Chapter Two
“So Mateo,” Pedro del Torro says as he spoons sugarinto his black coffee and gives it a methodical stir. “Doyou have any idea of why we might have asked you heretoday?”
I am sitting across from him and the diminutiveAntonio Ramos in one of Madrid’s more prestigiouscafés. Nothing but the best for these two, althoughAntonio has only been the general manager for aboutthree years. As Atletico’s owner, Pedro flaunts his powerand money like it’s no one’s business, more so when theteam is doing well, like they have been.
I give them a shrug and a half-smile. “Because youfind me charming?”
Pedro breaks into an easy laugh, one that I can’t tellis for show or not. He takes a sip of his coffee and nodsappreciatively at it. “The coffee here never lets medown. That’s why I keep coming back for more.”
I stare at him, knowing I have to humor hisindulgences before he gets down to business.
“You, Mateo,” he goes on, “seem to be the same.Reliable. The kind of person that doesn’t let anyonedown.”
I keep my expression neutral. God knows that I’velet enough people down in my lifetime.
He leans forward and folds his leathered hands infront of him. “Diego is leaving the team in January.”
I raise my brows in surprise. Diego Martinez is thecoach, and a great one at that. He’s helped bring theteam back from the brink all those years ago.
“Why?” I ask, trying to ignore the feeling insideme, like my chest is taking flight. I can’t get ahead ofmyself here, can’t dare dream of where this could beleading.
Pedro exchanges a tired glance with Antonio beforeturning his sharp eyes back to me. “He’s going to coachfor the Argentina team instead. We’ve known about itfor a while, we just weren’t sure what to do about it.”
I clear my throat and fight the urge to straighten thecuffs on my rolled up sleeves. “And Warren?” Warren isthe assistant coach, a Brit who used to play for Arsenalway back in the day. For a while there, with all thesemeetings, I had thought that perhaps I was beinggroomed to take his position. Now it has the possibilityto be so much more than that.
“We had hopes that Warren would be able to stepup. But the truth is, we’d all want a Spaniard in charge ofthe boys and one from the family.” Pedro pauses to takeanother sip of coffee and wipes delicately at hismustache before saying, “We want you, Mateo.”
I blink at him. “Me?”
“Yes,” he says with a quick smile. “Naturally yourealized we wanted to do business with you.”
I sit back in my chair, faintly aware that my heart ispounding loudly in my ears. “Well, yes, but there isbusiness and there is being a coach of an internationalfootball team. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but whatmakes you think this is something I can do? I haven’tbeen in the game for a long time.”
Pedro and Antonio exchange another look, and thistime Antonio speaks, slow and measured. “We thinkyou’ll do just fine. We have until January, of course, andwill put you in with Warren and Diego immediately.You’ll get a feel for it, what it’s like to be back. Believeme, Mateo, I used to watch you play religiously, and forsomeone like you, this is a natural progression.”
“Besides,” Pedro adds, “it’s always good to mixthings up. With Diego leaving, we want to ensure thatthe players and the audience are riveted as always.Having a player like you back in the saddle, so to speak,would attract a lot of attention to the team. Especiallysince you’ve been in the public eye again this past year.”
I swallow and give him an uneasy smile. He doesn’tseem too pleased about that, how the paparazzi went alittle crazy over my divorce, and the scandal of dating ayounger, foreign woman. I wait for Pedro to bring upVera, but he doesn’t.
“You don’t have to give us your answer now,” hesays smoothly, his face going from stern contempt to oneof a crafty politician. “We have plenty of time. Howabout you let us know by the end of the week and we’lltake the next steps from there? This will no doubt changeyour life, Mateo, but only for the better.”
Lunch is served soon after and their talks turn to thesport, to films, to the weather. I smile and nod but I amtrapped inside my head. One part of me feels ready toburst from happiness, from the prospect of fulfillment,while another part is digging its nails in, afraid to let go,afraid of more change.
