Love, in Spanish Read online

  My patience was tested. I sat there, still as stone, my eyes solely on Vera, during taxi, take-off, when we reached cruising altitude. From the way her back rose and the occasional quiet whimper that escaped, I knew she was crying. It took everything I had not to break down myself. I wanted to kiss those tears away.

  But I would wait for her to discover me.

  Finally, she did. She adjusted herself in her seat and elbowed me. I’d never smiled so wide.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled in her wonderful smoky voice, still not turning around.

  I licked my lips and breathed in deeply before I said, “I am sorry too.”

  Her body stiffened. She slowly turned her head, and my smile grew soft at the sight of her reddened eyes and the tracks of tears beneath them. She looked impossibly stunned, like she’d seen a ghost. Only I was no apparition; I was real.

  Instead of giving her the letter, I opened up and laid it all out there for her to see, no stone unturned. The thing I was most afraid of was having my heart, my love rejected, for her to turn her back. It was her right to do so, and yet I wished for nothing more than another chance.

  But Vera, such a generous, willing soul, didn’t reject me. She gave me love in return, love that she said had never left her.

  We landed in Vancouver to see her mother and brother, Josh, at the airport. Naturally they were surprised to see me, and I was surprised to see them—at least her mother. She had sounded so harsh and cold over the phone, yet there she was, waiting for her daughter to return, shocked that the adulterer was by her side. If looks could kill, I would have turned to ash right there on the airport floor.

  It wasn’t an easy couple of days. I was glad I had packed that letter in my carry-on, because it reminded me to hold on. Her mother and sister and future brother-in-law from England all seemed to despise me, especially when they realized that we were heading right back to Madrid. At one point, the English asshole pulled me aside and asked me why I couldn’t go back to my wife and leave a young girl like Vera alone.

  I nearly punched him in the face, but I knew that wouldn’t help our case. Vera and I were used to being sneered at by this point, and though she said she didn’t care what her family thought, I could still see it in the way she carried herself that she did. Even though it had waned since I met her, the need for her family’s approval was still there.

  Thank god for Josh, who was the only smart, kind, and decent one in her family. With his black edgy hair and tattoos, he was definitely one of those people you wanted to judge before you knew them, but he was Vera’s biggest supporter and the saving grace for our brief stay.

  That wasn’t the last time we’d see them, though. Just after Christmas we went back, but this time we had reinforcements—our friends Claudia and Ricardo. We went primarily so that Vera could send in her work permit application that Las Palabras had arranged, but the ski trip to Whistler with everyone, including Josh, didn’t hurt. A week blasting down the slopes and relaxing with friends and family seemed to be just the thing we needed.

  When we left it was still a bit up in the air whether Vera would return to Vancouver for her sister’s wedding in July or not. I told her I would go with her if she did, if she wanted me to, and I’d support her if she didn’t. In the end, she opted to stay in Spain, and I think she pissed off her family once again. It was also up in the air whether Vera would actually get a work permit through Las Palabras. But there were other routes she could take in order to stay and work in the country, and in the end the Spanish government granted her six months at Las Palabras and to reapply again when the time was up. Either way, she wouldn’t have to leave Spain if she didn’t want to.

  And yet, as she lies beside me, sleeping silently in the night’s hazy wash of indigo, I have this unsettled feeling deep in my chest. It’s what has kept me up all month, more so than the stifling August heat. It’s this feeling that everything is about to change for us.

  It’s partly my fault, although the change is for what I hope is the better. Over the last six months, we’ve settled into a steady and comfortable routine. Vera works at Las Palabras from 9 a.m. till 2 p.m. most days of the week, and though it’s just an office job, she seems to enjoy it. She takes Spanish classes on Tuesday nights. She has her friends, Claudia and Ricardo, plus a few others from the program, and her new job. Chloe Ann lives with Isabel but I get her Wednesdays and either Saturday or Sunday. Isabel is cold but courteous to me, and she’s only had to interact with Vera once or twice. It’s awkward for everyone—it always is—but it works for now.

