14. Beatriz
Beatriz
It’s weird how fast happiness turns into fear.
The last few days have been stupidly good. Like walking on clouds with a soft smile I can’t wipe off no matter how hard I try. I’ve been sleeping better, humming without meaning to, and catching myself daydreaming about someone who once shattered me so completely, I didn’t think I’d survive.
And somehow, this happiness is the part that terrifies me most.
Because I’m finally starting to feel whole again. And I know what happens when I get too comfortable—life usually yanks the rug out from under me.
I shove my classroom door shut behind me and drop into my desk chair with a groan, rubbing the spot between my eyebrows like I can press the stress out through my forehead.
My students were a special kind of unhinged today—half of them already checked out for summer vacation, the other half apparently living in a teen soap opera.
One girl sobbed because her ex held hands with someone else during lunch.
Another spent the entire class writing fanfiction about me and a pop star I didn’t even know existed.
But the real masterpiece?
One kid drew a very anatomically incorrect dragon mounting a castle and tried to convince me it was a “power metaphor.” I almost gave him a B for the sheer audacity.
My phone buzzes in my drawer, and I don’t need to look to know who it is. Alejandro. My chest tightens even before I fish it out and read the message.
Alejandro
Scrimmage is at 7pm. Front row seat’s yours. Bring that smile.
I read it twice, grinning both times like a total idiot, then toss the phone back and slam the drawer shut before one of the other teachers walks by and starts asking nosy questions.
They’ve already started to notice. I’m smiling more, complaining less about the kids. One of them asked if I was seeing someone, and I told them no. Not because it’s a secret. I just… don’t want to burst this bubble I’m in.
After work, I head straight home, the whole way there wondering why I feel like I’m going on a first date instead of just watching a scrimmage.
I’ve already met a few of his teammates at the club, and they didn’t seem to hate me.
But I still have butterflies. The kind that flutter behind your ribs and mess with your breathing.
And maybe a little part of me—okay, a big part—remembers how Alejandro used to look after games. All sweaty and focused. It was my favorite version of him. And I could never keep my hands off him back then.
That’s probably not gonna happen tonight.
Probably.
When I get home, I stand in front of my closet like it personally wronged me for not having the right outfit. Crop top? Too flirty. Oversized tee? Too sloppy. Dress? What am I, insane?
I groan and flop onto my bed, phone in hand, and call the only person who might be able to save me.
Drea answers on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I need help,” I say, flipping the camera to show her the explosion of clothes on my bed. “Emergency outfit crisis.”
Her face scrunches. “Oof. Crisis noted. What’s the occasion?”
“Alejandro’s scrimmage. Tonight.”
She gasps like I just told her I’m getting married. “Woah, a scrimmage? You’re going to watch him play again? Do you need me to mentally cool you off before you go?”
“I need you to tell me what to wear.” I laugh, shifting the phone to show her my options. “I feel like I’m overthinking everything.”
“Because you are,” she says, already pulling clothes out of her own closet like we’re going somewhere together. “Okay. Think chill. Cute. Confident. You want to look like you just threw it on, but also like you could ruin a man’s life with a wink.”
“That’s a pretty tight line to walk.”
She holds up a white tank and high-waisted light jeans. “Something like this. Maybe sneakers. Hair up in a messy but not messy way, you know? Like you didn’t try but still somehow won.”
I glance at my own closet. “I think I can do that.”
“You look happy, B.” Her voice softens. “It’s good to see.”
I don’t say anything right away. My throat tightens too fast.
“You’ve been through a lot, and Papi hasn’t really helped,” she adds gently. “So I’m just happy to see you smiling again, no matter the reason.”
“Has he said anything?” I ask, because I have to.
Drea's face falls just slightly. “I’m sorry.”
So no. He hasn’t.
I nod slowly. “I figured. And Martin?”
“Gone,” she says simply.
I raise a brow. “Gone how?”
“I made sure he won’t bother you again.”
“And how much did that cost?”
She waves it off. “Don’t worry about it. I would’ve chopped off my right arm to get rid of that smug asshole.”
