Page 115 of My Spanish Love Affair

“Good morning everyone,” I say, my voice steady, though my heart races.

A few students exchange glances, and I catch snippets of whispers - something about Santi’s last match anddid you see her on Instagram?- but for the most part, they seem...normal.

One brave student raises her hand as I start taking attendance.

“Profe, did you really meet Messi?”

I blink, thrown by the question, and then laugh.

“No, I didn’t meet Messi. Now, let’s get back to Macbeth, shall we?”

The class groans in unison, and I feel a small, unexpected smile tug at my lips.

They’re whispering, sure, but they’re still just teenagers - curious, a little cheeky, but not nearly as intimidating as I’d built them up to be in my head.

As the day progresses, I find my rhythm again. My lessons flow smoothly, and by the time that the final bells rings out through the halls, I feel a sense of accomplishment.

It might not have been perfect, but it certainly wasn’t thedisaster I’d imagined, either.

∞∞∞

By the time Friday rolls around, I’ve decided to face one of my fears head-on.

“Santi,” I say over dinner, nervously twisting my napkin in my lap. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, and… I’d like to come to your game tomorrow.”

His face lights up in a way that makes my chest tighten. “You would?”

“I mean, it sounds like a pretty important match,” I smile. “So yes - I’d love to be there and show my support for you. But… I don’t think I can do it alone. Would it be alright if I invited Sarah to come with me? You don’t have to say yes, obviously, I totally understand if it’s not possible or just too -”

“Of course,” he says immediately, silencing my rambling with a smile. “I’d love that.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

The next day, Sarah and I make our way to the stadium in a sleek black car that Santi had insisted on sending for us.

As the vehicle weaves through the bustling streets, Sarah is practically vibrating with excitement, her face pressed to the window like a kid on a road trip.

“This is unreal, Liv!” she exclaims for the third time in as many minutes, tugging her team scarf tighter around her neck.

She’s already taken at least a dozen selfies, snapping photos of the city, the scarf and me, despite my protests. Still, I can’t help but smile, feeling so comforted by her presence.

When we pull up towards the stadium, the energy is immediate and overwhelming. We can’t get as close as we’d like due to the heavy traffic, so we dive out of the vehicle and walk the rest of the way up towards the main side of the stadium. The roar of the crowd, the rhythmic chants of the fans and the smell of street food wafting through the air create a charged atmosphere that’s impossible to ignore, and we walk arm-in-arm as we make our way through it all.

“Liv, look at this place!” Sarah says. She tilts her phone to snap a panoramic shot of the massive stadium looming before us, its bright lights illuminating the early evening sky.

I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.

“Just wait until we get inside,” I say, tugging her toward the entrance.

As we approach the security checkpoint, an attendant steps forward, his posture polite but purposeful.

“Miss Bennett?” he asks, his French accent soft but noticeable.

I blink in surprise and nod.

“If you’ll follow me, please. Mr. Ortiz has arranged for you to watch the match from his box.”

Sarah gasps audibly and grips my arm so tightly that I wince.

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