Chapter Thirteen
I promised myself a lazy weekend, and boy have I embodied that.
Work has been so busy lately, and I feel like I’ve barely had time to breathe recently, let alone process everything that’s been happening with Santi.
Our date on Friday had been incredible, but it had left me in that bittersweet haze between excitement and caution. I tell myself that it’s a good thing that I’m so busy since it means I haven’t been able to overthink.
Santi and I have been texting since our date - just short, casual exchanges for now, nothing too full-on - but it feels like there’s something simmering beneath the surface.
I don’t want to over analyse things, though.
After all, if you do what you’ve always done, then you get the same result, right?
So, I want to let things unfold naturally - even if my brain seems intent on creating scenarios worthy of a romantic drama.
After a slow breakfast, I decide to head to the beach with a book. The thought of the sea breeze and soft sand beneath my feet feels like the perfect way to recharge, and this is a luxury I don’t have back in Manchester .
I’m trying to live my life a little more presently and focus on being in the moment, and as I walk through the winding Spanish streets, I let myself take in the beauty of my surroundings - the vibrant orange trees, the chatter of locals enjoying their morning coffee and the gentle hum of life in the city.
By mid-afternoon, I’m sprawled out on a towel and practically glowing from how much sun cream I’m wearing. My fair hair sits in a loose, messy bun on top of my head, and my book - a highly recommended summer romance novel - sits forgotten beside me as I stare out at the waves, my large sunglasses hiding most of my expression from any passers by.
I just can’t seem to get my mind to stop from drifting.
No matter how hard I try to live in the moment and not think about him… I can’t help it.
I wonder about Santi. What he’s doing, what he’s up to, who he’s with, where he’s going.
He’d mentioned that he had training over the weekend, but I have no idea what his schedule actually looks like, or what training even involves. Honestly, as far as I know, it could be anything.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes, and I smile at the sight of his name on my phone screen.
How’s your lazy Sunday going?
Sitting up slightly to type a reply, I bite down on my bottom lip.
My giddiness is honestly ridiculous. After all, I shouldn’t be this happy to hear from him. Not so soon.
Sunny, sandy, and quiet. How about you? I type back.
The reply comes almost instantly .
Noisy, sweaty, and full of guys yelling at each other. All in a day’s work.
Ew. Honestly, that sounds like my idea of hell. I don’t know how he does it, but I’m thankful I’ll never have to know.
Still, I laugh a little to myself, imagining him in the thick of the chaos.
Sounds delightful, I say. I’m almost jealous, but I got a pretty good spot on the beach.
Before I can second-guess myself, I take a quick photo of my view of the sea and send it to him with my message. If my bare legs just so happen to be in the shot, then that’s purely a coincidence that I absolutely did not intend, plan, or stage.
One of the things that I like so much about Santi is the way he doesn’t play games, and my phone buzzes as his reply comes promptly once again.
I know where I’d rather be.
That stops me in my tracks, my fingers hovering over the screen.
Should it be possible to feel so flustered just through texting?
Careful, Santi. People might think you’re a secret romantic.
Just as I move to put my phone down, it buzzes again.
They wouldn’t be wrong. ;)
I shake my head as I finally do put my phone down, my heart doing that annoying little flip that it seems to have started doing whenever I think about him.
∞∞ ∞
By the time that Monday evening rolls around, I can’t deny how much I’m looking forward to seeing Santi again. Our text conversations have been an endless thread of playful banter (plus some surprisingly sweet exchanges), but nothing compares to the thought of being with him in person.
The tapas bar he suggested is nestled in a small but lively square, the kind of place where locals gather to eat, laugh and drink together late on into the evening. The lifestyle is much more laid back than it is at home, where places are usually much quieter during the week since people hurry off home after working all day.
It seems that Santi likes quaint places on the outskirts of the city. I’ve no doubt that these are places where he’s less likely to be recognised or approached. I imagine it’s not always easy for him to get out and about in the centre, and that people can descend on him rather quickly, being a hot-shot rugby star and all.
At least here there’s plenty of room to - well, you know, breathe .
The scent of sizzling seafood fills the air as we arrive, and Santi calls to one of the busy waitresses who greets him with a quick wave.
