League Valencia

Chapter One Niko “You’re late,” the hot brunette mutters as I stroll into the location of the photoshoot, an industrial warehouse turned creative studio. Several areas of the large space are prearranged with furniture—a wingback armchair, a leather couch, barstools of varying heights—and set with props. Lights are assembled in clusters and racks of athletic apparel are on display, marked with the theme of each look: lifestyle, athletics, luxury. I roll my lips together, liking the energy that permeates the drafty space. Music hums in the background, various teams of people work together, focused but chatting amiably, and a buzz thrums through the set. “But I brought doughnuts,” I reply, extending the stacked boxes of doughnuts to her. She barely grazes my chin, but the spark in her gaze speaks to a toughness that makes me want to smile. Solely for my own amusement, I add, “There’s even one with sprinkles.” She narrows her eyes, but her lips curl playfully at the edges. “Do I look like a woman who likes sprinkles?” I consider the question, already knowing the answer. Hell no. But I take the time to lean back and study the stunner standing before me. Her dark hair is swept away from her face, half clipped in place, half spilling over her shoulders. A headset loops around her neck. She’s petite, yet curvy, and dressed in baggy black pants that hang low on her hips, a gray crop top, and colorful sneakers that look like they cost a mint. But it’s her face that pulls me up short. Dark eyes, black and dangerous, stare at me from beneath full brows. She purses her mouth—stained red from lipstick—and quirks an eyebrow. And I chuckle. “No.” I shake my head. “You definitely don’t look like a woman who likes sprinkles.” She dips her head, satisfied. But I can’t keep my mouth shut. Hell, I never could. Not when the opportunity to tease and joke is right…here. “There’s an espresso glaze or a salted caramel. Definitely more your vibe.” She shakes her head but amusement flares in her eyes. “I’ll take the espresso glaze.” She balances the stack of boxes on one palm while holding out her other hand. “Bianca DiBlanco. Junior brand manager. I’ll be your point person for today.” I bite the corner of my mouth as I clasp Bianca’s hand in mine. Her skin is warm, her nails short and shaped and painted dark purple. Even though I recall her name from the email thread that my agent, Callie Gutierrez, sent to confirm today’s photoshoot, I don’t let on. “Niko Karas.” “Good to meet you.” She turns toward one of the staged areas. I fall into step beside her as she rattles off information about today’s shoot. “Think streetwear meets luxury athleisure. We’d like to get some lifestyle shots, action shots, and some edgy vibes.” She pauses to point to a black backdrop splattered with paint and graffiti. “The looks for today are mostly black, matte, and moody but I’m going to incorporate pops of neon. If, at any time, you feel uncomfortable or have a question, speak up.” She glances at me, as if determining if I’m capable of doing so. “No problem.” “Great.” She tugs her headset back into place from where it hung around her neck. “Let me introduce you to the photographer and creative director. Then, we’ll get you into makeup and wardrobe.” “Sounds good.” Bianca spins on her heel and as I follow her through the vast space, I note how efficient she is. Effortlessly so. The doughnuts have been placed on a table also housing fruit, breakfast sandwiches, and coffee. Racks of clothing are being steamed, lights are tested, and props are tweaked. While Bianca is exacting, with an eye for detail, she delivers feedback with a warmth that shows the cohesiveness of her team. “We’ll need to see the logo clearly,” she murmurs to someone and then, “These laces should be purple,” to someone else. “Niko, glad you could join us,” a man says heartily. Turning, I recognize Chris Stevens, the creative director of URBN Move and the man I need to thank, in addition to Callie, for helping me secure this endorsement. URBN Move’s style, a blend between functional athletic apparel and aspirational streetwear, is one of the main reasons I wanted to collaborate. I love their compression leggings for training nearly as much as I enjoy scooping up their colorful, trendy sneakers during each seasonal drop. I shake his hand heartily. “Good to see you, Chris.” “Same,” he replies. “Anything you need today, Bianca will take care of you.” “Here comes Lynette,” Bianca states, indicating the legendary photographer, Lynette Baker. Lynette pulls me into conversation and from the corner of my eye, I note Bianca move around the space with a single-mindedness. She knows what she wants to achieve today and she’s here to make it happen. Once I’m seated in hair and makeup, making small talk as the makeup artist applies some light touch-ups, the energy in the warehouse shifts. Excitement mixed with urgency vibrates through the space, undercutting every interaction. I dress in black joggers, a cut-off black tank that is more fashion forward than functional, and dope neon green and purple sneakers. Lynette positions me in a series of poses and I do my best to appear natural as I hold them. “Lift your chin. A little to the left,” Lynette calls out. The camera clicks and then, Bianca is in front of me. “I’m just going to move this so we can see the logo better,” she explains, reaching out to shift the fit of the tank. Her nails skim across my bicep as she repositions the material. “There we go.” Her eyes flicker to mine and I manage an easy smirk. But inside, my blood heats. I can’t remember the last time I was so affected by a woman I hardly know. Bianca isn’t making heart eyes or trying to impress me. She’s just doing her job—efficiently. She blinks and steps back. “Relax your stance,” Lynette reminds me. I do as she says but inside, I’m unnerved. What is it about Bianca that knocks me off center? “You’re a natural, Niko,” Chris hollers and I laugh. The camera clicks. “Got