Page 49 of My Spanish Love Affair

“Hey, I’m just being honest,” he says, his tone light but sincere. “Anyway, you need to relax. You’re with me, remember? No one’s going to bother you.”

“It’s not that,” I say, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure the guard isn’t still staring. Thankfully, there’s a reasonable distance between us now. “It’s just... I don’t like people looking at me like that.”

His smile fades slightly, and he stops walking, turning to face me. The dim lighting casts soft shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his green eyes.

“Listen,” he says, his voice low but firm. “If you ever feel uncomfortable - if anyone ever makes you feel uneasy, you tell me, okay?”

I nod, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his tone.

“Good,” he says, his grip on my hand tightening briefly before he lets out a breath, his smile returning. “Now, come on. I know you’re eager to get to the creepiest part of the stadium.”

“Oh yes. I’m so looking forward to it,” I mutter dryly, my lips twitching into a reluctant smile as he leads me deeper into the maze-like corridors.

We continue down the corridor, the sound of our footsteps breaking the silence. The walls are lined with posters of past matches, each one featuring triumphant players mid-action.

“This is where you walk through on game days?”

“Yep,” he responds. “It’s a little less intimidating when it’s empty, though. On game day, this place is packed. Players, coaches, staff, reporters… it’s chaos.”

“Not quite as creepy, then.”

“No,” he chuckles. “Just a lot of yelling and the occasional fight over the playlist in the locker room.”

“Let me guess: someone always wants reggaeton, and someone else is a die-hard rock fan?”

“Exactly,” he say. “The rookies usually lose, though. Seniority wins the aux cord.”

We reach a set of double doors, and Santi pushes them open.

“Here we are. The grand reveal,” he says, waving his hand around as we step into the locker room.

The space is bigger than I expected, but not nearly as polished. The walls are at least painted in here, although the scuffed wooden benches give it a rugged, no-frills vibe, and the faint scent of sweat and liniment lingers in the air.

“Huh.”

I watch as one of Santi’s dark brows raises at my reaction. “Huh?!” he repeats.

“Yes.Huh.It’s not as fancy as I’d thought it would be.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint,profesora. This is where the magic happens: sweat, mud, and all.”

Santi walks over to one of the lockers and pulls out a navy gym bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

“That’s what you left behind?”

“Yes. My personal phone is in here - the one I use for family emergencies. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, just in case someone needed me.”

“Fair enough,” I say, glancing around the room.

My eyes catch on a row of jerseys hanging neatly on a rack, their bold colors and numbers standing out against the muted tones of the room.

“Are those...?”

“Our jerseys,” he says, following my gaze. “We hang them up before every game. It’s kind of a ritual.”

I take a step closer, my fingers brushing lightly against one of them. The black and white fabric is smooth and lightweight, and I glance at the number printed on the back.

10.

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