"Mi bella preciosa," he soothes, "no llores." Don't cry he tells me.
"I'm over these fucking hormones. There was a time you could surprise me and I'd be just that...surprised, not this fucking sobbing mess."
Diego laughs at me. "Izzy, you're over them? You've got about thirty-six more weeks. Get used to them, babe.” He swipes an errant tear from my cheek. “So, I did good?"
"You know you did, but when did you find the time for this?" I ask, holding up the beautiful one-of-a-kind shirt.
There's a gleam of guilt in his eye. "Well," he starts sheepishly, "the week after I signed the deal with London United, I found this company in Florida that makes them. I asked them if they did custom work and we collaborated on what you're holding in your hand."
"I love it," reaching up to hug him again. "Okay," I give him a peck on the cheek, "time to get dressed. Gotta go, gotta go," I taunt, turning to leave.
"You fucking tease," he scolds, charging towards me with a couple of strides, scooping me up and jogging us the rest of the distance to our bed. Plopping me on my back, he nestles up to my side pressing his boxer brief clad body into me.
When I finish my giggling and open my eyes in Diego's direction, I am mesmerized by the most joy, love and lust filled eyes ever. "You know I love you, right?"
"I do," I coo. "But how much do you love me?"
"So much, so much." He presses his lips to mine. He's not in a hurry. He trails whisper soft kisses across my lips, catching my bottom lip between his; he sucks lightly and swipes his tongue across the span of my pout. His kiss, this kiss, it isn't about lust and desire. He's pouring his heart out to me and taking every beat of mine. When my lips fall open on a sigh, Diego takes advantage and languidly twists and twirls his tongue around mine. I hum my appreciation incapable of anything else because I don't want to interrupt his kiss.
By the time Diego is finished with his proclamation of love, I'm out of breath and glistening with a thin layer of sweat. As frustrating as it is, we won't be having sex before his game. We did that on Valentine's Day the first year we were dating and it was just too close to game time and he said his legs felt like noodles out on the field. It wasn't his worst game, but he was noticeably affected by something.
Diego groans as he pulls back from me and falls on his back. "Hey," I try to comfort him, "we could always relieve the tension." Pausing before I continue and propping myself up on my side to face him, "I here it's pretty customary to play your first international football match with noodle legs."
"Fucking, Izzy," he says with a laugh. "You're a cunning little thing. That's fighting dirty with dirty."
"It's up to you. You want this," gesturing to the length and curves of my body, "bad enough to possibly play a game with noodle legs?"
"Always the voice of reason," he huffs. "You manage to put it into perspective every time. I'll probably thank you for it later, but right now..." He trails off as he rolls off the bed with a shake of his head and moves to the closet.
Grabbing the custom blinged out t-shirt, I slip it over my head a little concerned about my swollen breasts. To my delight, the shirt had just enough give to hug my curves without drawing too much attention to them. My cleavage is another story. Shit!
"Hey, D," I call out to Diego. "You really think I should wear this to meet Mr. Stafford?"
Stepping out of the closet shirtless in his black vintage tracksuit pants with his beat up game day bag, he inspects my appearance for the potential problem. He's been using the same bag since he was in high school. I didn't always know there were so many superstitions associated with sports. Diego is no exception to those believing in superstitions. He has a rhyme, a reason, and a story for each and every one of his. I can see when his eyes zero in on why I'm concerned about meeting his boss in this shirt. He starts and stops, before he spits out, "Fuck that. You look hot in that shirt."
"Are you sure it's not too hooker-ish?" He laughs inwardly, but answers with a shake of his head. "Allll-righty then. Toss me my pants sitting on the chair right there," pointing to the chair just off to his side.
I slide on my matching black vintage tracksuit pants that I cropped and added elastic to, to fit my game day style of comfy and sexy. After showing Diego my alterations to these vintage track pants years ago, he said that he loves knowing that the hottest woman in the stadium is there to watch him...just him.
