I’m laughing at how fucking adorable he’s being. “I have no idea what you said. But yes, I’ll move in here.”
Though there is a faint alarm going off in my head, telling me that I went from ‘maybe I’ll go back to Helsinki’ to ‘maybe I’ll just move in with him, this man I’m not really dating.’ I can be impulsive, but holy shit, this just registered off the impulsivity scale.
“I said we don’t have to plunge head-first and also I’m speaking by the elbows.”
I stare blankly at him.
“I’m talking too much,” he clarifies. “And sometimes tenho macaquinhos na cabeça. I have little monkeys in my brain, as in right now. The monkeys may not be thinking clearly.”
I grin at him, running the tip of my finger down the bridge of his nose. “Either way, I’m staying. We’ll figure it out as we go.”
“I promise you, we can make it work. Everything we’re scared of, we can make it work,” he says, kissing me.
But the thing that I’m scared of isn’t what he thinks it is.
It’s love.
* * *
It’s the day of the game between Sporting and Nacional, and even though we’re at the game pretty early, the stadium is buzzing with energy.
The minute we got here, I bought a number eleven Luciano Ribeiro jersey and slipped it on in the bathroom, shoving my tank top in my bag, then Elena and I grabbed some beers and headed up to our seats.
The José Alvalade Stadium is pretty big, fifty thousand seats, and I was prepared to be the only ones here early, but it’s filling up really fast. We had to take the metro here, since it’s quite a bit outside the city, and it was packed with Sporting fans on the train, already drunk and very rowdy.
The other team, Nacional, is from Funchal, on the island of Madeira, and they kicked Sporting’s ass last year (who didn’t?) so this game is already tense from the start. Plus, there was a little bit of rivalry since Cristiano Ronaldo started at Nacional before he moved to Sporting (and now of course is with Real Madrid).
I didn’t see Luciano before the game, since he would have been at the training centre. I did see him last night at his apartment though. He made us dinner—chicken and vegetables—which despite being totally boring, was actually kind of nice because he made it. But because he needed to get good sleep before the game, I didn’t stay over. I mean, we had sex, of course, but I didn’t stay over.
I’ll see him after the game. If he wins, I plan on giving him the world’s best blow job and basically suck his dick right off. Hell, I know I’ll do it if he loses too.
My phone beeps and I glance at it. It’s like he knew I was thinking about his cock.
How are the seats?
I text back: They should supply oxygen up here.
That bad?
No it’s fine. It’s great. Everyone is so pumped here. I’m wearing your jersey.
The bubbles appear for a moment and he sends: I can’t wait to take it off of you.
Oh man, how bad is it to sext your famous footballer boyfriend right before he plays an important game?
Elena makes a snorting sound, and I glance at her to see her rolling her eyes.
“Hey, keep your eyes on your own texts,” I chide her, covering up the screen.
“No way, mine are boring.”
I decide I don’t need to get him worked up. He needs to concentrate.
I text back. You will. When you come up, look to the seats and I’ll show you.
If he can see me of course.
But later, when things are starting and the teams do start running out onto the pitch to thunderous applause, Luciano does look up at me.
I stand up, turn around and point to his name on my jersey. Elena helps, waving her arms like an air traffic controller and directing traffic to the shirt.
I turn around and look down to see if he saw. He did. Luciano is laughing, shaking his head, before he runs out to the center of the field where the teams shake hands and then everyone stands for the national anthem.
And then the coin is tossed between Luciano and Claudemir, the other team’s captain, and the game begins.
Everything gets off to a fast start, both teams charging forward, taking risks, but no one has scored yet. I can tell Luciano is getting frustrated and he’s made some great passes and has had two shots on goal already, but so far that damn ball just doesn’t want to go in.
I hope I’m not jinxing things. I get superstitious about games and do that silly thing where I think something small I’m doing (or not doing) is having an impact on the way they’re playing. Still, I tell Elena I’m getting more drinks, hoping that they’ll score because I’m not watching them.
The drink stand on our level is out of the beer we like, so I head down the stairs to the lower level and look for drinks there, all the while listening to the crowd’s reactions. No goals yet, just a lot of close calls and frustration.
I’ve just gotten my beers and am turning around when my heart drops right out of me.
Just a few feet away, talking to someone, is none other than Tomás Ribeiro.
I stare, completely dumbfounded.
It’s him.
Luciano’s stepfather.
Cold mean eyes, scarred face, slick suit.
Him in all his ugly, nasty glory.
Black tar rage starts flooding through me, the beers starting to shake in my hands.
Then he looks my way.
I don’t think he recognizes me.
He frowns at my lips.
My red lipstick.
I don’t think.
I lunge at him, throwing a beer in his face.
The beer splashes out of the cup and the spray arcs through the air, splattering all over him.
“That’s for calling me a whore!” I yell, loud enough that people turn around and see, gasping at the sight.
Then I throw the other beer in his
