dry needling, most of the team has already finished eating, so by the time I grab my plate and go through the buffet (cooked by chefs, designed by dieticians) and sit back down, it’s me, Alejo, and Rene, the striker.
Again, like the rest of them, Rene is a handsome guy. He’s twenty-six, in the prime of his career, and he acts accordingly. While Alejo has this innate confidence that comes from someplace complicated, Rene seems to know who he is deep down. And who he is, is definitely a ladies’ man.
“Here I am,” I tell him, spearing my fork into the steamed asparagus I piled onto the plate. “Surprised?”
“Claro,” Rene says, and then looks at Alejo who is sitting beside me. “What did you say to convince her?”
“He called me a rodent,” I interject.
“No,” Rene says in shock. “This beautiful woman?” He jerks his thumb at me and stares at Alejo.
“I said she was like a squirrel,” Alejo says. “Like how they store nuts for the winter? I’m convinced she has stacks of plates and food hidden away in her office.”
“Ha, ha,” I tell him, biting off the end of an asparagus. They both seem to wince at that. “So, how are you guys feeling?”
“You mean about the game tomorrow?” Rene asks. He then shrugs. “I’m excited.”
“We’ll win,” Alejo says.
I eye him. “You say that so sincerely.”
He eyes me right back, his chin dipping ever so subtly so that he’s staring up at me through long lashes. Shit. I’d never noticed how long and black his eyelashes were. Why are men always so lucky with that?
“I am always sincere, Thalia,” he says. Then a smirk flits across his lips. “Besides, if you don’t believe it, who will? No one.”
“Quotes by Alejo Albarado,” Rene jokes.
“I am serious,” Alejo says. I watch absently as he moves his quinoa around the plate, and I am taken by his hands. I’m not sure I ever really noticed them before — there are many other things about Alejo that vie for your attention — but his hands have the same kind of quality that his eyes do. They seem to belong to someone older, someone capable and in control. Because I work so much with my hands, I sometimes view them as windows to a soul, or at least the health of a person. Alejo’s don’t seem to fit with his easy persona. They are working hands.
“And how are you feeling?” Rene asks me, making me look away from Alejo’s hands and to his face. He cocks his head. “You nervous? First game of the season for us, but first game for you with Real Madrid.”
“Rene, don’t make her even more nervous,” Alejo chides him.
“I’m not nervous,” I tell them. “I have been nervous, of course. You know what it’s like when you start somewhere new. But I have faith in you guys winning the game.”
“See,” Alejo says, pointing his fork at Rene. “My enthusiasm is contagious.”
“It kind of is,” I say with a smile.
And I mean it.
After lunch, it’s siesta time. Between the hours of one and three, Valdebabas turns into a ghost town, with the staff and players taking siestas before the next round of training, from the academy teams all the way up to the first team.
Normally I just work in my office (as much as I love the idea of napping mid-day, I’m not quite there yet), but while I’m in the kitchen getting some Pellegrino, I hear some noise from the game room.
I saunter on over there and poke my head around the corner. I haven’t been here since Mateo gave me the brief tour. There’s a bunch of couches for lounging, as well as an air hockey table, ping pong, foosball, a pool table, darts, and a basketball arcade game (you know, the ones you do at the fair and win prizes).
And that’s where I happen to find Alejo, standing far away from the game and putting in shot after shot after shot right into the net.
He doesn’t seem to notice me, so I take the opportunity to be a total sneak and watch him.
I mean, I have to watch him.
To see how his muscles are working.
It’s my job.
And his muscles are working fine. He’s still in his shorts and blue Adidas training shirt, his muscles rippling with ease with each shot. It looks totally effortless, though I can see a determination in his eyes that says otherwise.