We leave the restaurant together, and I tell them I’llgive them a call on Friday. They wave me off as if theyknow my answer already. Perhaps I know it too. Still, Ishare my life with Vera and would not act without discussing it with her, even if I wasone hundred percent certain.
We get two steps down the cracked concrete stairsbefore a flashbulb goes off in my face. A slimphotographer with a long mullet is crouching down,taking our picture. I’ve seen him before, snapping shotsof me and Vera on our nights out but that was monthsand months ago.
“Why is Mateo Casalles meeting with Atlético?”the photographer asks but Pedro just smiles and raiseshis hand in a slight wave before turning to the left. I goright, and the photographer follows me, an easy target.
“Are you joining Atlético again, Mateo?” hepersists, and I turn slightly to give him a look.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I say, andkeep walking. He doesn’t bother following me beyondthe corner.
By the time I’m back at the apartment, the sun isoverbearing, and the streets, even in our neighborhood,the elegant Salamanca barrio, smell like garbage anddust. The building offers a cool respite, and when I openthe door to our flat, Vera is standing in the gleamingkitchen, stirring a pitcher of lemonade.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” I ask as I put mykeys on the table, remembering the particular Englishphrase.
She turns to me and gives me a big smile. She lookslike a housewife from the 1950s with the eyes of afemme fatale. She’s squeezed herself into a fittedstrapless yellow dress that shows off her full breasts andwide hips, and has a silk patterned scarf pulling hervoracious hair off her forehead. But her tattoos and blackhigh-top sneakers remind me that she’s not like anyother housewife I know.
“Very good,” she says, always pleased when Iremember the idiosyncrasies of her language. She raisesthe pitcher. “Don’t worry, there’s vodka in it.”
I grin at her and wrap my arms around her waist,pulling her up against me. “Of course there is.”
She yelps as a bit of the lemonade splashes over theside and onto the floor but I don’t let go. She manages toput the pitcher down before I bury my face in her neck,nipping and kissing at her delicate skin. She tastes likesunshine and citrus.
“So,” she says breathlessly, and I can feel her pulsequickening beneath my lips. I run my hand over theslope of her ass and give it a hard squeeze as I pressmyself against her. “Do I have to ask how it went?”
“I will tell you all about it,” I murmur, “later. Butyou’re wearing that dress and making me drunkenlemonade on this hot day, and I’m afraid I’ll have to dealwith you first.”
I bring my lips to the space behind her ear whereher newest tattoo is. It says, in Spanish, Love, in Spanishis you, something I said to Vera back in La Albercawhen I was first falling for her. It remains true to thisday. I run the tip of my tongue over the words, and sheshudders beneath me. She can never resist that, thoughshe never seems to resist anything.
I love that about her.
I grab hold of the zipper at the back of her dress andslowly start pulling it down until her breasts are free. Icup them, my mouth grazing her nipples that puckerbeneath me. I take my time, wanting to enjoy everyminute with them in this bright light, this cool kitchen,this hot city.
She moans as I run my tongue around in deliberatecircles, and she starts to run her fingers through my hair,tugging on it gently. It ignites nerves that shoot directlyto my cock but I’m already hard as steel and strainingagainst my pants.
With one smooth motion I pick her up and place herover my shoulder, caveman-style. She lets out a littlelaugh, playfully kicking her toes against my stomach andpounding her fists against my back. “Put me down, youbad man,” she says in mock distress.
I give her an exaggerated grunt and then drop heron the couch. She doesn’t have time to adjust herself;I’m on her in a second, pulling the dress over her headand discarding it on the coffee table. I stare down at herbody lying against the cushions, pale and soft and all forme, and grab hold of her calves, yanking her toward meuntil her ass and hips are propped up against the armrest,her legs dangling over the sides.
“Get naked,” she commands me, but I only give hera half-smile. I’ll get naked, after I’m done with the firstcourse. She always comes first. That is the rule, eventhough she broke it last night with those irresistible lipsof hers.
