13
VALENTINA
Pain in my ass: Good morning, mi reina. It’s been five days of dating bliss, and you have ignored every one of my requests to go to dinner.
Pre-season starts on Sunday, and we have afternoon practice tomorrow.
I think we need to be seen for a pre-preseason toast. What do you say? I’ll pick you up at seven?
Me: I will be at the game on Sunday. There will be plenty of cameras and loads of people to see us. That’s more than sufficient.
Pain in my ass: Nuh uh, mi corazón. I don’t think Monty would think that’s sufficient. Maybe I need to give him a call.
Me: You really know how to get under a person’s skin.
Pain in my ass:
Me: Fine! Quit calling me anything but Val and I’ll go to dinner with you. No touching, no doing things couples do. Just a meal shared between two people for pics and then home.
Pain in my ass: Sounds good to me. But whose home? Mine or yours? We should probably be seen at mine this time around.
Me: Me to mine, and you to yours. Take it or leave it.
Pain in my ass: Take it. See you at six, mi tesoro. Sorry. Last one.
Me: You said seven!
Pain in my ass: Changed my mind. Wear something sexy.
Me: I’ll wear a potato sack.
I blow out my breath, dropping the coral lipstick in my purse and wondering why I’m putting so much effort into my appearance. This sham date is just that, so there’s no need to try and impress Nico. But I’m reminded that the whole purpose of going out is to be seen as a couple.
My hallway mirror reflects my extreme annoyance with this entire situation and I say, “I know, girl. Let’s just do this and get it over with.”
I spin on my nude colored heel to wait for Nico downstairs when my door buzzer sounds.
It catches me off-guard and I wobble slightly because I’m not expecting anyone.
Lucy would’ve called or just pounded on the door, guests not on the list are announced, and packages are usually left in the mailroom downstairs for pickup.
I look through the peephole and find a smoldering Nico, dressed to incite weak knees among women.
“How the fuck did he get up here?”
“I’m on your list now,” he replies, obviously having spoken too loud.
I click the deadbolt and slide the magnetic lock over before depressing the handle and pulling the door open.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, my eyes roaming up and down his body with a silent thank you to God for creating such a wondrous creature.
“I told you. I’m on your list. I guess you gave the okay on Saturday night and Stephan added me. Now I only have to say hello and be on my way.” He smiles wide, his dazzling teeth in a perfect row.
“Remind me to take him off my Christmas list.” I turn away from the door, leaving him standing there and make a quick check that everything is turned off.
A clearing of a throat tears my attention away from clicking on a small table lamp.
“Do you mind if I come in?” He stands there, rocking back on his heels with his hands behind him.
“Uh. Aren’t we going to dinner?”
“Yes but first,” He swings his arms around and presents a black box tied with black satin bow to me with a bouquet of…
“Are those poppies?” My hands instinctively reach out to cradle the beautiful flowers.
I stick my nose in the lavender and purple bouquet, but the aroma is so faint it’s almost nothing at all.
“Yeah. Apparently those are really difficult to find because they aren’t really in bloom right now, nor are they super popular.
But I dunno…I saw a picture of them and they reminded me of you.
” I lift my eyes and study him, trying to dissect his words.
“They’re tall and elegant and slightly delicate.
But from what I found out, they are strong and can thrive in various elements. Like you.”
I can’t help the smile that creeps along my face. With all of the asinine things I have heard this man say, this statement takes my breath away. Not only because he took the time to learn details about something other than football or women, but that he saw parallels between the flowers and me.
“They’re gorgeous. Thank you. Let me put these in some water and we can g–”
“And I got you this.” I’m so stunned by the flowers that I forget he’s holding a box in his hands.
He passes it to me and takes the flowers back, allowing me to use both hands to open it up and see what’s inside. I’m quite nervous because knowing him –as well as I can, at this point– he’s going to follow up his sweet sentiment with something gross or perverted.
Cautiously, I tug on the end of the ribbon and it falls open. I look at him, still skeptical, and he smiles, encouraging me to keep going. With delicate hands, I lift the lid and find something with the number thirteen nestled in gold tissue paper.
“Take it out,” he says, the joy in his voice so evident.