it,” Lynette says. “We can move to portraits next.” The space around me whirls to life as the setting is deconstructed and rearranged. A stylist approaches Bianca who looks in my direction. “Karas, for portraits, do you want this to feel more performance driven or lifestyle, like something you’d actually wear out?” I tilt my head, noting the clipboard she has tucked under her arm. She’s all business, and yet, her eyes burn. “Depends who I’m going out with.” She rolls her lips together, as if to keep from laughing. “Your boys.” “Well, if I was rolling with my boys in Chicago, definitely more lifestyle. They would rip me to shreds if I was trying too hard.” I approach her and the stylist, reaching between them to finger a lightweight knit sweater designed with patches of mesh to give it a sporty feel. “But if I was in New York, solo for a weekend, trying to impress a woman…” Bianca dips her head. When she lifts her face to meet mine, a slight blush crests the apples of her cheeks. “Let’s go with New York.” “Alright,” I agree. “Option three,” Bianca tells the stylist. The stylist moves toward another rack of clothing to pluck through the hangers. “Have you ever been to Chicago?” I ask Bianca. “A few times.” “And?” “It’s not New York.” “No,” I agree. “It’s better.” Her mouth drops open as she gapes at me. “Not even close.” “It’s my hometown. The Chicago I could show you would trump whatever touristy, Big Apple spiel you could share with me.” Bianca shakes her head. “Touristy spiel? I’m from here, Karas. This is my hometown.” Surprise kicks behind my breastbone. “Seriously?” “Well, mostly. I was born in Italy, but my family moved to New York when I was still a baby.” “Same with me. Born in Greece but moved to Chicago when I was two months old.” “Yeah,” she exhales, her eyes curious. “Do you go back to Greece often?” I shake my head. “Not growing up. My parents worked a lot and the trip back was tough to swing. The last couple of years though…I try to go in the summers to visit my grandparents and extended family. What about you?” “I’m going to Italy on Tuesday.” “Tuesday?” “My brother is getting married and—” Realization burns through me and I mentally swear at myself for not making the connection earlier. “Your brother is Luca DiBlanco.” “Yep.” “And he’s marrying Carla García.” She quirks that eyebrow again, teasing. “I didn’t peg you for reading the gossip magazines.” I snort. “It’s hardly gossip since it’s true and it’s the wedding of European Fútbol Royalty.” Bianca laughs. “Their wedding is all anyone in the soccer world can talk about these days,” I continue. “I’ll send you a photo,” she deadpans. “Only if you’re in it.” She sucks in a breath, not expecting my flirty reply. But she’s a hard woman not to flirt with. At first glance, she appears standoffish, but the more I watch her interactions, the more I realize she’s in hardcore work mode. What if I could take her out of that headspace? Segue from work to play once the shoot is wrapped? “Kristal has your next outfit ready,” she replies. “Alright, New York.” “Bianca,” she corrects. But I’m already moving toward the stylist. The rest of the photoshoot passes quickly. It’s a whirlwind of outfit changes, background swaps, and stylized poses. I keep my distance from Bianca, not wanting to interfere with the flow of the shoot. But when it’s over, and the URBN Move team are deconstructing the sets, I hang back. I pile a plate with sandwiches, fruit, and a doughnut—the sprinkle one—and chitchat with the lighting tech and an URBN Move intern. Still, I keep one eye on Bianca and realize that she’s going to be the last employee to leave. She’s a hard worker and I like that about her. In fact, it’s a value my dad, Baba, who worked two to three jobs my entire life, instilled in me from a young age. Don’t be afraid of hard work. Don’t be unwilling to roll up your sleeves and open your mind. Don’t hold back from your own potential. “It was great chatting with you, bro,” I say, shaking hands with Ray, the lighting tech. “You too, Niko. And thanks for signing all that gear for my nephews.” “Anytime,” I reply, sincerely. It still catches me off guard when someone asks for my autograph. I remember exactly how it felt to be a little kid, looking up at my idols, and hoping to attend a game, wear their jersey, and have their signature. Sometimes, I can’t believe that the dream has become my reality. And soon, as of next week, I’ll be living that reality in Europe, playing for Club Stuttgart in Germany. “You’re still here,” Bianca says as I turn around. “I was waiting for you.” “Why?” I shrug. “I thought you could show me the real New York.” Bianca shakes her head. “You thought wrong. I have plans.” “Oh?” I tilt my head, trying to read her body language. She’s squared her shoulders toward me and hasn’t crossed her arms over her chest. She’s making eye contact and that playful smirk dances around the edges of her mouth… Is she really shutting me down? “Can I tag along?” I ask brazenly. “Or are these plans a date with someone else?” At that, she laughs. “Who said anything about a date?” “I’d like to take you to dinner, Bianca. To your favorite restaurant in the city. Can you fit me into your plans for tonight?” She frowns at that and I can’t tell if I somehow offended or surprised her. “Why?” “Why?” I repeat, trying not to chuckle. I shift my weight and tilt my head to the side, studying her. Does she not realize how intriguing she is? Apparently not. She nods, crossing her arms. Damn. “Because I think you’re a hard worker who is passionate about her career. Obviously, you’re gorgeous, but you already know that. I find your work ethic impressive. I like your energy. And I want to spend my last weekend in the States with someone who is interesting to be around. Have dinner with me.” She studies me again. I bite my tongue, not wanting to interrupt whatever thought process she’s making sense of. Finally, she sighs. “Fine.” “Good. What’s your favorite restaurant?” “You’ll see.”