  But for me, things have become a little too stagnant. Falling in love with Vera and escaping an unhappy marriage has opened my mind, my soul, up to myriad of possibilities. The restaurant business wasn’t for me anymore, and it isn’t where my passion lies, so I sold it to my partner. What I really want is to feel that excitement again, the one I had when I was younger and believed I could do anything. I want something else in my life to fulfill me the way the love of Vera and Chloe Ann does.

  I really didn’t think it was possible, but after the paparazzi got a whiff of my divorce and Vera and I started showing up unceremoniously in the tabloids, my face got back out there. From one ugly thing a promising start was born.

  A few months ago I was contacted by my old football team—Atlético Madrid—and asked if I had any interest in the team anymore. The fact that I was turning thirty-nine and still had my knee injury didn’t seem to matter. They didn’t want me to play for them—they knew that my time in the sun had set—but they wanted to know if I could somehow involve myself with the organization. Perhaps they thought my newfound attention would help bolster theirs, I don’t know, but suddenly I was worth something to them.

  At first it was a few meetings, a couple of chats here and there. With the coach, then the general manager, then the owner. Maybe I wanted to donate some money, host an event, become a mentor. They were full of ideas at first. Then it led to talks about assistant coaching, which after a while petered off.

  I tried not to get my hopes up, but like most things in life, the hope sneaks in. I felt acute disappointment when I hadn’t heard from them and poor Vera had to put up with my moping around the apartment for days on end.

  That was until Friday afternoon, when I got a phone call from the manager. They wanted me to meet them for lunch at Fioris Café on Monday, which it technically is right now, to discuss an urgent matter.

  It’s no wonder that I can’t sleep. I only pray it’s just my nerves that are having their way with me, that there is no real reason for the sense of foreboding that I have.

  Vera turns over in our bed, her hair spilling around her face, her breasts nearly coming free of the delicate straps of her top. Her skin is white silk scattered with colorful art. I’d never really found tattoos sexy until I met her and saw the way they shaped her, how they represented a million stories, emotions, expressions.

  Her eyes slowly flutter open and she stares at me with this hazy, sleepy look. “What are you doing?” she asks softly.

  I slip the letter back in the drawer. I know she’s seen me reading it before. She’s never asked what it is, but I can tell she knows it means something to me and I respect that. I would gladly show her the letter, but the reason why I’m reading it may be unnerving for her. She’s been a bit on edge lately, like someone is ready to pull the rug out from under her, and I don’t want to give her anything else to worry about.

  My fears are just that—my fears. She shouldn’t have to shoulder them.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I tell her with a small smile. I get off the chair and stretch, my arms high above my head. Her eyes widen appreciatively at the sight of me. I’ve started sleeping in the nude.

  She pulls her eyes away long enough to ask, “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

  I nod, letting out a small sigh, and come over to the bed, climbing back under the covers, which is comprised of just a sheet now in these hot August nights. I lay my head on the pillow and stare i
nto her eyes, pushing back strands of silk hair behind her ears.

  She gives me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure whatever they want to talk to you about is a good thing.”

  “I hope so,” I admit.

  “I know so.”

  I grin at her. “You seem to know so much in the middle of the night.”

  She cocks a brow. “Didn’t you know? I’m at my best at this time. Want me to show you?”

  I can never say no to that. Her lids become heavy, mouth full, wet and parted in anticipation. That suggestive look is all I need to become hard.

  She leans over and kisses me softly. My tongue explores her mouth in a luxurious fashion, slowly building a hot need between us. While my hand slips to the back of her neck, pulling her toward me, her fingers trail from the rough stubble on my chin down my chest and the firm ridges of my stomach, and wrap around my stiff cock.

  I groan, closing my eyes to her grip as she makes a fist and lightly skims the length of me up and down.

