Page 119 of My Spanish Love Affair

Here, where I can balance my life in the classroom with the unpredictability of this new world I’ve stepped into.

Here, where the future doesn’t feel so daunting anymore.

I glance at the bouquet again, the white petals almost glowing in the sunlight. Santi’s words from this morning echo in my mind.

What matters is us.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve found my footing. Like maybe I’m not just surviving anymore. Maybe I’m growing.

And as I look out at the sprawling city below, I can’t help but think that, despite everything, I’ve come so much farther than I ever thought I could.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The stadium is a thunderous sea of noise, waves of chanting and applause crashing through the stands as the final match of the season kicks off. The energy is absolutely electric - almost tangible - buzzing in the warm evening air, and from the friends and family box, I grip the edge of my seat, my heart pounding in sync with the pulse of the crowd.

Every chant reverberates through my chest, and the rhythmic stomping of feet makes the very ground beneath us tremble.

The players begin to take their positions on the field, their movements sharp and precise. I can’t help but think of how much they look like warriors preparing for battle. The roar of the fans swells, a wave of raw emotion sweeping across the stadium as the referee’s whistle slices through the chaos.

Santi is easy to spot among his teammates, his broad shoulders and confident stance commanding attention even in the frenzied atmosphere. He stretches his arms above his head, shakes out his legs, and casts a quick glance toward the stands.

For a fleeting second, I let myself imagine that glance is meant for me.

Beside me, Santi’s cousin, Elena, sits cross-legged, completely calm, sipping on what looks like sparkling water. Her dark hair is swept into a sleek ponytail, and she’s dressed in a chic creamblazer that somehow makes me feel underdressed in my jean shorts and team jersey.

“Breathe, Olivia,” she murmurs without even glancing at me. “He’s got this.”

I attempt to unclench my fingers from the edge of my seat.

“I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” she side-eyes me with a small smirk. “Relax. This is rugby, remember. It’s a game, not a gladiator fight.”

I shoot her a flat look. “Have youseenthe way they tackle each other? It might as well be.”

She chuckles and leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“True. But Santi’s tougher than he looks. And trust me - those boyslovethe drama. A few bruises and a bit of blood just make the victory taste sweeter to them.”

“That’s comforting,” I mutter sarcastically, glancing down at the pitch.

As the whistle blows to officially start the game, the stadium erupts once more, the noise cresting to a deafening peak. Despite myself, my fingers tighten around the armrest and my heart races as Santi charges forward, the ball in hand.

The intensity is immediate, the pace of the game unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. From the first pass, it’s clear this isn’t just any other game. It’s a battle, plain and simple.

Santi is everywhere, a blur of motion as he calls plays with sharp precision, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the stadium. He darts through defenders like water slipping through cracks, agile and determined despite his significant size. All of his movements are fluid yet brimming with power,and I can’t help but marvel at just how skilled he is.

The thing is, he always seems to play well, but this… this is different. Every play feels like a high-stakes gamble, and Santi is the linchpin holding it all together.

When he breaks through the opposition’s line, gaining ground with an almost balletic grace, the crowd erupts into a deafening roar. I can’t help but join the others in the box and jump to my feet, clapping and shouting along with them.

Elena leans back in her seat, entirely unbothered for the time being.

“He looks good out there, doesn’t he?” she comments, a sly grin playing on her lips as her gaze tracks Santi sprinting across the field.

I glance at her, trying to focus on the game but failing when I catch the teasing glint in her eyes. My cheeks heat instantly.

“He always looks good,” I mutter, trying to keep my voice even.

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