Chapter Eleven
I ’m still replaying my conversation with Santi when I get home later that afternoon.
Part of me is irritated by this whole thing. After everything that happened, I told myself I wasn’t going to do this - had sworn off even having a brief fling whilst here in Spain - but no matter how hard I try to resist him, Santi has a way of drawing me in.
Now that I’m in the privacy of my own apartment, curiosity gets the better of me, and after dropping my bag down by the door, I reach for my laptop and settle down on the couch.
“Alright, Santiago Ortiz,” I mutter as I open a search engine. “Let’s see who you really are.”
The moment I hit ‘search,’ dozens of images and articles flood the screen, a cascade of snapshots that make my heart leap into my throat, and my jaw drops as I click on the first link.
Santiago Ortiz. Star player for Spain’s national rugby team.
My brain doesn’t quite catch up to fully understand what I’m reading.
Words like multi-time league champion . Beloved by fans. Hailed as one of the greatest athletes of his generation.
I scroll down on auto-pilot, and the first image that catches my eye is of him mid-game, red jersey streaked with dirt, his face set in intense concentration as he charges with a rugby ball in his arms. The next picture shows him hoisting a glittering trophy above his head, a jubilant grin on his face, surrounded by his teammates in a confetti-filled stadium.
What the actual fuck?!
The article goes on and on, showing more photos of him on and off the field, including a more polished shot of Santi in a tailored suit at a charity gala, all sharp lines and effortless sophistication.
And then I see it .
A shirtless magazine cover that makes my stomach do a little flip.
His muscular frame is on full display, every defined line and ripple of his tanned, broad chest and abs glowing under the professional lighting.
The caption reads: "Spain’s Golden Boy: Behind the Fame with Santiago Ortiz."
“Oh my God,” I whisper, scrolling faster.
The articles list his accolades, his stats, his contributions to various charities, and even a few quotes from teammates about his leadership on and off the field. But of course, there’s also a tabloid streak - rumours about past relationships, glimpses of him attending glamorous events with beautiful women on his arm, and the occasional headline speculating about his private life.
I stop on a candid shot of him in a team huddle, the sun catching the sweat on his brow as he seems to be delivering instructions to his teammates. He looks fierce and commanding - nothing like the laid-back, grinning man who bantered with me over coffee this afternoon.
My curiosity gets the better of me as I go back to the search engine, and I click on a short video clip shared by the team’s official account. The screen fills with Santi and his teammates during a practice session, laughing and shoving each other playfully before breaking into a sprint. In another clip, he’s giving a post-match interview, his voice steady and confident as he speaks in Spanish about teamwork and strategy.
But it’s the candid moments that hit me the hardest. Santi hoisting a teammate onto his shoulders in victory, his face lit with pure joy, or the way he grins and waves at the camera during a locker room celebration.
I close the laptop and sit back, my pulse pounding in my ears.
This can’t be real.
Santi ? A national sports icon? A celebrity ?
Suddenly, every moment we’ve shared feels surreal; like I’ve stumbled into someone else’s life. I rub my temples, trying to reconcile the Santiago Ortiz on my laptop screen with the one who sat across from me this afternoon, teasing me about my work.
I move without thought as I reach for my phone and find Laura’s contact details. I press down on the video call button, and she answers after a few rings, her face lighting up when she sees me.
“Liv!” she says, greeting me enthusiastically. “How are you, angel? How’s Valencia?”
“Forget Valencia,” I say, holding up a hand. “You are not going to believe this.”
“What? Did you win the lottery or something?”
“No.” I pause, not quite sure where to start with this. “Do you remember me telling you about the guy I met at that bar? The one with the smile? ”
“You mean the guy you couldn’t stop talking about for a week?” she asks. “Yes, of course. As if I’d forget! Did you see him again?”
“I did,” I confirm. “And I finally found out who he is. Laura - he’s famous. ”
“What do you mean, famous?” she says. “Like, influencer famous, or actual famous?”
“Actual famous,” I reply, grimacing. “He’s a rugby player. A really good one, apparently. He plays for Spain’s national team.”
Her scream of excitement nearly makes me drop the phone.
“Olivia!” she squeals. “Oh my god, I don’t believe it - you’ve been there a month and you’ve snagged yourself a Spanish sports star! This is huge !”
“It’s not huge,” I protest. “It’s terrifying! I don’t even know what to say to him now.”
“You say, ‘take me to your rugby matches and drive me in your fancy car and let’s live happily ever after,’” Laura beams.
“Laura! It’s not like that. I didn’t know who he was, and now it just feels… weird. Like, what would he even see in me?”
Laura’s expression softens. “What?! What are you talking about? Don’t overthink this, or sell yourself short. You’re amazing, and he clearly thinks so too. Just go with it and see where it leads.”
I sigh. “Hmm. We’ll see.”
“Alright, alright - what’s his name?” she says. “Let’s see exactly what we’re working with, here.”
∞∞ ∞
The school day is a blur of lessons, conversations, and exam prep, but my mind keeps drifting.
Thinking about Santi.
