Page 56 of My Spanish Love Affair

He nods, sympathy flashing across his face.

“Tell me about it. These kids are running me ragged.”

“Same here,” I reply, grateful for the change in topic.

But as the conversation moves on to students and exam prep, my thoughts stay with Santi.

The way Miguel and Pablo talked about him with such admiration and respect makes me realise again just how different our worlds are. To them, he’s this almost mythical figure; a star player leading his team to glory.

And to me, he’s…

Well. He’s just Santi. Normal. Natural.

Human.

It’s a strange contrast.

∞∞∞

By the time I leave my apartment to pick up my dinner, the sun is beginning to set.

It might only be Wednesday, but it’s already been a long week, and the thought of cooking feels like too much effort. So, I head to my favorite Chinese takeout spot - thankfully only a fewstreets away.

As I walk back with the warm bag of food in hand, I pass a lively bar tucked into the corner of one of the busier streets. Laughter and cheers spill out into the evening air, and I glance through the open door, drawn by the noise.

That’s when I see him.

The TV above the bar is showing tonight’s rugby match, and the camera zooms in on Santi mid-action. He’s covered in dirt and sweat, his dark hair damp and disheveled, rugby ball in hand as he charges down the field. I’m practically frozen on the pavement as the men inside the bar jeer loudly, stuck staring at the screen as the man I’ve been dating dives into a rough tackle against an opponent.

The bar erupts in cheers as the play unfolds, and as I stare at the screen, I can’t help but feel like an outsider looking in.

Like I’m seeing him from a perspective I wasn’t meant to.

The camera cuts to another player, and I blink, released from the strange trance I was in and realising I’ve been standing there for far too long. Tightening my grip on my bag of food, I turn and head back to my apartment, my mind racing.

∞∞∞

“You won’t believe what just happened.”

I set the takeout containers on the counter and dish out some chow mein onto a plate.

“Do tell,” Laura says through the phone.

“I was walking back from picking up dinner, and I passed this bar,” I explain, twirling a forkful of noodles. “They were showing Santi’s match on TV.”

“Oh my God,” she says, a grin clear in her voice. “Did he look hot?”

I laugh despite myself. “He was mid-tackle, covered in mud and sweat. So... yeah.”

“Lucky you,” she teases. “What’s it like seeing him like that?”

“Weird,” I admit, leaning back against the cushions. “It’s like... I know him, you know? The real him. But seeing him on TV with people cheering for him, and hearing people talking about him... It’s like he’s this whole other person.”

“Well, he kind of is,” Laura says simply. “But he’s also the guy who’s clearly crazy about you. Don’t let the TV stuff throw you off.”

I hesitate, twirling the noodles on my fork.

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this, you know. His world feels so... public. And mine’s not.”

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