10. Alejandro
Alejandro
The smile doesn’t leave my face, even as I tug my jersey down and tie the laces on my cleats. Not even when I check the mirror and catch how dumb I look, grinning like an idiot.
She makes me soft. And somehow, I don’t hate it.
My phone buzzes again on the bench beside me—another text from her, probably—but I don’t check it. I already know her last reply, tucked between yesterday’s memories and the echo of her laughter still caught in my head.
Beatriz:
You’re lucky you’re cute, because I almost spit my coffee out. And… thank you. I’m trying.
I texted her before practice like I had any self-control left. Told her not to moan in church thinking about last night.
Told her to be selfish.
To be happy.
God, she was so happy yesterday. That sleepy smile when I brought her the cafecito in the morning.
The way her fingers tangled in mine like she didn’t want to let go.
I let her go last night only because I knew if I hung around I would never want to leave, and I don’t want to smother her.
She needs room to breathe, we both do. I can’t let this consume us both the way we really want it to.
But now? Now, I’m holding on tight to the little bit of self control I have left.
I pull my bag up and sling it over my shoulder, still smiling as I walk through the tunnel toward the practice field.
The private facility is one of the best in the league, tucked just far enough out of Miami to give us peace from the chaos.
Brick-walled halls, with trophy cases full of shiny reminders that this team isn’t built on luck.
Just like me. Nothing about my life was handed to me. I built it with blood and sweat and broken pride.
“?Oye, Casanova!”
I glance over as Mateo jogs up beside me, his grin already wide. He’s younger than me, all energy and no filter. His hair’s a mess under his headband, and his eyes squint with mischief.
“You’ve been smiling since you walked in,” he says, bumping my shoulder. “Don’t tell me it’s serious.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What if it is?”
“?No jodas!” No kidding. “The great Alejandro doesn’t do feelings.” He presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “We thought your heart was carved out of steel. Like, surgically removed.”
I laugh. “She gave it back to me.”
He slows, surprised. “Damn. That real?”
“Yeah. It’s real.”
"Okay, Romeo." He chuckles, then points down the hallway. "Let’s get your lovesick ass on the field before Coach starts yelling. You can write her poetry later."
"I might."
Mateo groans. "Disgusting."
I shake my head as he heads out. I take a breath and lean against the cool wall for just a second, letting it settle in my chest. This is what it feels like when things start going right.
When the worst has already happened and you survive it.
When the person you’ve loved half your life lets you hold them again.
I’ve got her.
And this time, nothing’s going to make me let go.
But things going right at the moment can’t erase the day everything went wrong. It’s scorched into me. That memory. That sun.
In those days, the smell of damp garden soil clung to everything—the creases of my palms, the knees of my jeans, the collar of my shirt.
The Miami heat had already settled like a second skin by midmorning that day, clinging and relentless.
Even the breeze felt like breath straight from the earth’s mouth, thick and hot.
I remember crouching beside my father, digging a shallow trench in the rich soil near the Ayala’s fountain, sweat dripping from my temple into the hole.
We were swapping the azaleas out for gardenias—her favorite.
Beatriz’s birthday was that week. I thought maybe she’d walk outside, catch the scent, and smile. Maybe she’d know it was me. That even when I couldn’t buy her jewelry or fly her to New York like other guys could, I still paid attention. Still tried. Still loved her.
We’d been together since we were sixteen. Years of firsts. First kiss. First love. First time I’d finally thought I could actually spend forever with someone. She never cared that I was just the gardener’s son. She looked at me like I was more. Like I could become more. And her father hated that.
He’d tolerated me the way a man tolerates ants at a picnic. I figured if I stayed respectful, if I worked hard and kept my head down, I could win him over eventually. I was young. Na?ve. In love.
That morning, I didn’t see him at first. I was too focused on angling the roots just right, making the new blooms look like they’d always been there. My father was a few yards away, trimming the hedges along the curved driveway, humming under his breath—a tune older than me.
Then, a shadow fell over me. Not the type that belonged to a bird or a tree or passing cloud.
I looked up.
There he was. Mr. Ayala. In a pressed white shirt like always, dark sunglasses shielding his eyes, hands folded neatly behind his back. He looked like a man appraising a property, not a person.
“Walk with me,” he said.
