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’s all over the internet!” another student pipes up, holding up his phone as if to prove it. “You’re on El Mundo Fútbol. There are photos of you at his match!”
My heart drops into my stomach.
El Mundo Fútbol?! I can’t claim to know the publication in any way, but for crying out loud - Santi plays rugby, not football!
“I - phones away,” I manage to say, my voice uncharacteristically sharp. “Now.”
The students reluctantly obey and seem to recognise that they’ve pushed me too far on this, but it’s too late.
The damage has been done.
My mind races as I try to keep the rest of the lesson on track, but it’s impossible to focus. I stumble and stutter unprofessionally over my words, and I can’t even find it within me to smile at my errors when I trip up over my basic Spanish phrases.
As soon as the bell rings, I retreat to the teachers’ lounge, my hands trembling as I pull out my own phone.
It doesn’t take long to find what they were talking about. My face stares back at me from the screen, clear as day, sitting in the box at Santi’s match.
There’s a series of photos of me smiling nervously, talking to Elena, sipping my drink, watching the match; and then, there’s the opening line of the article:
“Santiago Ortiz’s Mystery Woman: The Rugby Star’s New Love?”
Oh my god.
I think I might vomit.
Despite how physically unwell I feel, I still scroll through the article, unable to look away despite the horror that I’m reading. It’s full of speculation, piecing together details from the match and claiming to have insider information about our relationship. There’s even a quote from an anonymous source who says that they spotted us together after the game, leaving the stadium hand-in-hand.
I feel so exposed - like my private life has been ripped open and put on display for everyone to see.
And more than that, I feel humiliated.
My final class of the day passes in a blur. I go through the motions of the carefully planned lesson, but my mind is elsewhere the whole time, spinning with a mix of anger, embarrassment and confusion.
I wait until long after I know everyone will have gone before I leave my classroom and head towards the school gates. The last thing I want is to see anyone - pupil, parent or colleague. Thankfully, the grounds are deserted as I leave, and I can’t help but scan the streets as I walk back to my apartment at a brisk pace.
As soon as I step inside, I call Santi.
He picks up almost immediately.
“Olivia,” he says, his tone calm but tinged with concern. “I was going to call you, but I thought you might still be working. I saw the articles. Are you OK?”
“What the hell, Santi?” I say, unable to keep my voice steady. I know I shouldn’t take it out on him - after all, it’s not his fault that this happened - but I’ve had nobody to speak to about it, and after building it up in my mind, my words now come out with a touch of heat. “How the fuck did this happen? Who told them?!”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “From what I’ve read, my guess would be someone at the stadium. It happens sometimes: people talk and things get leaked. Not to excuse it, of course, and… I’m so sorry, Olivia. I should have prepared you for this.”
I don’t know what I want to do more: scream, cry, or run away.
“Honestly? I don’t think anything could have prepared me for this,” I tell him, my heart pounding as I pace back and forth across my living room floor. “I’m not - fuck. I’m not used to this, Santi. People knowing things about me. People making assumptions. It’s overwhelming.”
“I get it,” he says softly. “But listen to me, mi cielo - this will pass. They’ll move on to the next story in a few days.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I snap before I can stop myself. “You’re a high-flying, famous athlete! What is it they call you - Spain’s golden boy?!” I huff out a laugh of disbelief, still in shock that this has happened. “Some of us have to live in the real world, Santi. I’m supposed to be a professional. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is for me?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, and the quiet has me feeling immediately guilty.
“Shit, I’m… Santi, I’m sorry. I’m just stressed out. I need some time to process this,” I tell him, my chest tight. “A… a little space, okay?”
He hesitates before he answers. “If that’s what you need, Olivia, then… of course. I understand. But I’m here when you’re ready to talk.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, and I end the call before I can second-guess myself.