I really am absolutely good at everything. Especially fucking.
And I’d be especially good at fucking her.
“It’s too big,” she says, seeming kind of awkward.
“No such thing.”
Her bra and other shirt are bunched up in her hand.
“Was your bra en peligro?” I ask.
I wasn’t sure if she understood what I was getting at but she does. Her bra was compromised. Her cheeks go pink, and naturally my eyes drift to her chest where her nipples are hard and poking through the material. For fuck’s sake, now I’m getting hard too, and these track pants leave nothing to the imagination.
She swallows hard as her gaze momentarily goes south. She abruptly looks away, as if the rest of my room is suddenly interesting. “I’ll give it back to you when I get a change of clothes.”
“Keep it for as long as you like. Though I’m not sure if it’s clean or not.”
She brings the collar up to her nose and sniffs. “It smells good.” She shrugs.
“That’s just my lucky deodorant.”
Her eyes go to mine in surprise. “You wear lucky deodorant?”
“I’m wearing it right now. One of those superstitions I told you about. Now, I bet you have a lot of work and planning to do today. So do I.”
I head toward the door, and I swear I hear a sigh of relief from her. I guess she thought I had more nefarious reasons for bringing her into my room.
We head out into the hallway, and before we part ways she says, “Take it easy out there. Don’t train too hard. You need all the energy you can get for tonight.”
“Believe me, I can go all day and all night. Just call me your Spanish Energizer bunny.”
It sounds cheesy coming out of my mouth, but it makes her smile, so it’s worth it.
The rest of the day passes as if it’s happening to someone else.
The noise-cancelling headphones block out the world, allowing me to zero in, deeper and deeper, until everything that I am is a narrow world of focus, and everyone knows not to disturb me.
I do shooting drills on the pitch, getting as many balls into the goal as I can.
I eat.
I warm up.
I get changed into the sharp navy suits we normally wear to the away games, but since it’s our first game of the season, it feels appropriate. We pile into the infamous bus that takes us to Santiago Bernabéu Stadium in downtown Madrid. The motorcade leads the way through the sunset, as the blocked-off streets are lined with throngs of passionate fans, running alongside the bus and cheering us on.
But I don’t see much of it. It’s too easy to get swept up in the fans’ expectations of you.
I only have expectations from myself.
My game day playlist plays in my ears. I did my drills to Led Zeppelin, I ate to Paul Simon, did my warmup to Deftones, and now I’ve got “Insomnia” by Faithless going, the last song, its eight minute-length cued to end just as the bus pulls into the stadium.
I’m hyped up.
I’m a beast.
A soldier on the frontlines.
A warrior stepping into battle.
I’ve got so much energy I feel like I could kick a million goals, run around the pitch a hundred times, and scream while I absolutely slaughter the other team.
I’m right where I need to be.
We pile off the bus, giving quick smiles and stern looks to the photographers waiting outside, then make our way through the lower halls of the stadium to the locker room.
We get changed and it’s only then that I take my headphones off.
The world roars around me.
I glance at my teammates. Luciano is serious too, but gives me a wink.
We get into our warm-up gear.
Head out onto the field.
The stadium is still filling up, the excitement and energy visible, palpable.
We’re only out there for fifteen minutes, shooting a few goals, getting our muscles ready and our head in the game, and then we’re coming back in.
We get changed into our game kit.
The white uniforms for Los Blancos.
I stare at the back for a moment, as I always do, seeing my name and my number. Knowing all that I’ve sacrificed and worked for to be here.
Luciano gives us all a few words of encouragement and then Mateo stands in the middle of the room, dressed to the nines in his suit, his black hair slicked back.
“I’ll make this short but sweet,” Mateo says, clasping his hands around his back as he starts to pace. “Last year was good. Almost our best