Page 55 of My Spanish Love Affair

I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Cute?” he repeats, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know, I’m devastatingly handsome.”

I shake my head, laughing softly as he slings his gym bag over his shoulder and offers me his hand.

“Who told you that?”

“I’m pretty sure you did, actually.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” I grumble.

“Why not? That was worth every second of risk,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to send another shiver through me. “Come on,” he continues, breaking the moment as he motions toward another door. “I’ll show you the tunnel. It’s even creepier when it’s empty.”

“Creepier than this?” I tease, gesturing around the locker room.

“You’ll see,” he says, taking my hand in his and squeezing it gently.

Chapter Eighteen

Wednesday starts off like any other working day. My morning alarm blares at six-thirty am, pulling me from the depths of sleep, and by seven fifteen, I’m dressed and out the door, coffee in one hand and a tote bag full of notebooks, pens, post-it-notes and my diary in the other.

The school day unfolds as predictably as always, a steady stream of classes, conversations, and mounting exam prep. My students are a combination of eager and distracted, their attention spans thinning as the end of the year slowly draws closer. I spend my lunch break catching up on marking, eating a slightly squashed sandwich at my desk while jotting down notes for the next lesson.

It’s almost too busy to think about anything else.

Almost.

By the time I duck into the staff room for some hot water to make myself a cup of tea, my brain feels fried, and I very much welcome the moment of peace.

But as I stir the milk into my mug, a snippet of conversation in Spanish catches my attention and well and truly pulls me out of my work haze.

“I’ll be watching tonight,” Miguel says, leaning casually against the counter as he sips his coffee. He’s one of the quieter teachers at the school, though I know he teaches advancedmaths. “It should be a good match. Big stakes.”

“Yeah,” Pablo replies, dropping into one of the chairs and stretching out his legs. “They’ve been on a roll lately. If they win this one, they’re basically guaranteed a spot in the finals.”

“Ortiz is thriving this season,” Miguel says, shaking his head in what looks like admiration. “I mean, he’s always been good, but this year? He’s on another level.”

“Did you see the clips of him in training this week?” Pablo adds, his tone animated now. “Nobody can keep up with him. The guy’s a machine.”

My ears perk up at Santi’s name, but I keep my eyes fixed on the teabag I’m dunking in my mug, willing myself to look disinterested.

“It’s not just his skill,” Miguel continues. “It’s his leadership. You can see it on the field, how the other players look to him. He’s the one setting the pace. Even Lopez can’t compete.”

“Exactly,” Pablo agrees. “But that’s why they’ve got such a strong chance this season.”

I glance at the pair of them out of the corner of my eye, my curiosity warring with the desire to stay unnoticed.

“Do you think they’ll win tonight?” Miguel asks, raising an eyebrow at Pablo.

“With Ortiz in the zone? Absolutely. The guy’s a game-changer. I’m telling you: that trophy is ours this season.”

The admiration in their voices sends a strange mix of pride and nerves through me. I know how hard Santi has been training this week, leaving early in the mornings and coming back late. Hearing other people talk about him this way feels surreal, like a reminder of just how big his world is compared to mine.

I busy myself with grabbing a biscuit from the tin on thecounter, trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks.

“Hey, Olivia. You okay?” Miguel’s voice cuts through my thoughts - in English, now - and I glance up to find him watching me.

“Oh, fine,” I say quickly, offering what I hope is a convincing smile. “Just a long week.”

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