I get down on my knees and pull her hips evencloser toward me, her pussy is bare, wet and waiting. It’sbeautiful. I trail my lips and tongue from the inside ofher knee—something that solicits a breathy groan fromher—and up the silky path of her inner thighs. Shearches her back, pushing herself into my mouth greedily.
She tastes good—like her, like the ocean and youth—and I take my time running my tongue around her clit,up and down the curves before plunging it inside her.
“Mateo,” she says between groans. “Oh god, don’tstop.”
I grin and pull away from her, doing just theopposite. “Speak to me in Spanish, my Estrella, and I’llcontinue.”
I watch her close her eyes and arch her neck. “Fuckme with your mouth, harder, deeper,” she says in brokenSpanish. It’s the sexiest thing I have ever heard. HerSpanish lessons are really paying off.
Naturally, I comply, my fingers joining in so thatshe’s coming hard within seconds. She cries out, as if theorgasm has taken her by surprise, and I can feel herquivers racing beneath my lips and around my fingers.
I straighten up and stare down at her spent body as Iunbutton my shirt. “Now, I’ll get naked.”
I swiftly remove it and my pants until it’s just meand my erection in front of her. She lifts her head, eyingmy body appreciatively, the hunger reappearing andready for more. She’s insatiable.
“Turn around,” I tell her, and she immediatelyresponds by getting on her hands and knees on thecouch, her ripe, round ass facing me. She moves forwardto make room, and I get right behind her, one leg on thefloor, bracing my weight, the other on the couch. I wrapone hand around her waist and relish the sight of it, mylong, bronzed fingers standing out against the creamywhite of her skin.
I knead at her waist, her ass, the soft slope of herthighs, taking my time, building the anticipation for bothof us. When she starts to shift, her patience wearing thin,I bring my fingers up through her slickness, lightlypressing on her clit for a moment then taking my handaway. She’s wanting it, her back arched, ass pressedtoward me, begging for it, but it’s now my game we areplaying. In my game, it is not all about the goal. A sillyanalogy for a football player, perhaps, but when it comesto sex it is the truth.
I take her wetness and use it to lubricate my hand asI stroke myself. I bring my fist up and down my cockand close my eyes, carefully stoking the fire inside me. Ican hear her whimper, wanting to see, to be involved.It’s all part of the journey.
Finally, when I’m getting too close to orgasm formy own good, I start teasing the crack of her ass with thetip, and the slight pressure makes her moan.
“God, Mateo, please.”
I smile to myself. “That sounds like English.”
“Por favor,” she begs, her accent perfect.
I press it against her, feeling her spread for me, butI don’t push in yet. Teasing is just too much fun.
“Por favor, Mateo,” she cries out in frustration.“Dios mio.”
She calls me her God.
“Si, Estrella,” I tell her, and with one swift motion,I push inside of her. She feels like heat and honey, and asI drive myself in deep, I feel my breath and heartbeatcatch in the back of my throat. The headiness swarmsaround me, begging for more, as I thrust harder, faster.My balls smack her ass—in my delirium it sounds likeangels—and the need to come inside her, to plant myseed deep, takes over.
My grip on her hips tightens, and I hold on as Ipound her again and again. She cries out, swept away bythe same frenzy. The couch rattles loudly against thewall, and when my thrusts become more powerful, itstarts to move along the floor, inch by inch. I have neverwanted to fuck her so hard, so intensely, than I do in thismoment, as if biological urges and frivolous desire weremelded into one driving life force.
I feel as if I am nailing her to some place—perhapsthis world, this moment, and I want nothing more than tobe so deep that I leave some permanent reminder ofmyself. She is mine, all mine; she is mine now andforever, this beautiful, soft, wet woman of my dreamsand my heart, and I am going to fuck her until she’sscreaming my name.