I walk to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. Smoothing out some of the wrinkles in the shirt, I inspect my belly. It's far too soon to see a bump or feel anything, but I get lost in the thought of when those things happen.
"Here you go, Iz." he's brought me my black Adidas Sambas. The shoes are of the few contributions he’s made to my wardrobe. Diego insists the proper shoe for football has three stripes.
With my shoes on, I make one more turn in front of the mirror, nervous as shit about meeting Mr. Stafford and Diego playing in a new league. I don't doubt his skill, but sometimes the newest superstar has a target on his back.
Diego comes up from behind in his away jersey, the colors of his shirt opposite of mine. Where my shirt is red, his is black. Where there is a black V stripe across mine, his has a red one. Of course, where mine is blank below the stripe, his has one of the actual team sponsor's name and logo on it. Holding me in his arms, my back to his chest, he stares over the top of my head and smiles. We've done this hundreds of times. This is all part of the process that gets him in the mindset for a game. A different country, a different city, a different team, different soil and it changes nothing. Our routine is the same.
"Let's get going, bella," catching my gaze in our reflections.
The trip to the stadium was short. We were parked and walking in within fifteen minutes of leaving the house. As was customary, Diego played his mix of Pantera, Slayer, and Metallica to help pump him up.
From the outside, I can see that this stadium is quite a bit larger than most of the ones Diego has played in back in the States. Stepping into this stadium was like walking into an alternate universe. While most clubs in the US play on their own fields, the sport isn’t as highly regarded there as it is here in the UK. One might actually call it a religion. Families divide and houses crumple when rivalries face off. The amount of love this stadium and their occupants have for the team graces the walls in murals and images from games, tournaments, championships, and celebrations that tell of the long legacy of this particular club.
We take the elevator up to the third level. The attention that Diego draws hasn't escaped me. Men and women alike seem to just stop and watch him walk by. Their awe isn't misplaced. I still find myself slack-jawed with him at times. If you were one for myths and legends, you'd have to wonder if he wasn't a demigod, the son of a mortal mother, built like a god and blessed with god-like skills.
We walk down a short distance through the hall off of the elevators. When we approach a set of double doors, Diego indicates with his hand that this was the room we were entering. I steady myself, preparing to represent my husband in the best way I can.
There are two voices coming from around the corner of the short entry-hall into the suite, one male, one female. "Dad," the woman pleads, "you need to get it checked out."
"Diego," I hear the man address my husband before I see him. "Come in, come in," he invites us. "This must be the Izabella."
"I am," I reply, offering my hand to whom I presume to be the owner. "And you must be Mr. Stafford. My husband is quite fond of you, sir. A weaker woman would be concerned over his obvious man crush on you."
"Aren't you a little minx," answers back Mr. Stafford. "You remind me of my Sasha's mother." He wraps his arm around the waist of the blonde to his left. Ahhh! Sasha S. from the airport.
I reach out my hand to Sasha, but can't be bothered to shake it.
Seriously?
I'm used to the snubbing from the players' girlfriends or wives, but never an owner, or a daughter of one. If looks could kill, I'd have died a thousand deaths wit
h the once over she gave me instead.
"Diego," she focuses her attention on my husband, "do you think we could discuss next week's photo shoot for the cross promotion for Zeus and London United?" She bats her eyelashes when she finishes her question.
Ahhhh...now I get it. It would seem that Little Miss Owner's Daughter has a crush on my Diego.
I know she’s talking about the endorsement deal he signed with the company known for its bath and hygiene products for men. Diego excuses himself from my side and walks towards Sasha. I'm not afforded the opportunity to hear what she has to say to him when Mr. Stafford starts asking me about my shirt. Because I know my husband, I'm comfortable with switching my focus to the adorable older man in front of me and am more than eager to explain the shirt Diego had made for me.
