“I’m not sure I learned this ‘uncouth’ in English class.”
“It’s a civilized way of saying I’m a hot mess. I like to think I left my hot mess phase behind, shedding it since the last time you saw me, and now I’ve evolved to the next stage. But, as we say back home, you can put lipstick on a pig but it’s still a pig.”
“We have a saying here. Pão pão queijo queijo.”
I know these words. I think about them for a moment. “Bread bread cheese cheese?”
He laughs. “I’m impressed. It means it is what it is. In this case, you are what you are.”
“An uncouth hot mess.”
“No. You’re Ruby Turner. And you have your own path through life, that’s all. Just because you have a different way of doing things, doesn’t mean you’re a hot mess. You’re just you.”
He’s looking at me in such a way that my stomach is fluttering. There’s so much…tenderness in his gaze, affection gleaming in his eyes, that it makes me realize I haven’t had someone look at me like that in a long time.
In fact, that last person might have been him.
“Well, I’m glad you have so much faith in me,” I tell him, the butterflies still inside me. “But my path through life is roadblocked at the moment.”
His low brows knit together. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. With my life.”
“You’re living, aren’t you?”
I glance at him. “Well, yeah. We all are.”
“Not all of us.”
I take a big sip of my wine and sigh. “Okay, so I’m living, but I had all these goals and dreams and plans and none of them worked out. I was at that hostel in Barcelona for half a year and I only went to two Barça games. Just two. And they’re my favorite team. I certainly didn’t write about them either. Then, after Barcelona, I went to the south of France where I worked at a bar in a town called Menton. I picked grapes and olives in Italy, living on an organic farm. I worked at a ski lodge in Austria. It wasn’t until Elena invited me up to Finland that I finally found my way back to the game I love. But is it even close to journalism, what I went to school for? No.”
Wow. I guess I’ve been carrying all that with me for a while. I busy myself with another gulp of wine as Luciano surveys me, tilting his head to the side.
“We all have goals in life, dreams,” he eventually says. “But everyone’s path is different, and ever changing, and sometimes it’s not a straight line. Sometimes you have to put your focus on other things, sometimes you just have to focus on living, on surviving. But if you keep at it, your dreams will find their way back to you.”
“Your dreams were a straight line,” I tell him. “You discovered at a young age that you had talent. Look at you now.”
“Who said this was my dream?” he asks, the corner of his mouth curving in amusement.
I raise my brows. “It’s not?”
“I have many dreams,” he says. “We’re allowed as many as we want in life.”
“So tell me one of your dreams,” I say, putting my elbows on the table and resting my chin on my hands.
“I want to be captain of a team that wins the Champions League.”
“That might happen.” I pause, realizing who I’m talking about. “No. That will happen.”
“With Sporting? Do you really think so?” he asks wryly.
“No. You know I don’t. You need to get transferred somewhere else.”
“Well that’s the plan. Stick with them here for a few more years, get this team back into shape, and then leave.” He leans back in his seat and looks around him to see if anyone is close enough to hear us. They aren’t. “I feel like such a traitor saying that.”
“Do you remember when I interviewed you? When I asked you if you felt loyalty to the team because they basically raised you at the academy? You said it feels right to stay with the team that has been there from the start. Do you still feel that way?”
He shakes his head. “No. This team is holding me back. I know it. Last year was proof. But it doesn’t stop the guilt.”
“Feeling guilty just means you have a conscience, that’s all. You need to go play for Barcelona.”
“Actually, I’m hoping Real Madrid.”
My eyes widen. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He laughs loudly. “Look at you. Oh, I would dare, just to see the contempt in your face. You really are a true Barça fan, aren’t you?”
“You can’t be serious about Real Madrid. The fans boo their own players, even when they’re winning. Do you want to get booed?”
“If I’m paid enough, I’ll take it,” he says with a grin.
“They’re dirty players.”
“I’ve never had a problem getting dirty.”
His eyes fix on me and there’s no mistaking what he means. My thighs squeeze together and I swallow, trying to ignore it.
“You’d have to play with Ronaldo.”
“I know Ronaldo.”
Oh, of course he does.
“Well then, if you end up going to Los Blancos, then I’m going to show up at all your games to heckle you.”
“I would love that.”
I roll my eyes. “Be careful what you wish for.” I have another sip of wine, starting to feel delightfully buzzed. God, it feels good to talk to him. So easy. So right. The only thing I have to contend with is the way my body responds to each look, each word.
“So, I guess your brother will have to make quite the deal to get you over there.”
This is the first time I’ve mentioned Marco. He was starting to feel a bit like the elephant in the room.
Luciano gives me a thin smile. “We’ll see. I’m free from my contract next year. If Real Madrid wants me, they’ll have me. Marco has an easy job.” He
