Lessons In Losing It (Study Abroad Book 4)

by Jessica Peterson

  I don’t want her life. I can’t stand the superficiality of her world. The stress.

  But I also want her to be happy.

  I mean, maybe I should be more worried about ending up at a gym, the work-life balance I’m looking for be damned—although, honestly, what’s wrong with working at a gym? A gym filled with athletes is my happy place.

  Then again, maybe I should be shadowing anesthesiologists; it’d look great on my résumé. Maybe I am wasting Mom’s hard earned money by not working harder. I’m really, really lucky that I don’t have to worry about paying for college, and I definitely don’t want to be the kid that freeloads off her parents’ generosity.

  But it’s not like I haven’t been working hard. I’ve just been working toward sports medicine, not surgery. I’ve invested a ton of time in making this dream come true. I’d like to honor that.

  I’ve just been really busy getting ready for exams, I type. I’ll get going on my summer plans once they’re over.

  All easy As, she replies. At least this semester won’t be a total waste for you—those grades will help your GPA, and medical schools will love that.

  Right, I say. That’s exactly why I came to Spain. To boost my GPA.

  That’s my girl, Mom types, clearly not picking up on my sarcasm. I can’t wait for you to come home. We can work on the essays for your applications together. I already have some good ideas for the Yale essay—you know the one about rising to meet a challenge? I figure you can talk about the research you did at the oncology center.

  I fall back into my seat with a heavy sigh. When I think about pursuing Mom’s route, I feel this surge of satisfaction at how thrilled and proud she’ll be of me if I do pursue plastic surgery. But at the same time, my gut ties itself in knots. It knows it’s not the path for me. It tells me in no uncertain terms that I’m not going to be happy.

  Mom will be, though. Maybe her happiness will be big enough and bright enough to keep me happy, too. I don’t know.

  I do know that if I have to talk to Mom for another second, I am going to fling myself down the nearest elevator shaft.

  Gotta run, I type. Call you later.

  Good luck studying. Can’t wait to see those grades!

  I slam my laptop shut. Shut my eyes, too, against the sudden sting behind my lids. I swallow, hard, and take a deep breath.

  Today is a really great day. I’m not going to let Mom ruin it for me. How often do I get to rub elbows with some of the best physical therapy professionals on the planet? I’ll worry about my summer plans—and my future—later.

  I decided when I arrived in Spain that this would be my semester of hashtag-YOLO. And so far, I’ve done a pretty great job of living in the moment.

  This tour will be no exception. I’m going to enjoy the hell out of it. After that—who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and enjoy the hell out of Fred, too.

  ***

  My heart is pounding as the driver—Fred sent a guy in a ridiculous black Mercedes to pick me up from school—glides through security at the gate to the football club’s training facility. I wasn’t kidding when I said the place is guarded like the Pentagon; there are fences and cameras everywhere; there’s a guardhouse, even a couple security officers patrolling the perimeter. I knew Fred’s team was a big deal in Spain, but it’s hitting me just how huge this whole operation is.

  And how famous. A couple minutes ago, we turned off the highway and took an unmarked, one lane road that wound through a mile or two of arid countryside before the giant training facility came into view like a spaceship that landed in the middle of nowhere. My driver explained that the facility “must remain hidden” so that fans and the media, and even rival football clubs, can’t get a glimpse of the players as they train. It’s like their tactics are a closely guarded national secret or something.

  I shiver. This is wild—the fact that I’m here.

  Wild, and really exciting.

  The driver makes his way through an orderly parking lot packed with brand new Range Rovers and sports cars with blacked out windows. It looks like the parking garage at mom’s practice, just with fewer Bentleys.

  I wonder which car is Fred’s. I don’t know him, not well, but I get the feeling he wouldn’t drive anything quite so flashy. Just doesn’t feel like Fred—he’s more understated than that.

  I smile. I like how Fred doesn’t seem to give two shits about what other people think of him. I mean, the guy was drinking beer and cracking Harry Potter jokes with me at a super swanky footballer party. Everyone else was busy getting drunk off fancy champagne and ogling all the hot girls there. Not Fred, though. I dig that about him.

  Maybe that’s why I’m so damn attracted to the guy.

  Finally, the driver pulls up to the medical facility, all glass and gleaming angles, and hurries to open my door.

  Thanking him, I make my way to the entrance. I catch a glimpse of one of several practice pitches just off to the side of the building. It’s a cold day, a little before three o’clock; the sky is clear but already darkening, the blue tinged with purple. A couple guys are out on the field, running some pretty brutal looking drills. I can faintly make out shouts, a bark of laughter. I look for Fred’s tall, well-muscled figure, but I don’t see him.

