League Valencia
Soccer Romance

Chapter 1: Marlowe

“Perdona.” The bartender’s voice is low and laced with apology. “La tarjeta de crédito ha sido rechazada otra vez.”

I stare into the man’s kind eyes. I don’t have to know Spanish to understand that he’s politely telling me my credit card—the third card I passed him—is declined. The meaning is woven into the gentle tone of his voice and obvious in the compassion filling his gaze.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, digging into my Chanel wallet for cash. I shake the wallet, relieved when a few euro coins roll forward. My heart thumps, the sound echoing in my eardrums, the beat pulsing in my temples, as my anxiety heightens. I fumble with one of the coins, my fingers trembling.

What if I don’t have enough cash to cover the bill?

What if I can’t reserve a hotel room for tonight?

What if I’m forced to call Gerard for help after we broke up only two hours ago?

“Cóbrate todo, lo mío y lo suyo.” A man steps up beside me at the bar and subtlety slides his credit card across the top. He rests his elbows on the ledge and leans forward, rocking on his feet. Easygoing and unhurried.

The bartender’s eyes widen, and he jerks his head in a nod, accepting the card and running it.

I suck in a breath, both grateful for and fearful of the man’s intervention. What if he expects something in return?

I’m in over my head. Sure, I’ve traveled outside of the United States before, but never alone. And never with a declined credit card, a broken heart, and a bruised ego.

Gladys has been warning me for years that there’s no such thing as a free lunch.

But then again, what does Gladys know? Maybe I wouldn’t be in my current predicament—newly single, tipsy at a bar named Corcho, and at the mercy of a stranger—if I didn’t take her advice and fly to Spain to surprise my boyfriend, Gerard. Ex-boyfriend.

“Thank you. Gracias,” I amend, turning to face him. My words die in my throat as I glimpse the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

His green eyes are electric, studying me curiously. Awareness rolls through me at his unwavering attention, and my body tightens in response.

His pillowy soft lips quirk into half a grin and I sit up straighter, crossing one leg over the other, as my heart rate increases from his proximity alone.

He has a Roman nose, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. Two thick eyebrows arch as he dips his head, his grin widening into a smile, until a dimple appears in his left cheek. It’s both alluring and teasing, a combination that leaves me breathless.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies in English. His English is deliciously accented, and I lean closer on my barstool, desperate to hear him say more. To say anything.

Clearly, it’s the alcohol. I don’t lust after strangers. I don’t lust after anyone. I’m much too practical, too sensible, to indulge in whims.

But after the past few hours, I don’t blame myself for enjoying two drinks too many. My time in Spain has been a shitshow of epic proportions since the moment my plane touched down and I powered on my phone.

First, I received Grandpa’s clipped text messages informing me that, in the eight hours I’d been offline, Prescott Sail lost our biggest client. That alarming update was followed by Gerard’s award-winning performance—fucking a blonde from behind when I entered his hotel suite. The word surprise died on my lips as I wondered how—when—this became my life?

The stranger accepts the small black book from the bartender and opens it to scrawl his name on the receipt. When he straightens, I notice how tall he is. Imposing and sculpted, like a male model, or a professional athlete, or a figment of my imagination.

I shake my head to clear it, and the sexy stranger tosses me a smirk. He fists a hand, knocking it on the bar top.

“Be safe,” he says, giving me a long, knowing look.

Then, he joins his friends and slips from a side exit, disappearing from the bar.

I stare after him, mentally repeating his words.

Be safe.

Is that a warning? A threat? A common courtesy?

The fact that I don’t know highlights how little experience I have with men. I’ve been with Gerard since Dad introduced us at a sailing regatta our junior year of college.

From our first encounter, I was charmed. From our first kiss, I was convinced that Gerard was my future.

Picking up my empty glass, I suck on the straw until the slurping sound echoes in my eardrums. A tiny drop of tequila hits my tongue, and I close my eyes. I am a shitty judge of character.

Sighing, I place down the glass, scoop up my cell phone, and move toward the bathroom. I need to pull myself together and sort out my next steps.

Call the bank. Reserve a hotel room. Book a flight home.

Locking myself into a stall, I lean my head back and close my eyes. But it’s no use; the scene of Gerard and the blonde is imprinted on my eyelids. I tap my head back against the cool metal door and am relieved when my phone buzzes with an incoming message.