  “If you keep doing that,” I manage to say against her mouth, “the show will be over pretty quickly.”

  She chuckles and pulls away, her lips skirting my chin, neck, chest. “As long as I give you a good show, I don’t mind.”

  Normally when one of us wakes up in the middle of the night feeling amorous, a sleepy, hazy form of sex takes place. One of the best kinds of sex. But if she’s willing and wanting to give me a blow job, I have no inclination to stop her. A true gentleman never stops a woman from doing what she desires.

  Her lips slide down from my stomach to the tip of my shaft, and she takes me whole and deep into her mouth. I don’t know where Vera learned her skills—and I never want to know—but I’m eternally grateful for them. With her mouth, tongue, and hand working in unison, I succumb to the sensation, the warmth flooding through my limbs. My fingers curl into her hair, gripping tight.

  When her other hand goes to my balls, cupping them with just enough pressure to drive me wild, I can’t help but yank at her hair. “Fuck,” I whimper. “Oh fuck, Vera. Fuck yes. More.”

  She picks up the pace, and I begin thrusting my hips up, my cock going as deep into her throat as possible, her lips enveloping me like a velvet glove. I come hard and she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left in me.

  I’m left panting on the bed, the waves bringing me deeper into the mattress, my hands letting go of her hair. I hear her swallow and wipe her lips, like the wonderfully bad girl that she is, and I open my eyes to see her smiling at me in the dim light. She looks awfully proud of herself, as she should.

  “Your turn,” I tell her, trying to get up, but she pushes her hand into my chest so I’m lying back down.

  “You can deal with me tomorrow,” she says, taking a sip of water. “I’m exhausted. Your cock takes a lot of work there, big boy.”

  I can’t help but grin at her flattering choice of words. “You spoil me.”

  She smiles like she knows it’s true then kisses me quickly on the lips before rolling over on her side so her back is to me. I scoop my arms around her waist and pull her into me, not wanting to fall asleep without her in my arms.

  A few moments pass and our breathing lengthens. Outside, a car putters down the street. Everything else is quiet.

  “I love you,” I whisper into her ear.

  My voice seems to echo in the room. She’s already asleep.

  Chapter Two

  “So Mateo,” Pedro del Torro says as he spoons sugar into his black coffee and gives it a methodical stir. “Do you have any idea of why we might have asked you here today?”

  I am sitting across from him and the diminutive Antonio Ramos in one of Madrid’s more prestigious cafés. Nothing but the best for these two, although Antonio has only been the general manager for about three years. As Atletico’s owner, Pedro flaunts his power and money like it’s no one’s business, more so when the team is doing well, like they have been.

  I give them a shrug and a half-smile. “Because you find me charming?”

  Pedro breaks into an easy laugh, one that I can’t tell is for show or not. He takes a sip of his coffee and nods appreciatively at it. “The coffee here never lets me down. That’s why I keep coming back for more.”

  I stare at him, knowing I have to humor his indulgences before he gets down to business.

  “You, Mateo,” he goes on, “seem to be the same. Reliable. The kind of person that doesn’t let anyone down.”

  I keep my expression neutral. God knows that I’ve let enough people down in my lifetime.

  He leans forward and folds his leathered hands in front of him. “Diego is leaving the team in January.”

  I raise my brows in surprise. Diego Martinez is the coach, and a great one at that. He’s helped bring the team back from the brink all those years ago.

  “Why?” I ask, trying to ignore the feeling inside me, like my chest is taking flight. I can’t get ahead of myself here, can’t dare dream of where this could be leading.

  Pedro exchanges a tired glance with Antonio before turning his sharp eyes back to me. “He’s going to coach for the Argentina team instead. We’ve known about it for a while, we just weren’t sure what to do about it.”

  I clear my throat and fight the urge to straighten the cuffs on my rolled up sleeves. “And Warren?” Warren is the assistant coach, a Brit who used to play for Arsenal way back in the day. For a while there, with all these meetings, I had thought that perhaps I was being groomed to take his position. Now it has the possibility to be so much more than that.

