Page 69 of Bound and Blitzed

“Perhaps a part of it. But Lena is strong all on her own.”

“Si, she is.” Mrs. Garcia nods. Her mouth hitches on one side. “Lena. No one has ever called her that before.” She meets my eyes. Sighs. “But, Avery, how long will this marriage of yours last? You and Valentina hardly know each other. Trust me, playing house and making a marriage work, when every single brick is stacked against you, are two entirely different things.”

“Why do you think everything is stacked against us?” I question.

She takes another sip of her wine, rolling her lips together thoughtfully. “You have a very demanding career. Vale does as well, but in a different way.”

“A lot of couples have ambitious career paths.”

“Yes.” She nods in agreement. “But if you and Valentina start a family, how will those career paths balance each other out?” She quirks an eyebrow. “You, like my husband, are a professional athlete. You have less flexibility. As such, the bulk of compromising, of sacrificing, would have to come from Valentina.”

I open my mouth, but she continues.

“I’m not saying it as a judgement. It’s a fact. And as much as I don’t truly understand my daughter’s career choice, I know she loves the path she is on. At least in Spain, she has help, support, if she decides to grow a family. Here, she has no one.”

“She has me. She has my family,” I retort.

Mrs. Garcia sighs again. “I know it seems easy now. Straightforward. But life has a way of speeding up and complicating things. At Valentina’s age, I never thought I would be a stay-at-home mother, traveling across Europe forfútbolgames. If I didn’t embrace the sport, the lifestyle of it, I would have lost everything. The only way to save my life was to makefútbola big part of my identity—same as Rueben, Ale, and Carla. And I did so with my mother’s unwavering support and constant help when the children were small, and as they grew older.”

“But Valentina didn’t pick soccer,” I point out.

“She’s the only one who chose a different path,” Mrs. Garcia agrees, tilting her head. “And I’m not sure where that will leave her because in a way”—she gestures toward me with her wine glass—“she picked a different type offútbol.”

I close my mouth, seeing where she is going with this. The life of a professional athlete eats up the lives of everyone else in the household. Is that what she’s worried about? That there will be no room left for Valentina’s passions to soar?

It’s not an unfair concern. It’s just that I’d never let that happen.

But why would Mrs. Garcia believe me when she hardly knows me? When she doesn’t know the man I’ve become through my marriage to her daughter?

Raia was right—the Garcias need to see Valentina and me together.

I roll my lips together and change the subject. “Lunch will arrive shortly. I would have prepared something?—”

Mrs. Garcia holds up her hand, stopping me. “We really bombarded you today, Avery. I’m glad we got to meet you, but we’ll be out of your hair shortly.”

“I’m happy you’re here,” I admit. Even though this conversation has been far from pleasant, it has given me insight into Mrs. Garcia’s concerns.

Mrs. Garcia swirls her wine again. She nods and meets my gaze. “I am, too.” She glances toward the living room and back again. “Are you coming to the charity gala in Chicago?”

“I can’t.” I shake my head. “I have a game in Boston on the twenty-eighth.”

“Ah,” she says, giving me a look as if this proves her earlier point. “Well, if you don’t mind Valentina missing your game, it would mean a lot to me if she joined us at the gala. We don’t see her as often as we should and I’d like to spend some time with my children all together.”

“I understand,” I say, meaning it. It’s the same type of desire my own mother would crave. A night out with her kids. “If Lena wants to attend the event, she definitely should.”

Mrs. Garcia finishes her wine and places the glass on the island top. “Good. Thank you, Avery.” She nods once before entering the living room.

And it seems like it’s neither scenario one nor two. There is no yelling or big, happy family. There’s a strange type of stalemate. One with begrudging respect but still, no clear winner.

“I’m not going to skip out on your game,” Valentina says, shaking her head.

“Sweetheart, you’re not. There will be tons of games for you to attend,” I explain.

“Not if you don’t make the playoffs,” she shoots back.

“Damn,” Ale mutters.

“Harsh,” Carla agrees.

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