I look around me and place the box down on the entry table and begin lifting the item out one inch at a time, as if something might pop out and scare me. When I hold it suspended in the air, I’m pleasantly surprised by what is in front of me.
“You don’t seem like the kind of woman to wear an oversized jersey with leggings. And I didn’t think you’d be the type to wear those crop type ones either. So I had this made for you.”
My head spins to look at him, my sleek bob swinging from the force. “You had this made? For me?”
He nods and steps closer. “There’s a player whose wife is a designer. She makes a lot of clothing for wives and girlfriends of players. My mom is obsessed with her. So I reached out, told her it was urgent and that I’d pay double, and asked for something sexy but classy and elegant. Just like you.”
The pride in his voice is thick and I’m not going to lie, a lump so foreign forms in my throat. I am not the type of woman to cry…anymore.
I inspect the top and it’s simply gorgeous. The bodice style is rounded above the hips and dips down in the front, giving it a modern style. The square neck is my favorite, and straps are set wide. I turn it around and see that it covers the back perfectly to show off his last name and number.
I couldn’t have picked something better if I had designed it myself.
“Will you wear it on Sunday?” I study his face, a child-like quality when he asks me this.
Smiling –because I can’t help it– I reply, “Of course. It’s beautiful. Thank you Nico.”
I press the top to my chest and lean in, giving him a small chaste kiss on the cheek. When I step back, I’m pretty sure I can see his cheeks blush. The only way to describe him in this moment is cute.
“Can I ask one more thing of you?”
“Sure. What is it?” I carefully place the top back in the box and cover it with the tissue and lid.
“Would you mind calling me Nic? I always feel like I’m in trouble when you call me by my full name.” His face is slightly scrunched and he grips the flowers with worry.
I take them from him and back away with slow steps. “I will call you Nic. But you have to call me Val. Valentina is a mouthful.”
I turn on my heel towards the kitchen and motion for him to follow me.
“I bet you’re a mouthful,” I hear him mumble and jerk to a stop.
With narrowed eyes, I look over my shoulder, conveying everything without a word.
“Sorry. It slipped…Val.” He winks and I smile.
This boy is a handful, that’s for sure, and I don’t know if I can handle that.
The lights are slightly dim in the restaurant to set a romantic mood, and though there are lots of voices all speaking at once, it’s but a murmur as guests work to keep their conversations private.
Our meal has been fabulous, and the conversation very surface as we get to know about one another.
I decided it would be good to learn a thing or two in case we were to be asked questions.
I would hate for either of us to be caught off guard and stare blankly, trying to come up with an answer that seems to fit.
So far I’ve found out that Nico –I mean Nic– has two best friends with the same name. Nick and Nik. In their younger years they became known as the Trickie Nickie’s for all of their antics. Throughout the years it just stuck as the mischievous activities didn’t slow.
His parents seem absolutely amazing, and I scratched my head at how two people so normal and fit the American dream, raised such a wild child.
His mom, Elena, is hispanic and a complete knockout.
He showed me a picture of his mother and father, and I immediately saw that Nic got the best of both of them.
Mark, his father, is the pure definition of tall, dark and handsome.
Mark’s dad is black while his mom is caucasian.
The man was blessed with amazing eyes which he evidently passed on to his son.
Nic also showed me a picture of his younger sister, Greer, the female version of Nic as they look like they could be twins. When I said wow upon seeing her, he said, “I know. When she went away to college, it took everything in me not to transfer schools to protect her from douchey college guys.”
“So guys like you,” I fired back and was met with a smirk and an eye roll.
His family is picture perfect and fits their last name to a T. My family…well. They’re amazing, no doubt, but a little crazy. I guess that’s the standard for a majority of Spanish families.
Desserts are placed in front of us and I practically drool.
Chocolate lava leaks from a small crack in the chocolate soufflé.
Powdered sugar, and a small raspberry with a mint leaf sit atop.
Nic’s dessert looks equally delicious, a layered crepe cake with chocolate ganache.
I would love to taste it, but there is no way I’m asking for a bite.
He will absolutely turn it into something dirty.
I sink my spoon into the top and watch the hot chocolate ooze out.
“Your grandparents immigrated from Spain?” he asks just before slicing into his sky high dessert.