Page 35 of My Spanish Love Affair

Sunny, sandy, and quiet. How about you?I type back.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Noisy, sweaty, and full of guys yelling at each other. All in a day’s work.

Ew. Honestly, that sounds like my idea of hell. I don’t know how he does it, but I’m thankful I’ll never have to know.

Still, I laugh a little to myself, imagining him in the thick of the chaos.

Sounds delightful,I say.I’m almost jealous, but I got a pretty good spot on the beach.

Before I can second-guess myself, I take a quick photo of my view of the sea and send it to him with my message. If my bare legs just so happen to be in the shot, then that’s purely a coincidence that I absolutely did not intend, plan, or stage.

One of the things that I like so much about Santi is the way he doesn’t play games, and my phone buzzes as his reply comes promptly once again.

I know where I’d rather be.

That stops me in my tracks, my fingers hovering over the screen.

Should it be possible to feel so flustered just through texting?

Careful, Santi. People might think you’re a secret romantic.

Just as I move to put my phone down, it buzzes again.

They wouldn’t be wrong. ;)

I shake my head as I finally do put my phone down, my heart doing that annoying little flip that it seems to have started doing whenever I think about him.

∞∞∞

By the time that Monday evening rolls around, I can’t deny how much I’m looking forward to seeing Santi again. Our text conversations have been an endless thread of playful banter (plus some surprisingly sweet exchanges), but nothing compares to the thought of being with him in person.

The tapas bar he suggested is nestled in a small but lively square, the kind of place where locals gather to eat, laugh and drink together late on into the evening. The lifestyle is much more laid back than it is at home, where places are usually much quieter during the week since people hurry off home after working all day.

It seems that Santi likes quaint places on the outskirts of the city. I’ve no doubt that these are places where he’s less likely to be recognised or approached. I imagine it’s not always easy for him to get out and about in the centre, and that people can descend on him rather quickly, being a hot-shot rugby star and all.

At least here there’s plenty of room to - well, you know,breathe.

The scent of sizzling seafood fills the air as we arrive, and Santi calls to one of the busy waitresses who greets him with a quick wave.

“Nos gustaría sentarnos afuera,” he tells her.

My living here hasn’t been in vain, and I am quickly picking up on new terms and phrases each day.

We want to sit outside.

“Sí, sí,” the waitress responds with a quick wave of her hand.

Santi smiles as he leads us out of the restaurant and over towards one of the corner tables. We don’t have to wait for long before a waiter arrives, greeting him warmly and engaging in light but familiar conversation in Spanish before handing us both menus.

“I take it you come here often,” I say.

“Not as often as I’d like,” he replies. “Between games, training and travel, I don’t have much time.”

“Ah, the glamorous life of a rugby star,” I tease.

He chuckles as he sets down his menu. “Speaking of that, you must tell me: have you done any more digging since our last conversation?”

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