Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
It seems that Santi likes quaint places on the outskirts of the city. I’ve no doubt that these are places where he’s less likely to be recognised or approached. I imagine it’s not always easy for him to get out and about in the centre, and that people can descend on him rather quickly, being a hot-shot rugby star and all.
At least here there’s plenty of room to - well, you know, breathe.
The scent of sizzling seafood fills the air as we arrive, and Santi calls to one of the busy waitresses who greets him with a quick wave.
“Nos gustaría sentarnos afuera,” he tells her.
My living here hasn’t been in vain, and I am quickly picking up on new terms and phrases each day.
We want to sit outside.
“Sí, sí,” the waitress responds with a quick wave of her hand.
Santi smiles as he leads us out of the restaurant and over towards one of the corner tables. We don’t have to wait for long before a waiter arrives, greeting him warmly and engaging in light but familiar conversation in Spanish before handing us both menus.
“I take it you come here often,” I say.
“Not as often as I’d like,” he replies. “Between games, training and travel, I don’t have much time.”
“Ah, the glamorous life of a rugby star,” I tease.
He chuckles as he sets down his menu. “Speaking of that, you must tell me: have you done any more digging since our last conversation?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Digging?”
“You know, research,” he says, his tone laced with amusement. “Have you found anything else interesting?”
“You make it sound like I’ve been building a dossier on you,” I say, deflecting slightly.
His nose crinkles at that. “Dossier?” he repeats.
I smile softly. Usually, it’s me who needs the clarification since his English is exceptional.
“Like, lots of papers and documents.”
“Oh. Well - have you?” he asks, leaning in with a mock-serious expression. “Because if you have, I want to know what you’ve uncovered.”
My eyes narrow slightly, but I decide to play along.
“Just the basics,” I say, my lips pulling up into a smirk. “Big-shot rugby player, national hero, man of mystery.”
He smirks too. “Anything juicier?”
Our conversation might be playful, but I can’t shake the feeling that Santi is subtly trying to gauge just how much I’ve uncovered about him.
The truth is… quite a lot.
I’ve spent more time than I care to admit trawling through social media and reading every article, interview, and blog post I’ve been able to find. It started innocently enough - I was just trying to get a better sense of who he is, what makes him tick, and why on earth he’s interested in me - but curiosity quickly spiraled into a full-blown deep dive.
And because I couldn’t stop there, I’ve even tried to learn a bit more about rugby itself, just to understand the world he’s immersed in. I’ve watched highlight reels of matches I don’t fully grasp and I’ve read articles breaking down league standings and team rivalries.
None of it makes me an expert, but I now know enough to realise how respected and high-profile he really is.
But there’s one thing I’ve deliberately avoided as much as possible.
Rumours about his love life.
Even though those articles have been the hardest to ignore - complete with glossy paparazzi photos of him with various different women over the years and cryptic “insider” quotes - I’ve actively avoided them.
“Well,” I say, pretending to think, “there was that one article about you rescuing a dog during some flooding.”
“True story,” he says with a shrug. “Though it was nothing, really.”
“How noble,” I tease.
“Thanks,” he says, flashing me a grin. “It’s weird, no? The sort of things you can find out about me on the internet.”
“Honestly?” I say, my brows raising a little. “I… yeah. I agree. If I’m honest, I try not to actually read too much stuff. It makes it… I don’t know. Just feels weird if I know a lot about you that you’ve not actually told me. Sorry - am I making sense?”
He smiles warmly. “You are,” he nods. “So - now it’s your turn. What’s the most embarrassing thing I’d find if I looked you up?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. Perhaps too quickly.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing worth sharing, anyway,” I clarify, laughing.
Note to self: delete all embarrassing old photos from my social media, ASAP.
Our food arrives in waves - crispy patatas bravas, grilled calamari and creamy croquetas - and serves as a distraction from the conversation. Between bites, we trade lighter stories about our lives: Santi’s chaotic schedule during rugby season and classroom antics with my students.
At one point, I notice him watching me with an intensity that makes me falter mid-sentence.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he says, his voice so soft. “I just like hearing you talk.”
I just look at him, totally unsure how to respond to that.