Page 10 of Personal Foul

“Soccer,” we say in unison, laughing.

“I bet your family loves that you don’t play the right ‘football.’” I air quote.

“Yes, my mother says American football like it’s a dirty word.” He smirks. “We have beaches, tapas, bullfighting.”

“Running with the bulls!” I snap my fingers.

“Exactly.”

“Sounds like an interesting place. Do you go often?”

“I go during the offseason and try to spend as much time with the family as I can. My parents have dual citizenship and spend half the year there now.”

“That’s awesome.”

“They seem to love it.”

“Is that something you’re interested in once you retire?”

Garrett gives me a dirty look. “Don’t say that word out loud, you should know better.”

“I’m sorry, please forgive me,” I roll my eyes.

Players treat retirement as if it’s a death sentence. Until they get there and find new things to love. Usually their family.

“You should be,” he teases. “I’m sure if my familia had their way, I would live there half the year if not year-round. I have a place there with ocean views, close to everyone.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is, you should come with some time.”

“This isn’t a date.” It’s a reminder for him, but I’m finding myself needing the reminder as well.

“Just imagine if it was though.”

I don’t have to. Last week, Garrett stopped by my office three times to say hello. Each time, my stomach flipped, and the butterflies went crazy. I brushed him off each time. But now, sitting here with him? I could see why so many women fall for him. He’s charming and funny. I don’t have to imagine being on a date with him. I feel like I already am.

This is not a date, Reagan. Get it together.

“Where is this place in Spain?” I ask, changing the subject.

His smirk tells me he knows what I’m doing, but he tells me anyway. “Peñíscola, it’s off the Balearic Sea on the east side of Spain between Valencia and Barcelona. Used to be a fishing village.”

“Sounds amazing.”

“It is.” Garrett looks at his watch. “Come on, we better get back. Your lunch hour is almost over.”

We stand, gathering our trash, tossing it in a garbage can.

“Thanks for sharing your favorite food truck with me,” he says, sincerity in his voice.

“You’re welcome.”

Once back at the stadium, Garrett walks me to my car.

“Will you be good?” He asks, pointing at the flat tire.

“Yeah.” I wave my cellphone awkwardly. “I just got a notification that someone should be here within the next ten minutes, so I’m just going to sit out here and wait.”

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