It doesn’t take long. She lets out this low, gutturalmoan that builds to a crescendo, and as she throbsaround me, squeezing my cock with her lengthyshudders, I let go. I come hard, and for a long time myface is contorted, my nonsensical cries hissing out of mymouth in short bursts of painful euphoria.
When I am finally milked dry, I pull out andcollapse on the couch beside her, pulling her up againstmy chest. We are both breathing hard but I still kiss thetop of her neck and hold her close to me so our sweatmingles and mixes, and our limbs wrap around eachother. I am outside of her but we are still one.
The clock on the wall ticks away and we lie here fortwenty minutes, not saying anything, just breathing, justbeing. I don’t know why she sometimes turns me intosuch a Neanderthal, but when it ends in such away, Idon’t see either of us complaining about it.
Eventually she lifts her head and looks up at mewith hazel eyes that are both exhausted and bright. “So,”she says, nestling her hands into my chest, “now thatwe’ve got the fucking-your-brains-out out of the way,will you tell me about your day? Or are you holding thatinformation hostage for more sexual encounters?Because as eager as I am for anything that involves yourcock, my cooch is a bit sore from that pounding.”
“Cooch?” I ask, puzzled but smiling at the sound ofthe word on my lips.
She shrugs. “Coño.”
I shake my head slightly. “I am not sure I like thiscooch. It sounds like a cartoon character, a name far toosilly for something as serious as your pussy.”
She grins at me and her face lights up like asparkler. “I have a serious pussy?”
“Well, let’s just say I take your pussy veryseriously,” I say. I run my thumb over her lips and thensay, “Today went very well. Pedro, the owner, andAntonio, they want me to take over Diego’s position inJanuary. They want me to be the coach.”
Her eyes widen into shining pools. “Are youserious?”
“As serious as your pussy.”
“Mateo,” she exclaims, pushing herself up. “Theywant you to be coach? What about that other guy, theEnglish dude?”
“Warren? They aren’t too sure about him. Theywant a Spaniard and a former teammate to have the job.Diego is leaving to coach Argentina in the new year so Iam to be his replacement. I will have all this time tolearn and see if I can do the job.”
“Of course you can do the job,” Vera says, thoughthe only time she’s seen me play was in Las Palabras,where I failed miserably thanks to my knee, and a fewold Atlético games that someone uploaded ontoYouTube. “You can do anything.”
I cock my head, considering that. “I don’t know,” Isay unsurely. “I am a bit rusty. I have never coached. Idon’t know how to lead.”
She is staring at me like I could never let her down.I’m not sure if I like it. “Oh, Mateo. You have no idea,do you?”
“What?”
“You don’t know how to lead,” she repeats,mocking it. “In Las Palabras, you were always theleader. Everyone gravitated toward you because theyrecognized that. Do you not remember your ownpresentation about creating your own destiny? That’swhat you do, Mateo. You create. You lead. Everyoneelse follows.”
“I follow you,” I tell her, kissing the tip of her nose.
“You follow my coño,” she says.
I place my hands on either side of her face and holdher as I stare deep into her eyes. “I follow every part ofyou, everywhere. You go before me, Vera. You alwayswill.”
As she sometimes does when I’m being especiallyhonest, she looks away shyly. It’s cute, like she can’tbelieve that I could feel the way that I do about her. Butsometimes, most times, I just want her to believe it, toown it.
“Anyway,” she says, quickly skirting over what Isaid, “you do have what it takes, Mateo. I think thiscould be the best thing that could happen to you. You’llbe a part of what you love again, in it as much as youcan be. But it’s not about what I think.”
“It is about what you think.”
“It’s about what you think,” she says. “So what didyou tell them?”
I lay my head back against the couch cushions andstare at the ceiling. “They are giving me until Friday tothink about it.”
“Good,” she says. “By then you’ll know what youwant, if not sooner.”
But the thing is, all I really want is her.