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)
I glance down, suddenly hyper-aware of every sound we make in the quiet space and wishing I hadn’t chosen to wear heels tonight. My skin prickles under the weight of his stare, and for a brief, uncomfortable moment, I feel completely out of place.
Santi must notice, because he shifts subtly, his broad frame moving just enough to block part of the guard’s view of me. He reaches for my hand, his strong fingers wrapping around mine with an easy familiarity.
“Come on, Olivia” he says, his tone steady as he gives my hand a gentle squeeze.
I let him guide me forward, my eyes fixed on the floor as we pass the guard. Even when we’re a few steps beyond him, I can still feel his eyes burning into my back.
I lean in closer to Santi, my voice low and a little shaky.
“What was that all about?”
“Don’t mind the security,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his tone. “They’re quiet by nature. I don’t think talking is in their job description. Besides, he was probably just trying to figure out who you are, that’s all.”
I glance up at him, my brow furrowing. “Why would anyone care who I am?”
“Because you’re walking with me,” he says, flashing a small, knowing smile.
I roll my eyes, though his answer doesn’t exactly ease my discomfort.
“Great. So now I’m a mystery woman in a creepy stadium.”
Santi chuckles, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of my hand as we continue down the corridor.
“I don’t think that’s the conclusion he’s come to.”
“Oh? So what conclusion do you think he’s drawn, then?”
He grins, the kind of grin that always makes my pulse quicken.
“That you’re the most beautiful woman who has ever walked through these dusty halls.”
I roll my eyes, though I can feel my cheeks warming. “Oh, please.”
“Hey, I’m just being honest,” he says, his tone light but sincere. “Anyway, you need to relax. You’re with me, remember? No one’s going to bother you.”
“It’s not that,” I say, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure the guard isn’t still staring. Thankfully, there’s a reasonable distance between us now. “It’s just... I don’t like people looking at me like that.”
His smile fades slightly, and he stops walking, turning to face me. The dim lighting casts soft shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his green eyes.
“Listen,” he says, his voice low but firm. “If you ever feel uncomfortable - if anyone ever makes you feel uneasy, you tell me, okay?”
I nod, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his tone.
“Good,” he says, his grip on my hand tightening briefly before he lets out a breath, his smile returning. “Now, come on. I know you’re eager to get to the creepiest part of the stadium.”
“Oh yes. I’m so looking forward to it,” I mutter dryly, my lips twitching into a reluctant smile as he leads me deeper into the maze-like corridors.
We continue down the corridor, the sound of our footsteps breaking the silence. The walls are lined with posters of past matches, each one featuring triumphant players mid-action.
“This is where you walk through on game days?”
“Yep,” he responds. “It’s a little less intimidating when it’s empty, though. On game day, this place is packed. Players, coaches, staff, reporters… it’s chaos.”
“Not quite as creepy, then.”
“No,” he chuckles. “Just a lot of yelling and the occasional fight over the playlist in the locker room.”
“Let me guess: someone always wants reggaeton, and someone else is a die-hard rock fan?”
“Exactly,” he say. “The rookies usually lose, though. Seniority wins the aux cord.”
We reach a set of double doors, and Santi pushes them open.
“Here we are. The grand reveal,” he says, waving his hand around as we step into the locker room.
The space is bigger than I expected, but not nearly as polished. The walls are at least painted in here, although the scuffed wooden benches give it a rugged, no-frills vibe, and the faint scent of sweat and liniment lingers in the air.
“Huh.”
I watch as one of Santi’s dark brows raises at my reaction. “Huh?!” he repeats.
“Yes. Huh. It’s not as fancy as I’d thought it would be.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint, profesora. This is where the magic happens: sweat, mud, and all.”
Santi walks over to one of the lockers and pulls out a navy gym bag, slinging it over his shoulder.
“That’s what you left behind?”
“Yes. My personal phone is in here - the one I use for family emergencies. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, just in case someone needed me.”
“Fair enough,” I say, glancing around the room.
My eyes catch on a row of jerseys hanging neatly on a rack, their bold colors and numbers standing out against the muted tones of the room.
“Are those...?”
“Our jerseys,” he says, following my gaze. “We hang them up before every game. It’s kind of a ritual.”