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