However, just because I'm not concerned about my husband wandering, it doesn't mean that Miss Touchy Feely isn't getting on my every last nerve with every graze of her hands across his shoulder or down his arm. "Are you dear?" I hear break through my fiery gaze.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" I ask apologetically. Embarrassed that I got distracted from the conversation I was having with Mr. Stafford.
"Are you a fan of football?"
"That's such an odd question considering my husband is a professional footballer, Mr. Stafford."
"I suppose it could be. Many of the WAGS—" the look that streaks across my face stops Mr. Stafford mid-sentence. He waits for me to express my confusion.
"WAGS, sir?"
"Oh, yes. WAGS is what we call the wives and girlfriends of the players. Welcome to the club," he jests. "Lots of these ladies don't have a clue about the sport or the game. Many of them are here for the fame and notoriety."
"Ash...well, thank you for the welcome into such an exclusive club," I quip. "However, unlike some of these women you describe, I very much enjoy soc—football. Although, I'll admit that before I met Diego, I couldn't stand the sport."
"Did I hear my name? I swear, it wasn't me," he jokes.
"Izabella was just telling me about her adventures with football."
"True story, right babe? I wasn't a fan of football when we met."
"Not a fan is a bit of understatement. I'm pretty sure you going into depth about how boring the sport was and breaking a wrist to avoid going to a game paints a better picture," he chastises.
I shrug, "While I'm still not the biggest fan of the sport, I am mostly certainly a fan of my husband. I haven't missed one of his games in nearly five years."
"And on that note, I have some prepping I need to get to. Walk with me down to the balcony?"
"Of course. Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Stafford. I need to wish my husband a good game," I smile in his direction.
"That Sasha is quite the character," I start as we're descending the stairs from the box suite to the balcony of the third level of the stadium.
"Yeah...she's a lot of ‘all work and no play,’ it seems." Ha ha. Men are so clueless sometimes.
At the furthest point I will go, Diego takes me in his arms. His kiss is less eager, but no less knee buckling. I gasp for breath when he releases his claim on my mouth. "Watch for me, okay?" he asks.
"But how will I tell you apart from the rest of the soccer studs on your team? Or the other team for that matter?" I play along.
"You'll see me," he declares simply. "I'll be the one jukin' fuckers and scoring."
He's said this to me every game since the first one I ever went to.
Chapter Six:
Strong Enough
August 2006
After our customary good-bye, I spend a moment looking at the pitch, the field that is. My years of supporting Diego and hanging out on our down time watching his favorite teams before he went pro has given me sound knowledge of the sport and its vocabulary.
I've seen him play a million games—or so it seems—and I shouldn’t feel like this, but today...today, I'm nervous.
I don't know if it's the newness of the venue, the team, our residence, but the nerves are making my already unstable stomach flip and flop. Starting a new team hasn't always worked in Diego's favor. In fact, fate has been unkind where Diego and his first game with a new team is concerned. His first appearance with the San Diego Football Club was tragic, if I'm being honest. As fate, or the schedule, would have it, he was facing off against his former team, the Los Angeles Athletic Club.
Playing in L.A., and Diego being the superstar he is, his appearance was welcomed with fans standing for him and chanting his name. A few of his former teammates, whom were green with envy over Diego's superstar status when they were on the same team, were not pleased with the warm reception from the home team fans. This was evident in their game play, constantly hacking at Diego's legs and getting more physical than the game called for. There were about ten minutes left in the game and the coach had called Diego's number, eighty minutes of play will gas even a god like my Diego. While the ball was still in play, Diego remained on the field. Up three goals to none, the guys were playing more defense, but fate does not care about running up the score or the team's plan to play it careful. The field opened up like a cloud-filled sky does when the sun breaks through after a storm and Diego was at the right place, at the right time to take the shot on net.