  My heart falls. He didn’t say if he’d be here or not today, but I secretly hoped he would be.

  I hope he’s here. I really do. He still has my koozie, for one thing, and for another, I’d like to thank him—with dinner, maybe? a drink? —for putting this whole thing together. He doesn’t know me, and he didn’t have to help me out. But he did, and I want to show my appreciation.

  I’d also like to make out with him, pretty badly. It could be totally one-sided, but the attraction I felt between us practically sizzled. I’m getting tingles just thinking about it.

  I head inside the training facility, and I’m immediately greeted by a cute woman, forty, maybe forty-five, in a snazzy Madrid tracksuit. Her name is Valentina, and she is the first team physiotherapist—meaning she works with the best players on the team to prevent and rehabilitate injuries.

  Valentina doesn’t speak great English, so I get to practice my Spanish as she gives me a tour. She’s warm, friendly, and has a great, self-deprecating sense of humor; she answers all my idiot questions patiently. I have a lot of them. Like, a lot. Probably because I’m so enthralled by everything I see and everything she says I can hardly stand it.

  We start in the training facility’s main building, a gargantuan complex that is as big as a mall. Maybe even bigger. It’s sick. Not only is there an Olympic-sized pool; there are actual treadmills and stationary bikes in the water. We pass through an enormous gym, an indoor running track, two weight rooms, massage therapy rooms, saunas and steam rooms, and a mod, chic-looking cafeteria. Everything is new and clean and state of the art.

  My head is on a swivel.

  Players greet Valentina as they pass us. She asks one guy about his knee; she promises to help another with his hamstrings. She turns to me, eyes lit up, and for the next twenty minutes tells me all about hamstrings and how to rehabilitate them and how to keep from hurting them and how they work. Her delight is infectious; as her smile grows, so does mine, even though I don’t understand half of what she’s saying.

  How different she is from my self-important, status-obsessed mother, who throws her nose in the air as charges down the halls of her fancy high rise office (lest anyone think she is not super important, she practically sprints from one appointment to the next in her Jimmy Choo stilettos).

  After my tour, Valentina and I pore over her schedule in her office—she’s filling me in on what her typical day looks like. It seems she’s got a pretty great work-life balance; she seems to have time for both work and play. She says with two kids and a husband who also works that it’s not easy, and some days are absolute hell. But for the most part, she enjoys her time at the facility and at home. Her job is interesting and challenging. She knows she is part of something bigger, s
omething important.

  I don’t know Valentina well, but I can just tell she’s a happy person. It radiates from her. She is patient and kind and down to earth. She lights up when she talks about her kids, her work, her husband.

  This—finding this kind of life—this is what I want. My own version of this kind of contentment. Of balance.

  If I could just find the courage to go after it, instead of towing the line and doing what Mom wants me to do.

  I’m asking Valentina about her post-graduate path when a familiar voice sounds at the door.

  “Enjoying yourselves, ladies?”

  I start, my pulse leaping as I look up. Fred.

  He fills the doorway, leaning a hip against the jamb. He’s still in his practice clothes—black compression tights underneath shorts, a sweatshirt, gloves, cleats covered in grass—sweaty and huge and smiling.

  It’s like a bullet straight to the chest. I grab onto the edge of Valentina’s desk, hoping my legs don’t buckle as I meet his eyes. I can smell him from here. Soap, something simple but clean, cut with an edge of sandalwood.

  Heaven help me.

  I think it’s safe to say I am attracted to Fred. Very, very attracted.

  “Hello, Fred,” Valentina says in heavily accented English before switching to Spanish: I am having fun showing Rachel around. I can tell she likes it here.

  “Hey,” I manage.

  “You came,” he says, his eyes getting all squinty with pleasure.

  “This place—it’s pretty incredible, Fred,” I say. “Thank you. Seriously. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “My pleasure.” I love his weird little accent, his words flavored with German, a bit of British, too. I guess it makes sense that he’d have a British accent; he does play with a bunch of guys from England.

  He glances at Valentina. “Are you done with Rachel yet? I don’t want to rush you…”

  “She is very much yours now, yes?” Valentina says with a knowing grin. She kisses my cheeks.

  Come back anytime, Rachel, she says in Spanish. If you’re interested, we have a formal internship program you can apply to for the spring. It is very competitive, but also a fantastic opportunity. You are always welcome here. Mostly because I’ve never seen Fred smile like that.

