rward onto the turf, crying out in pain.

  Oh.

  Shit.

  I can’t look away as the move is viewed as a very obvious penalty by not only the crowd but by the ref.

  Alejo is given a red card.

  He’s out of the game.

  I feel my heart drop in my stomach like a free-falling elevator.

  I had told him three weeks ago, when I was tipsy and angry about Helen and Stewart, about York’s weak spot. I had meant for Alejo to use it wisely, to just get him down if needed. Hell, I even forgot about telling him until recently and assumed Alejo had forgotten too.

  But this was dirty. This was very dirty and unprofessional, and against every good thing that Alejo loves about this game. I know that players often take the low road. I mean, there’s a reason why players don’t wear braces around their injuries, because the opposing team will hit them like a target.

  Even so, this isn’t like him.

  My Alejo.

  And I know that it has to do with me.

  With us.

  With Stewart being here and Alejo being so protective over me and angry over what my ex and the media did. He lost his focus. His excess energy came out in a very broken, destructive way.

  The whole team is going to suffer the consequences.

  And I think the two of us are going to suffer the consequences worst of all.

  Chapter 21

  Alejo

  I’m in mucha mierda.

  Loads and loads of shit.

  Outside my hotel room, it’s dark and cold, and the city of Manchester is heading out for the night, already celebrating United’s win over Real Madrid.

  Inside my hotel room, it’s also dark, and a bit cold too.

  It could just be the icy fingers of panic that are wrapping around my throat.

  Either way, there is no celebration tonight.

  I fucked up.

  I fucked up royally during the game.

  My teammates hate me.

  My coach hates me.

  I hate me.

  All because I lost my cool.

  I became the thing I hate the most.

  Someone with no respect for the game.

  There’s a knock at my door, but I’m afraid to answer it. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. After I was sent off to the sidelines, I kept my head down low, not watching the game, certainly not watching Thalia or her ex-husband. By halftime, Mateo was too angry to even speak to me, and I spent the rest of the game in the locker room by myself, playing it over and over again in my head. The things I should have done differently, my chest raging like I had a hornet’s nest inside.

  Suffice it to say, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to open the door.

  But I also can’t hide forever.

  I want to, but I can’t.

  That’s not what I do.

  I get up and look through the peephole.

  It’s Thalia, looking small and distorted in the fishbowl lens.

  I open it quickly, knowing it’s not a good look for her to be caught coming in here, though I doubt that would be the least of anyone’s concerns right now.

  She gives me a stiff smile and slips past me.

  I shut the door behind us and turn to face her.

  I hadn’t seen her properly after I was sent off the pitch. I’d been too afraid to look at her for one reason or another. Mostly because I feel ashamed.

  “Hi,” I say softly.

  “Hi,” she says. She seems paler than normal, fragile somehow. She goes and sits on the edge of the bed and fidgets with her hands in her lap. I don’t like seeing her like this.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say, and it comes out as a hoarse whisper.

  She glances up at me, squinting. “Sorry for what?”

  “I fucked up, Thalia. I lost my cool. First, I was so fucking distracted by you and your ex-husband making eyes at each other, that I totally missed the ball. Then—”

  “Hold up,” she says, raising her palm in the air, that fragility twisting into anger. “Backtrack there. You thought me and Stew were making eyes at each other?”

  “At the time, yes,” I admit, though now that I have a cooler head, I can see how that might not be the case. All I know is that one minute I was in the game, the next I noticed the two of them staring at each from across the technical areas.

  “After everything I told you, everything that he’s done to me, that’s what you thought?”

  I shut my eyes and rub at my forehead. “I didn’t say I was right.”

  “Is that what really distracted you? Was it because of me?”

  She wants me to tell her that it’s not true, but I can’t be anything but honest with her.

  “Yes,” I admit cautiously. “It was you. It was the thoughts I had of you. The fear that you might go back to him, the fear that you might leave me.”

  Her face crumples and she shakes her head ever so slightly. “No. No. I was just looking at him because I hadn’t looked at him yet. I’d been avoiding it. I wanted to see if he was upset about the game, I wanted to read him.”

  “He wasn’t upset,” I answer quickly. “And why should he be? It went perfectly for him.”