I still don't know if what happened next was some sick twist of fate or an unlucky coincidence, but I'll never forget that scene. The ball arced through the air in Diego's direction, landing perfectly at his feet in stride to the goal. Never missing a beat, he planted his left foot and brought the right one back to drill the ball into the back of the net. And then the unimaginable happened. Out of nowhere, one of Diego’s green with envy former teammates comes at him from his left side, slide tackling into his planted leg cleats up. The collective gasp in the stadium of eighteen thousand fans was nothing compared to the roar of pain coming from Diego.
Neither could hold a candle to my stomach dropping to my feet watching Diego writhing in pain on the field, grasping at his leg with one hand and pounding the ground with the other. When he was being carted off the field, I was tearing through the crowds to get to him.
Not everyone loves a superstar. Not everyone loves an American superstar. From what D tells me, his teammates have been very welcoming and have shown him the ropes of the facility and the lay of the land. I just hope the other team is as amicable.
"Izabella!" hearing my name shouted, I turn in the direction it's coming from. There at the top of the stairs is Mr. Stafford. He's waving his hands, gesturing me to him. The man's smile is beaming and quickly erases the dark thoughts chasing me towards the rabbit hole.
As fit as I am, I'm winded when I reach the top and Mr. Stafford. "My dear," he starts, "I wanted to be sure we have something for you to snack on before the start of the game..."
How long was I down there? The look on my face must show my confusion. "You were down there for some time. Game will be starting in about thirty minutes. Diego and the rest of the lads should be taking the pitch shortly."
Sure enough, a glance back down at the pitch and Diego and his teammates are spreading out to stretch and kick the ball around. As if he can sense my eyes on him, Diego snaps his attention directly to me. With a touch of his fingers to his lips he blows me a kiss. Aware of the potential for a new audience, I grab it out of the air rather than turn to let his kiss fall on my ass. I can see him laugh. He has to know that I wasn't comfortable with performing my normal response in front of his new boss.
I make my way into the suite to find Sasha glaring at me. I can imagine why, but whatever the fuck ever, he's mine.
"Izabella is there something I can get you to drink? Champagne?" he asks holding up a bottle of my favorite bubbly.
"Mr. Stafford, while that sounds lovely, I'll just have a bottle of water. The bubbly kind if you have any."
He chuckles at me, "My dear, I'm the owner. If I didn't have any, I could have it stocked in twenty minutes."
I respond in kind. "Of course," I shru
g, "what was I thinking?"
He hands me a glass filled with the sparkling water and places the bottle on the table in front of me. "So, Izabe—"
"Please, it's Izzy. It's a mouthful to say Izabella every time."
"Then I insist you call me Bean." I quirk an eyebrow up at his request. Silently questioning whether he really thought it was okay to be so informal with him. With a shake of his head, "Izzy, it's only fair. Besides, I see no reason why we would need the formalities of a title."
"If you insist," I pause, mulling over what is clearly his nickname. “Bean, huh? Is there a story to go with that?”
"I do insist," he delivers emphatically and with a laugh he continues. "We’ll save the story for another time. Now, Izzy, why weren't you a big fan of football?"
"I see you're starting with the hard and heavy questions," I chuckle. "Well, to be honest, I probably wasn't so honest earlier about my fondness of the sport. I think I'm just in denial. In fact, I catch myself watching random games on the television when Diego isn't there to watch with me.
"In my early years, soc—football," I correct myself, "seemed so slow, so boring and admittedly, a lot confusing. I grew up on American football and it was fast paced to me and action packed whereas 'proper' football," that gets me a big smile, "seemed like ninety minutes of kicking the ball from one end of the field to the other."
Whether he tried to or not, Bean didn’t disguise his distaste for my uninformed and unenlightened early perception of the sport and then, gave me a nod. "That just means you weren't watching the right league or team for that matter,” he delivers with a wink. "Not all football is created equal. I'm sure you know by now that there are regional nuances within game play and game planning."
Love Turns With Twisted Fates (Truth About Love Book 2) Page 7