Page 68 of My Spanish Love Affair

“So, Olivia,” Elena says, motioning for me to come and sit beside her on one of the couches. “How are you finding Valencia? Santi said you’ve only been living here for a few months.”

I nod as I sit down, the plush cushion sinking slightly under me. “I love it,” I say honestly. “It’s such a beautiful city. I feel really lucky to be here.”

Elena beams at me, her enthusiasm infectious. “That’s wonderful,” she says. “And you’re a teacher?”

“Yes,” I tell her, feeling a little more comfortable as I settle against the couch. “I teach English at one of the local school’s.”

“That must be so rewarding, working with children,” she smiles. “But you must tell me - how did you and Santi meet?! He’s been tight-lipped about the details, which is very unusual for him.”

I can’t help but laugh. “He was? That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“Exactly!” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “That’s why we’re all dying to know.”

I pause, considering how to explain it. “Honestly, we just met by chance. I was new to the city, and we kept bumping into each other. First at a bar, then a café; and somehow, we just kept crossing paths.”

“And the rest is history?” Elena teases, winking.

“Something like that,” I reply, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks.

Elena’s husband, who’s been chatting with one of the others, leans over and chimes in. “Well, you must be special if Santi brought you here. He’s protective about his family, you know.”

“Very protective,” Elena agrees, nodding. “He doesn’t just bring anyone into the circle. The fact that you’re here says a lot.”

My eyes flicker between them, my smile faltering ever so slightly as I take in their words. My chest tightens in a way that’s both overwhelming and strangely comforting all at once.

“Well, he is my boyfriend,” I say, laughing a little nervously.

Before I can say anything further to embarrass myself, a sudden roar erupts from the stadium below, the sound vibrating through the walls of the box. Everyone shifts their attention to the field, and my gaze follows.

“And there he is,” Elena says, gesturing toward the pitch.

I spot Santi immediately, his white and black jersey clinging to his broad frame. My abdomen clenches tightly at the sight of him, a mixture of pride and nerves swirling inside me.

“He’s been in great form lately,” Elena says, leaning closer to explain. “The whole team’s been working hard, but Santi is always pushing himself.”

I nod, my eyes glued to him as the game begins. The energy in the stadium is electric, the crowd roaring with every pass, tackle and try. I’ve never watched a rugby match before, and I quickly realize just how physical and intense it is.

“He’s incredible,” I murmur without thinking, the words slipping out as I watch Santi dart past a defender and send the ball soaring across the field.

Elena glances at me, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Yes, he is. But don’t let him know you said that. His head will geteven bigger.”

I laugh, relaxing a little more as the match unfolds. The others around me cheer and clap, their excitement infectious, and slowly but surely, the tension I’ve been holding in my chest begins to ease.

By the time halftime arrives, I feel like I’ve (sort of) found my footing. Elena and the others have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome, sharing funny stories about Santi’s antics during past matches. Apparently he has form for running out onto the pitch without his gum shield, causing brief delays on more than one occasion.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Elena says, laughing as she recounts the story. “He might look composed out there, but he’s had his fair share of slip-ups over the years.”

“He’ll kill me for telling you that,” her husband adds with a grin.

I laugh along with them, starting to feel like I belong, even if just a little. The nervous edge I’d been carrying when I first arrived has softened, though I’m still acutely aware of how new all this is.

I sip my drink, glancing out at the field where the players are regrouping. The break has given them a chance to catch their breath, and a few of them are chatting with the coaches, their movements calm and calculated.

And then I spot Santi.

He’s standing near the halfway line, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing as he speaks to one of his teammates. His jersey clings to his broad shoulders, damp with sweat and scattered with mud from his tackles, and even from this distance, I can tell that there’s an unmistakable intensity in his stance.

Almost as if he senses my eyes on him, his gaze suddenly shifts, scanning the crowd before locking directly onto the box.

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