“I’m going to say the fact that you’re not healing as fast as you want?”
He gives me a sharp look. “The team is on a losing streak.”
“You lost two games in a row.”
“We would have lost three had it not been for dumb luck with that goal.”
I give him a sympathetic look. “It’s just the way it goes sometimes. And it’s out of your hands, so there’s no use worrying about it.”
“But it’s my fucking fault,” he says, and I can hear the anguish in his voice. “This stupid fucking knee. If it wasn’t for me, I would be out there. Now we’re playing tomorrow and I can’t do anything but watch the game from here.”
“You could go to the stadium,” I tell him.
“You know what I mean.”
I sigh, knowing how frustrated he must feel. “Look. You’re going to get better.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. You said I would be out three weeks and it’s been three weeks.”
“No. We said that if you could wear a brace during the game, then you’d back in it. But as you know, if you wear a brace, you’re making your injury a target for the other players, and you know yourself it’s a target they will take. And anyway, so things are happening slower. We just keep at it. Every injury is unique.”
“You must be sick of me,” he mumbles.
For some reason, that little offside comment breaks my heart. “I could never be sick of you,” I tell him softly.
He shoots me a wary look and goes back to his exercise.
I watch him for a while, feeling his frustration across the water. Then I have an idea.
“Hey, this is going to sound weird, but a lot of clubs do it. Why don’t we try yoga?”
“Yoga?” he repeats with a scoff. “Do I look like I would enjoy yoga?”
“It’s not about what you’re enjoying. This isn’t a hobby. This is about getting you better and I think it could make a big difference.”
“We don’t do yoga at Real Madrid.”
“I know. I’ve mentioned it to Dr. Costa and he emphasized how you focus on weights, and that’s fine. It works. But other teams do use yoga and it works for them, too. I just think it would help your recovery. It’s worth a shot.”
He grows quiet. “I don’t know.”
“Are you worried about the other players seeing you?” I ask.
He shrugs. Or attempts to shrug, which momentarily puts his head below the water. He breaks the surface, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.
I’m laughing.
“Very funny,” he says, spitting out water. But then he’s grinning at me.
This beautiful boy. He never fails to take my breath away.
Watch it, the voice inside my head warns. But that voice sounds so very far away these days. Now that Alejo has stepped back in his, well, pursuit of me, I feel it coming from inside of me now.
A craving for his attention.
“I promise I’ll make yoga as fun as possible. And no one will see,” I add.
“When?”
“Why not tonight?”
He arches a black brow. “Tonight?”
“Just trust me. Come find me after dinner. Wear something flexible.”
That brow is still raised as he studies me. “You’re full of surprises, Thalia.”
I think I’m surprising even myself.
It’s hard to hold a yoga session in the compound when it’s the night before a game. Everyone is staying over, which means all members of the team are scattered everywhere. Right after dinner I go to the warm-up room, to the gym, to the physio room, to the game room, even the little cinema, and there are Real Madrid players everywhere.
But by the time Alejo knocks on my door, I have an idea.
“At your service,” he says to me with a bow as I open the door. He’s dressed in a black t-shirt and grey shorts which look fucking fantastic on him.
“Actually, I’m at your service,” I tell him as I reach down and pick up the yoga mat I keep in my room, handing it to him. “Let’s take this outside.”
“Outside?” He looks so thoroughly confused with his face scrunched up, it’s adorable.
“Yes,” I say, trying to bite back a smile. “We’ll go to the field. One that doesn’t have a bunch of your teammates scattered on it. Someplace quiet.”
Alejo doesn’t look so sure.
“Come on,” I tell him, pushing past him. “Be a man.”