Grandpa

How long are you staying in Spain for?

There’s a team owner in Valencia you should connect with.

José Costa

He’s in need of an expedited delivery.

We could make it work if you can close the deal.

“You in here?” a male voice asks.

I gasp, slipping my phone into my pocket and standing stock-still. Does he mean me?

“I can see your sandals,” he says, his tone laced with humor. “I like the pink polish.”

It’s him! The stranger from the bar. What does he want?

Tentatively, I unlock the stall door and peek around the side. The stranger with the green eyes is leaning against the wall, his feet crossed at the ankles, smirking at me and holding up my purse. Shit, I must have forgotten it on the bar.

I roll my eyes, feeling less grateful than I should, as I stride toward him and swipe the purse. “Thanks.”

“You’re practically begging to be robbed.”

I shrug. “Apparently my cards are useless.”

One corner of his mouth tugs upward as if he wants to grin but it falls flat before he completes the movement. “A woman like you”—he tilts his chin in my direction, narrowing his eyes—“dressed in Carolina Herrera, the brand isn’t Spanish, by the way. Many assume it is.”

“She’s Venezuelan,” I rattle off the fact—fashion trivia instilled in me from a young age by my mom. I pause in front of the mirror, feigning nonchalance, as I swipe on some lip gloss. My eyes dart to him in the reflection.

He pushes off the wall and continues speaking, “With a Chanel purse and wallet and no working credit cards...”

“It’s a long story,” I lament.

He steps beside me at the sink, and I turn toward him.

He glances at his watch before his eyes latch onto mine. They’re bottomless—cool pools of green shaded with amusement, curiosity, and a flicker of heat. “You can tell me over dinner.”

My heart leaps into my throat. Is he asking me out? On a date?

I can’t even remember the last time Gerard took me on a real date.

Acting cool and collected even as my overactive mind spins millions of scenarios, I turn back toward the mirror. “Does that line ever work?”

“Only when the woman is actually hungry.”

And I can’t help it, I snort out a laugh. My eyes flick to his again and in the reflection of the mirror, he gives me a real smile. My knees nearly buckle.

Because, my God, is it breathtaking. Blinding.

I clear my throat, reaching for the levelheadedness I’ve always prided myself on. “I thought you left.”

He holds my gaze, and I note the flecks of gold in his green irises. He’s almost too beautiful to be real. To be human. “Something told me to come back.” His voice is low and husky, and a shiver travels down my spine.

“I can’t have dinner with you.”

“Why not?” He leans against the sink, dipping into my space, and even from this angle, I have to crane my neck to look at him. He’s at least three inches taller than Gerard.

Stop comparing him to your ex-boyfriend! I mentally scold myself.

Yeah, especially when he’s better, my snarky subconscious tosses back.

“Well, for starters…” I gesture toward him, flustered by his proximity but not wanting to show it. “I don’t even know your name.”

His eyes flare slightly, and he dips his head. “Fair enough.” He sticks out a hand. “Ale.”

“Ale,” I repeat.

He nods. “And you are?”

Out of my league. The phrase filters through my mind, but thank God, I don’t voice it. Instead, I clear my throat. “Marlowe.”

“Marlowe,” he murmurs, as if testing the sound of my name on his tongue.

He says it sensually and I wonder if he’s doing so on purpose or if it’s a natural byproduct of his accent.

“Now that I know your name, let me try this again. Would you like to have dinner with me, Marlowe?”

His voice is even and soothing. An invitation without the expectation of my having to accept. He waits for my response patiently and he’s so different from Gerard that I almost don’t know how to answer.

Does he have an ulterior motive? Is he going to kidnap me and sell me into sex trafficking like in the Liam Neeson movie, Taken? Gladys made me watch it in an ill-conceived attempt to cheer me up when most of my college friends studied abroad our junior year.

“I promise it’s just dinner.” His voice cuts through my thoughts as though he understands my fears. As though he can read them swirling in my mind.

“I’m not normally this indecisive,” I admit, biting my bottom lip. “I need to call my bank and sort things out so I can book my flight home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Rhode Island.”

“America,” he murmurs as my stomach growls. Loudly. I blush but Ale smirks. “And you are hungry.”

Sighing, I straighten my posture and hook my purse over my shoulder. At this point, what’s the harm in dinner with a sexy stranger in Spain? After tonight, I’ll never see him again.

“I could eat.”