Barcelona in the summer was perfect.
Unless you weren’t from Barcelona.
Then apparently it was “trying to kill you.”
I’d been getting voice notes all afternoon between drills.
“It’s thirty-six degrees.”
“Why is nobody bothered by this?”
“I’ve had to buy another bottle of water.”
“I think I’m actually melting.”
By the fourth one, I was laughing so hard the fitness coach asked what was so funny.
“My girlfriend,” I’d said.
He nodded immediately.
“Complaining about the heat?”
“…How did you know?”
“They all do.”
Training absolutely ruined me.
It was one of those sessions where the coaches decided we weren’t tired enough already.
Sprint.
Recover.
Sprint again.
Small-sided games.
More running.
By the time I got home to my penthouse, I barely remembered unlocking the door.
Shower.
Fresh white T-shirt.
Grey shorts.
Hair still damp.
I collapsed across the sofa dramatically, one arm over my eyes.
“I am dead…”
I wasn’t.
But it felt convincing.
About twenty minutes later, I heard the front door.
Then the sound of shopping bags hitting the floor.
“Oh my God.”
She sounded offended.
“This country is a sauna.”
I lifted my arm just enough to look at her.
She looked adorable.
Sunglasses pushed onto her head, cheeks a little pink from the sun, carrying far too many bags.
“You survive?”
“Barely.”
“You’ve been here three days.”
“I know.”
“You’ll adapt.”
“I won’t.”
I laughed.
“When I came to England, you laughed because I said your weather was depressing.”
“It is depressing.”
“It builds character.”
“It builds mould.”
She folded her arms.
“You’re lucky you’re handsome.”
I grinned.
“I hear that a lot.”
“Oh, do you?”
“…Sometimes.”
She snorted.
“Izan.”
“What?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
She wandered into the kitchen for a bottle of water before coming back into the living room.
Only then did she really look at me.
Still spread across the sofa.
Absolutely motionless.
“You actually look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“Aww.”
She walked over, smiling.
“Poor baby.”
I cracked one eye open.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You are.”
“I am a little.”
I held one hand out toward her without moving anything else.
“Cariño.”
“What?”
“Come here.”
“I’m literally here.”
“No…”
I wiggled my fingers lazily.
“Closer.”
She looked at me for a second before shaking her head with a smile.
“You’ve become needy.”
“I’ve always been needy.”
She carefully climbed onto the sofa, settling against me until she was lying comfortably with her head near my shoulder.
Perfect.
Without thinking, I wrapped an arm around her.
“There.”
I sighed happily.
“Much better.”
She laughed quietly.
“Is this all you wanted?”
“Mhm.”
“Not food?”
“…Also food.”
“I knew it.”
“But mostly this.”
For a few minutes neither of us said anything.
The apartment was quiet.
The balcony doors were open.
Warm air drifted inside.
I could hear traffic somewhere below.
My thumb absentmindedly traced little circles against her arm.
She started playing with my damp curls.
Immediately, my eyes closed.
“Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Mmm.”
“You sound half asleep.”
“I might be.”
“You’ve got recovery later.”
“I know.”
“And dinner.”
“I know.”
“And homework.”
“…Don’t remind me.”
She laughed against my shoulder.
“World-class footballer.”
“Mhm.”
“Still has homework.”
“I hate homework.”
After another minute she spoke again.
“So…”
“Mhm?”
“What are your plans tonight?”
I opened one eye.
“My plans?”
“Yeah.”
I pretended to think.
“Well…”
I looked at her with the most innocent expression I could manage.
“I was thinking maybe I’d convince a very pretty British girl to stay here all evening and keep cuddling me because I clearly deserve compensation after today’s training.”
She gave me the look.
“Oh, that’s your plan?”
“It was becoming a very good plan.”
“I can tell where this is going.”
“It was going somewhere excellent.”
Before I could finish, she la ghed and pushed herself upright.
“Nope.”
“What do you think you’re doing?”