I stood and wiped my hands on my jeans. My instinct was to obey. He was her father. He was powerful. I didn’t question it.
We walked along the stone path that curved around the side of the house, toward the back garden.
No words. Just the click of his shoes against stone and the sound of birds somewhere overhead.
My father hadn’t even looked over. I thought maybe Mr. Ayala was going to ask about the plants. Maybe he had a complaint.
He didn’t speak until we were well out of sight from the house, out of earshot from anyone who might hear.
“You need to break up with my daughter.”
The words had hit me like a shovel to the chest.
“Sir?” I asked, unsure if I’d heard him right.
I remember him pulling a folded check from his jacket pocket and holding it out to me like he was offering a napkin, like it meant nothing to him. “I’m giving you a way out. Take it.”
I didn’t look at the amount. Didn’t need to.
“I don’t want your money,” I had said, pushing it back toward him. “I love Beatriz.”
He stared at me. No anger. No emotion. Just a neutrality that felt more dangerous than anything else.
He slipped the check back into his pocket, like he’d been expecting that answer. Then I remember he placed his hand on my shoulder.
It wasn’t casual. It was a grip. And when he leaned in slightly, I felt the shift in the air. The drop in temperature.
“Love is both a strength and a weakness,” he said quietly. “It gives you the motivation to live, to work hard, to build something real. But it can also be used against you. Weaponized.”
My breath caught.
“Your father recently took out a business loan, hasn’t he?”
My throat dried instantly.
“I’d hate for something unfortunate to happen. Say… he gets blacklisted. Loses contracts. Has to lose his business and whatever he put down as collateral on the loan. What was that again?”
My jaw locked. “The house.”
He nodded, almost sympathetically. “Ah, yes. The house. It would be such a shame, wouldn’t it? Your father’s worked very hard. I’d hate for him to lose everything because his son couldn’t make the right choice.”
I had said nothing, like a damn coward.
“I have to protect what I love, Alejandro. My daughters. My legacy. Surely you understand.”
I did. I understood perfectly.
This wasn’t a request. It was a threat disguised in velvet gloves.
So I left her.
I didn’t explain. Didn’t give her a reason, just a stupid note. I let her believe I didn’t love her anymore.
It shattered me.
But I couldn’t destroy my father’s life just to save my own heart.
Not when he’d worked so hard to finally build something for us.
At the time, I had nothing—no name, no future, just a scholarship and a pair of cleats.
Beatriz would’ve given me the world, but she didn’t understand how easily mine could crumble away.
I still remember the way I made love to her, needing her, needing to be her first there too, before I had to go. The next morning, I couldn’t face her, and I fled knowing she’d hate me the moment she woke up. I was sure it broke her. It broke me, too.
Part of her still doesn’t know what happened. Still wonders.
And maybe someday, I’ll tell her.
But not now. Not when things are finally starting to feel good again. Real. She’s in my life again, and I’m not that powerless boy in the garden anymore. I have my own career, my own money. My father—God rest his soul—is gone now. There’s nothing Mr. Ayala can use to hold over me.
He can’t take her from me again. She came back into my life like lightning. And this time, I’m not standing in the storm. I am the storm.
I shake the memory off like sweat and push through the facility doors leading to the field. The sun greets me, but it doesn’t burn like it used to. It warms me. Fuels me. Because this time, I’m not running.
And I won’t let anyone make me walk away from her again.
The ball meets my cleat with a satisfying thud, rolling easily down the field as I jog to meet it.
The turf feels springy beneath my feet, still damp from the morning dew.
It’s early enough that the sun hasn’t turned everything into a furnace yet, just warm enough to stretch your limbs without resistance.
The rhythm of practice starts fast and only speeds up—just the way I like it.
I sprint down the left wing, chest lifted, arms pumping, tracking the ball as Niko cuts across the center. I don’t have to call for it—he sees me, we’ve done this a thousand times. The pass is perfect, skipping low across the grass.
I catch it with the inside of my foot, pivot hard, and send it straight to Gael, who’s already pushing past the last defender. One touch, then a clean strike to the top left of the goal.
Whistle.
“?Eso, carajo!” Coach’s voice barks approval from the sideline. That's it, dammit!
We loop back to reset. Sweat sticks to my back, the sun glinting off every moving body. My lungs burn in the best way. Focused. Controlled.