  “We had hopes that Warren would be able to step up. But the truth is, we’d all want a Spaniard in charge of the boys and one from the family.” Pedro pauses to take another sip of coffee and wipes delicately at his mustache before saying, “We want you, Mateo.”

  I blink at him. “Me?”

  “Yes,” he says with a quick smile. “Naturally you realized we wanted to do business with you.”

  I sit back in my chair, faintly aware that my heart is pounding loudly in my ears. “Well, yes, but there is business and there is being a coach of an international football team. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but what makes you think this is something I can do? I haven’t been in the game for a long time.”

  Pedro and Antonio exchange another look, and this time Antonio speaks, slow and measured. “We think you’ll do just fine. We have until January, of course, and will put you in with Warren and Diego immediately. You’ll get a feel for it, what it’s like to be back. Believe me, Mateo, I used to watch you play religiously, and for someone like you, this is a natural progression.”

  “Besides,” Pedro adds, “it’s always good to mix things up. With Diego leaving, we want to ensure that the players and the audience are riveted as always. Having a player like you back in the saddle, so to speak, would attract a lot of attention to the team. Especially since you’ve been in the public eye again this past year.”

  I swallow and give him an uneasy smile. He doesn’t seem too pleased about that, how the paparazzi went a little crazy over my divorce, and the scandal of dating a younger, foreign woman. I wait for Pedro to bring up Vera, but he doesn’t.

  “You don’t have to give us your answer now,” he says smoothly, his face going from stern contempt to one of a crafty politician. “We have plenty of time. How about you let us know by the end of the week and we’ll take the next steps from there? This will no doubt change your life, Mateo, but only for the better.”

  Lunch is served soon after and their talks turn to the sport, to films, to the weather. I smile and nod but I am trapped inside my head. One part of me feels ready to burst from happiness, from the prospect of fulfillment, while another part is digging its nails in, afraid to let go, afraid of more change.

  We leave the restaurant together, and I tell them I’ll give them a call on Friday. They wave me off as if they know my answer already. Perhaps I know it too. Still, I share my life with Vera and would not ac
t without discussing it with her, even if I was one hundred percent certain.

  We get two steps down the cracked concrete stairs before a flashbulb goes off in my face. A slim photographer with a long mullet is crouching down, taking our picture. I’ve seen him before, snapping shots of me and Vera on our nights out but that was months and months ago.

  “Why is Mateo Casalles meeting with Atlético?” the photographer asks but Pedro just smiles and raises his hand in a slight wave before turning to the left. I go right, and the photographer follows me, an easy target.

  “Are you joining Atlético again, Mateo?” he persists, and I turn slightly to give him a look.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do?” I say, and keep walking. He doesn’t bother following me beyond the corner.

  By the time I’m back at the apartment, the sun is overbearing, and the streets, even in our neighborhood, the elegant Salamanca barrio, smell like garbage and dust. The building offers a cool respite, and when I open the door to our flat, Vera is standing in the gleaming kitchen, stirring a pitcher of lemonade.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” I ask as I put my keys on the table, remembering the particular English phrase.

  She turns to me and gives me a big smile. She looks like a housewife from the 1950s with the eyes of a femme fatale. She’s squeezed herself into a fitted strapless yellow dress that shows off her full breasts and wide hips, and has a silk patterned scarf pulling her voracious hair off her forehead. But her tattoos and black high-top sneakers remind me that she’s not like any other housewife I know.

  “Very good,” she says, always pleased when I remember the idiosyncrasies of her language. She raises the pitcher. “Don’t worry, there’s vodka in it.”

  I grin at her and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her up against me. “Of course there is.”

  She yelps as a bit of the lemonade splashes over the side and onto the floor but I don’t let go. She manages to put the pitcher down before I bury my face in her neck, nipping and kissing at her delicate skin. She tastes like sunshine and citrus.