“Nos gustaría sentarnos afuera,” he tells her.
My living here hasn’t been in vain, and I am quickly picking up on new terms and phrases each day.
We want to sit outside.
“Sí, sí,” the waitress responds with a quick wave of her hand.
Santi smiles as he leads us out of the restaurant and over towards one of the corner tables. We don’t have to wait for long before a waiter arrives, greeting him warmly and engaging in light but familiar conversation in Spanish before handing us both menus.
“I take it you come here often,” I say .
“Not as often as I’d like,” he replies. “Between games, training and travel, I don’t have much time.”
“Ah, the glamorous life of a rugby star,” I tease.
He chuckles as he sets down his menu. “Speaking of that, you must tell me: have you done any more digging since our last conversation?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Digging?”
“You know, research,” he says, his tone laced with amusement. “Have you found anything else interesting?”
“You make it sound like I’ve been building a dossier on you,” I say, deflecting slightly.
His nose crinkles at that. “Dossier?” he repeats.
I smile softly. Usually, it’s me who needs the clarification since his English is exceptional.
“Like, lots of papers and documents.”
“Oh. Well - have you?” he asks, leaning in with a mock-serious expression. “Because if you have, I want to know what you’ve uncovered.”
My eyes narrow slightly, but I decide to play along.
“Just the basics,” I say, my lips pulling up into a smirk. “Big-shot rugby player, national hero, man of mystery.”
He smirks too. “Anything juicier?”
Our conversation might be playful, but I can’t shake the feeling that Santi is subtly trying to gauge just how much I’ve uncovered about him.
The truth is… quite a lot.
I’ve spent more time than I care to admit trawling through social media and reading every article, interview, and blog post I’ve been able to find. It started innocently enough - I was just trying to get a better sense of who he is, what makes him tick, and why on earth he’s interested in me - but curiosity quickly spiraled into a full-blown deep dive.
And because I couldn’t stop there, I’ve even tried to learn a bit more about rugby itself, just to understand the world he’s immersed in. I’ve watched highlight reels of matches I don’t fully grasp and I’ve read articles breaking down league standings and team rivalries.
None of it makes me an expert, but I now know enough to realise how respected and high-profile he really is.
But there’s one thing I’ve deliberately avoided as much as possible.
Rumours about his love life.
Even though those articles have been the hardest to ignore - complete with glossy paparazzi photos of him with various different women over the years and cryptic “insider” quotes - I’ve actively avoided them.
“Well,” I say, pretending to think, “there was that one article about you rescuing a dog during some flooding.”
“True story,” he says with a shrug. “Though it was nothing, really.”
“How noble,” I tease.
“Thanks,” he says, flashing me a grin. “It’s weird, no? The sort of things you can find out about me on the internet.”
“Honestly?” I say, my brows raising a little. “I… yeah. I agree. If I’m honest, I try not to actually read too much stuff. It makes it… I don’t know. Just feels weird if I know a lot about you that you’ve not actually told me. Sorry - am I making sense?”
He smiles warmly. “You are,” he nods. “So - now it’s your turn. What’s the most embarrassing thing I’d find if I looked you up?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. Perhaps too quickly.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing worth sharing, anyway,” I clarify, laughing.
Note to self: delete all embarrassing old photos from my social media, ASAP.
Our food arrives in waves - crispy patatas bravas, grilled calamari and creamy croquetas - and serves as a distraction from the conversation. Between bites, we trade lighter stories about our lives: Santi’s chaotic schedule during rugby season and classroom antics with my students.
At one point, I notice him watching me with an intensity that makes me falter mid-sentence.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he says, his voice so soft. “I just like hearing you talk.”
I just look at him, totally unsure how to respond to that.
There’s something disarming about his sincerity - like it peels away all my defenses.
“Well,” I say, trying my best to play it cool. “If you ever need a bedtime story, you know who to call.”
He laughs, the sound warm, rich and genuine. “Noted.”
Time flies without my recognition, and it’s only when I look at the clock and note that over two hours have passed do I realise just how comfortable I feel around him and how easy it is to open up these parts of myself that I usually try to hide.
It’s admittedly… well, nice.