  “Alejo, when I told you about Mark York, I did not mean for you to full-on step on his foot like that.”

  And here we are, at the even shittier part of the game.

  “I know,” I say, sliding my hand down over my jaw, trying to dissipate the tension. Remorse rolls through my veins. “I know. I’m sorry. I was so into it, I wasn’t really thinking, I just knew I had to stop him, and I wanted the team to suffer. It was a mistake.”

  “Fuck yeah it was a mistake.”

  I glare at her. “You can lay off a little, okay? You think I don’t regret every single thing I did? You know that’s not like me. I’m not that dirty, I respect the players, I respect the game.”

  “Well, you didn’t tonight.”

  I can’t explain how it feels to have the woman who has your heart tell you how shitty you’ve been at the game you love, but it stings like a motherfucker.

  “I don’t know what else to say.” I throw my hands up. “It happened. It won’t happen again.”

  “I know it won’t. Because it can’t. You can’t afford to come back into the game to help pull them out of their losing streak only to put them back in it.”

  “Thalia. Please. Enough. I can’t take it.”

  She starts wringing her hands together and looks off, out the window. “I know. I’m sorry. This is my fault, too.”

  “Just forget about that.”

  “I can’t,” she says emphatically, looking at me with shining, pleading eyes. “I can’t forget it. You lost your cool because of me, because of your feelings for me.” She takes in a deep breath and I feel the energy in the room change into something dark and foreboding. “We need to step back.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Step back and analyze it?”

  She shakes her head, hastily tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No. We need to knock it off. This. Us.”

  My eyes nearly fall out of my skull. “Knock it off?” I exclaim. Her words cut into my chest like razor blades.

  “Not forever,” she says quickly, getting to her feet and putting her hand on my arm. “Just for a while. Until you get your head back in the game. Us sneaking around, it’s getting so complicated, and we can’t afford to have these complications getting in the way of you winning.”

  “No,” I tell her, holding her face between my hands and staring down at her imploringly. “Please. We can make this work.”

  “We’re not breaking up, Alejo. It’s just…we need a bit of space. You know it’s true. I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  “Yeah fucking right,” I swear, my hands dropping away.

  She pokes me hard in the chest with her forefinger. “What are you saying? Don’t say that. I care. I want this to continue.”

  “No you don’t,” I practically sneer, so many raw em
otions snaking inside me. I know I have to get them under control or I’m going to say something I don’t mean at all. “I’ve been laying my soul bare for you and you’ve given me nothing in return.”

  “We’re together almost every single night,” she says quietly.

  “Yes. I have your body, but I don’t want just your body, Thalia. I want your fucking soul. I want to take it and keep it and mix it up with mine until it burns between us like the sun. That’s what I want from you.” I pause, trying to swallow the sadness in my throat. “At the very least, give me your heart.”

  Her eyes start to water, and she looks away. “You can’t make those demands of me.”

  “I know I can’t,” I say softly, reaching out to touch her arm, suddenly so afraid that this is the end. “I know I can’t, but it’s how I feel. I can’t lie about what I want from you.” I take in a deep, shaking breath. “Please. I don’t want a break. I don’t want this to end.”

  “It’s not ending,” she says, walking toward the door, holding her arms across her chest, looking very small. “It’s just for now. Please, you have to believe me, to trust me on this, okay? Let’s just put us on the back burner for the next few games, just so you can prove yourself to the team again.”

  “I won’t let tonight happen again.”

  “And I won’t let this fall on my shoulders again. You’re far too good of a person, of a player, to ever have to go through what you did tonight. You need to rise up, and fast, and erase it so everyone can move on. You had a bad game, but so what? It will be easy to explain. But if it happens again…I don’t want to be the reason why the game you love turns against you. I couldn’t bear it.”

  I watch as her shoulders slump, her hand moving to the door knob. She shoots me a weak glance over her shoulder. “I wish you could understand, but this is truly for the best.”

  “I wish you could understand,” I tell her, “and believe me when I say that I won’t let it happen again. It was a mistake, and I lost my head. I don’t want to be distracted either. But that doesn’t mean we have to stop.”

  “It’s just for a week or two,” she says. “That’s it. If we can survive that, we can survive anything. I promise you that.”