a lot, it concerns me if you were just thinking of Real Madrid as a stopping point to some place better.”
She shakes her head. “There aren’t many better places.” She pauses. “Barcelona, maybe.”
“Hey!’ I exclaim, but she’s smiling, knowing how much of a rival Barca is. I quickly do the sign of the cross, press my hands together, and stare at the ceiling, talking to Mary. “Por favor, she did not mean it.”
I pour in the wine and orange juice to mix with the fruit and brandy, mixing it around with a bent IKEA spoon. “I think I know what I’m getting you for Christmas.”
“What?”
“Better cutlery. At least spoons and forks. It’s bad luck to give someone knives, but just promise to stock this kitchen.”
She laughs. “I suppose you’re right. I used to cook a lot, back in England. Or just…before. Since coming here, I’ve just been eating at work and then maybe taking some extra home for dinner.”
“Like a squirrel.”
“Yes. Like a squirrel. Or I grab something to eat at the bar below me. I think I’ve eaten my weight in patatas bravas already. Those tiny potatoes are addicting.”
“Yes, but patatas bravas isn’t dinner.” I grab two wine glasses from her shelf. “What would be your favorite meal to cook? If you had the time?”
She thinks that over, tapping her finger against her lips as I pour the sangría from the pitcher. “I actually do a really good rack of lamb. With rosemary and this mint salsa as a garnish.”
“I’m impressed,” I tell her, sliding the sangría toward her. “Perhaps, one day, you can make it for me.”
“Perhaps,” she says as she picks up the glass. She takes a dainty sip and her eyes light up. “Oh my god. That’s good.”
“I told you.”
“What’s the secret?”
“Love,” I tease her.
She rolls her eyes. “Come on.”
“It’s this,” I tell her, holding up the bottle of Ginjinha. “It’s sour cherry liquor from Portugal. Luciano got me hooked on it.”
“Hooked on it,” she repeats, looking me over. A few seconds pass before she says, “You know, I knew a little bit about you from your games against Man United and the media and all that. I have to say, you’re nothing like I thought you were.”
“You say this after I’ve been inside you.”
She doesn’t blush easily, but her cheeks are going pink, matching the rose blooms in the sink.
“So go on. Tell me more wonderful things about myself,” I coax her.
She clears her throat and has another sip before she says, “I thought you were a hard-partying, screwing every woman, drunk all the time kind of player who didn’t take his job seriously.”
I cringe. “Well, that was me for a few years. I graduated from the youth academy and joined the first team at nineteen. The years nineteen to twenty-one were pretty fucked up. I guess…I mean, how do you get so rich and get so much fame and responsibility at such a young age without losing yourself? I lost myself in it. I made some mistakes. The biggest mistake was just getting that reputation. Not sure when I can shake it loose.”
“I’m not surprised that you went off the rails a bit. Especially since you lost your father.”
I take a big gulp of my sangría and make a noise of agreement.
She goes on, her voice gentle. “Is it true, what you said…that you never really talk about your father with anyone?”
I still, staring down into the glass for a second. Then I glance at her. “That was true. Everything I tell you is true.”
She nods slowly, looking at me with sweet eyes. Beautiful eyes. It fucking kills me to have a counter between us, that I can’t take her in my arms and ravage her, kiss her, flip her on the counter and slip inside her. But I made a promise to myself that I would control myself tonight.
I will follow her lead.
“I guess I never told you that…” she starts. “It really meant a lot to me that you told me that. That you trusted me.”
“Of course I trust you.”
“Only because I’m your therapist. And your health is in my hands. I’ve seen it happen before. Patients, they become dependent on you. They trick themselves into thinking you’re a savior, that you mean more to them than you really do.”
“No,” I say adamantly, my voice raising. “You think I feel this way about you because you’re my therapist? That isn’t it at all.”