It’s ridiculous, honestly. Borderline dangerous. I’ve worked too hard to build a new life here to let some fantasy about an impossibly handsome man derail everything.
And yet, no matter how much I try to focus, I can’t seem to get him out of my head.
When the bell rings to signal the end of the day, I spend an extra thirty minutes in my classroom, tidying up and organising my materials for tomorrow. It’s a small attempt to distract myself from my wandering thoughts, to shake off the distraction that is a ridiculously handsome Spanish man.
I step out of the building and head toward the main school gates, my thoughts still miles away.
I’m so lost in my own head that I nearly walk straight past him.
I stop short, my breath catching as I spot a familiar figure leaning casually against the low wall just past the entrance. He’s wearing that bloody baseball cap again, his hands tucked into his pockets and one ankle crossed over the other, exuding an effortless kind of cool that feels entirely unfair.
“Santi?” I say, my voice betraying my surprise.
He straightens up, flashing me that signature grin that’s equal parts charming and infuriating.
“Hey, profesora,” he says, his tone as easy as his smile - as if his presence here is the most normal, natural thing in the world. “Thought I might find you here. ”
I stare at him - an unfortunately common theme between us - torn between disbelief and confusion.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
“Just passing by,” he says with a casual shrug, though the glint in his eye tells me otherwise.
“Right,” I say slowly, dragging out the word.
I don’t believe for a second that he was just passing by.
Meeting at the bar? That was just one of those things.
Running into him at the café last week? Maybe that was a coincidence.
But showing up outside my school? This feels deliberate.
“I thought I’d see if I could catch you. I wanted to ask you something,” Santi continues.
My mind swirls with questions, but I push them aside, crossing my arms over my chest.
“What did you want to ask?”
“Have dinner with me,” he says, the words falling from his lips with an easy confidence that somehow manages not to sound pushy.
“That’s not a question.”
“And that’s not an answer,” he counters, arching a brow.
I glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of the possibility of lingering students or teachers. The last thing I need is for someone to see me standing here, chatting with local celebrity Santiago Ortiz of all people.
“I don’t know...” I say, my voice trailing off.
“It’s just dinner,” he says, his tone softening. “No pressure. ”
There’s a sincerity in his voice that makes me hesitate.
I glance at him again, taking in the details I’ve been trying not to notice. The sharp angle of his jaw, the way the sunlight catches the olive tone of his skin, the way his green eyes seem to hold just the faintest trace of amusement…
And then there’s the warmth in his expression; something gentler, less guarded than the confident charm he seems to wear like armour.
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” I say finally.
“Why not?”
“Because,” I say, searching for an excuse, “I barely know you. And... and you’re you. ”
His grin softens, and he takes a small step closer, his voice low but steady.
“And you’re you. That’s why I’m asking.”
The words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I can’t think of a single response.
We start walking slowly, moving toward the corner as I try to gather my thoughts. He matches his pace with mine, his hands still in his pockets as he glances over at me.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” he says after a beat, his tone almost teasing. “But I’d like to get to know you. Outside of school gates and coffee shops.”
I laugh despite myself, glancing up at him. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Because it is,” he says, flashing that grin again. “Not everything has to be complicated, Olivia.”
My heart stumbles over the sound of my name on his lips, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to fight my smile .
“I... I don’t know,” I say again, though the hesitation in my voice feels thinner this time, less sure.
“It’s just dinner,” he repeats. “No pressure, no expectations. Just you and me, having a meal. You’ve got to eat, right?”
I glance at him, and the corner of his mouth quirks up as if he knows I’m on the verge of caving.
“Friday night?” I hear myself say before I can stop.
His smile broadens, lighting up his entire face.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says, his voice rich with satisfaction.
Before I can second-guess my decision, he steps a little closer. His fingers brush lightly against my arm - a simple, fleeting gesture that makes my breath hitch all the same - as he leans down, his movements slow and deliberate.
He presses a quick kiss to each of my cheeks, his stubble brushing against my skin. His cologne lingers between us, warm and woodsy, and my knees feel just the tiniest bit unsteady.
Ridiculous.
“Friday at seven,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, his green eyes holding mine for just a moment longer than necessary. “Don’t stand me up, profesora.”
A playful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and before I can even think of a response, he straightens up and takes a step back.
“See you soon, Olivia,” he says, his tone easy but full of intent.
I stand there, rooted to the spot, as he turns and heads in the opposite direction, his stride casual yet purposeful. It’s then that I notice his black sports car - anything but discrete - practically glistening under the Spanish sun. He climbs in, and with one last glance in my direction, he gives a small wave before pulling away from the curb.
The faint hum of the engine fades into the distance, but the warmth of his touch and the press of his lips against my cheeks linger far, far longer.
I exhale slowly, my heart racing as I finally will my feet to move, heading in the direction of my humble little home.
I try not to think about him as I walk, truly I do, but it’s no use. My imagination swirls as I replay our conversation over and over, romanticising it a little more each time.
More than anything, I can’t quite believe what I’ve just agreed to.
Friday night. Dinner with Santiago Ortiz.
What on earth am I getting myself into?