Emotion crawls up the back of my throat again. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, B. Now go get ready. You’ve got a hot soccer man waiting to impress you.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
By the time we hang up, I’ve settled on a white tank, light denim shorts, and my cleanest pair of white sneakers. Hair in a loose ponytail. A little gloss. A little mascara.
Just enough to feel like me again. Just enough to make him look twice. And before I open the front door, I stop, hand on the knob, heart thumping.
Get it together, Beatriz.
It’s just a scrimmage. Just the boy who once made you believe in love. And might be doing it all over again.
The hallway smells like turf and something chemical—whatever they use to clean the floors.
My shoes echo softly with each step, the buzz of voices and thuds of soccer balls getting louder the closer I get to the end.
I swallow, adjusting the strap on my purse even though it doesn’t need adjusting.
There’s a pit in my stomach, nervous and excited all at once.
The last time I watched Alejandro play was in high school.
I barely survived that without soaking my underwear.
I round the last corner and stop, the field in view, and there he is.
Alejandro’s standing at the edge of the field, mid-stretch, one arm across his chest. He’s in Inter Miami’s colors—black shorts, soft pink jersey with the Heron crest over his heart, the number 8 on the back.
His thighs look criminal. His hair falls just enough over his forehead that I want to push it back.
He turns—like he feels me looking—and when those blue eyes lock onto mine, I forget how to breathe.
He says something to a teammate, then jogs toward me, every step somehow cocky and effortless. My heart’s already in a freefall.
He catches me in the hallway before I step fully onto the turf, the way the light spills through the tall glass windows catching in his hair, his skin. He’s already smiling.
“You made it,” he says, a little out of breath.
“I said I would be here.”
His eyes drag down from my white tee to my denim shorts and sneakers, then back up like he’s cataloging sins. “You showed up dressed like that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“White shirt, jeans shorts, clean sneakers? What a menace I am.”
“You’re evil,” he whispers. “And you know it.”
I tilt my head. “I prefer strategic.”
Alejandro bites back a smile. “You trying to kill me before the scrimmage?”
“Depends,” I say, pretending to think. “Do you consider heart palpitations fatal or just mildly inconvenient?”
That earns me a full laugh, head thrown back, hand braced on the wall behind me like he needs the support. “You’re gonna have me tripping over my own feet out there.”
I lean in, just a little. “Well, I do like watching you fall for me.”
He groans. “Dios mío.”
“Don’t start praying now,” I whisper, feeling bold. “Save that for later.”
He steps closer, eyes warm and hungry. “There she is,” he says, voice low. “There’s my Killer Bee.”
And then he kisses me. Just like that. One hand slipping around my waist, the other still braced against the wall.
No hesitation. No worrying about who might see.
It’s slow and deep, the kind of kiss that makes everything else blur out.
His lips move with purpose, claiming, coaxing.
I melt into it, fisting the front of his jersey, tugging him just a little closer.
By the time we pull apart, my cheeks are warm, and he’s breathing harder than before.
“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “I needed that.”
“You and me both,” I whisper.
He lingers for a second, like he doesn’t want to go, then nods and jogs back toward the field. I try to fix my face before stepping out onto the edge.
The training facility isn’t huge—definitely not where the official games happen.
It’s one of those private complexes for conditioning and scrimmages, tucked away from the public eye.
There’s a line of short metal bleachers on the far side, only three rows high.
Natural light floods the space from a ceiling mostly made of glass panels, washing everything in a soft glow.
The walls are clean steel, slightly echoey, and the artificial turf underfoot has that perfect green sheen.
A couple other people are trickling in—girlfriends, maybe siblings, staff. No one seems to notice me as I make my way to the front row of the bleachers and sit. My heart still hasn’t slowed down.
Alejandro’s back with his team, ball at his feet, barking something to a teammate with a grin. His legs are moving, but his eyes flick toward me every other second, like he has to keep checking that I’m still here.
And God help me, I don’t think I’ve been looked at like that in years. Like I’m not just something to see—but something to fight for.
Jesus. He looks so good in that jersey. He jogs, stretches, laughs with one of the guys, and my stomach goes into freefall all over again.
The whistle blows, and the scrimmage starts.