  Color creeps into Fred’s face as he laughs. Man, he’s cute. Hot. Huge. He is all those things, and it is all I can do not to stare.

  He tilts his head. “Come on, then, Rachel. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  Chapter 3

  Rachel

  Fred helps me into my jacket—as if being super hot wasn’t enough, he’s also a gentleman, I am dying—and follow Fred out of the building. Our breath billows around us in a thin cloud as we head toward one of the practice pitches. The sun is setting now, igniting the sky with one final blast of color; oranges that burn to reds, pinks that fade to violet. I pull my hand out of my pocket and hold it up against the searing light to get a better look at the pitch, the cold air filling my lungs.

  A goalie is still working inside the net with a coach, launching himself again and again after balls the coach kicks his way. The guy moves with lethal speed, his footwork immaculate, his athleticism apparent in the way he jumps, runs, anticipates the ball. It’s like watching a dance.

  “That’s Alexsandr Fernandez,” Fred says as he leads me onto the pitch. “He’s probably the best goalie in the world right now. Brilliant, isn’t he?”

  “He’s amazing,” I breathe. The turf swishes underneath our feet; Fred’s cleats catch in it, making this short, raggedy sound. The field is giant—much bigger than I thought it’d be. “You sure I’m allowed to be out here?”

  Fred looks at me. The sun catches in his hair, on his pale eyelashes. “You’re with me,” he says. “Of course you’re allowed out here.”

  The possessive way he says that—you’re with me—has my pulse doing this funny thing where it throbs and skips all at once. It makes me hyperaware of the way Fred moves beside me. He’s at home on the pitch, that much is clear; his stride is enormous and confident as we keep moving.

  He owns this place.

  I kinda sorta want him to own me, too.

  Again, it could be totally one-sided, but I think the space between our bodies is sparking with energy. Want, too. God, I bet this guy would be an unbelievable lay. He’s just so big and the confident way he moves on the pitch and those giant hands of his…

  Alexsandr raises his hand, waving us over. “So she does exist!” he calls, a smile lighting up his face. “Come on, then, I’ve got to meet this girl.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Fred mutters, running a hand up the back of his head. “Rachel, I swear I didn’t say anything—”

  “Well aren’t you just lovely,” Alexsandr says. His accent is British, thicker than Fred’s. He drops the ball and pulls me into a hug. “Sorry, love, I’m a bit sweaty, but I’m just so bloody happy Fred’s brought a girl round I just can’t help it. I’ve heard great things about you—Rachel, is it?”

  “Um. Uh. Yeah?” I manage, my words muffled by Alexsandr’s bright orange singlet.

  “Olivier’s been running his mouth again, has he?” Fred sighs and runs a hand up the back of his head.

  “Indeed he has. Said he saw you chatting it up with a lovely dark haired lady at the party the other night, and it wasn’t long before we uncovered her identity.” Alexsandr pulls back, holding me by the shoulders. “So when’s the wedding?”

  “Oh,” I say, my body prickling with heat from head to toe. “Oh, well, Fred and I—we’re not—I’m just—medical staff?”

  “Adorable,” Alexsandr says, and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Welcome to the family, love. We’re glad to have you.”

  “Rachel and I are—uh—just acquaintances,” Fred grinds out, untangling me from his teammate’s grasp. “For God’s sake, Alex, you’re suffocating her. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  “I don’t.” Alexsandr grins down at me. He’s hot in a very footballer way—dark hair that’s cropped in a slick Euro-hipster syle, a thick, well-trimmed beard I’d call Conquistador-chic. I can see why he’s a favorite of the girls here in Spain, but I for one prefer Fred’s unique, effortless handsomeness. “Have you got any friends, love? Seems Fred’s passed on his dry spell to me, and I could use a bit of company going into the holidays—”

  “Goodbye, Alex,” Fred says. He grabs my hand and tugs me across the pitch.

  “Lovely meeting you, Rachel,” Alex calls after us. “I’ll be on the look out for an invitation to the wedding!”

  I stumble after Fred, laughing. “What’s up with that guy? He’s hilarious.”

  “If by ‘hilarious’, you mean ‘hilariously awful’, then yes, I agree.”

  “He’s your friend, then?”

  “I don’t many have friends on the squad, so no. I’m sorry if he offended you. I swear I didn’t say anything about us—you—to the lads.”

  I meet his eyes. He looks at me squarely; his gaze is open, honest.

  It hits me that I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Back home in Dallas, everyone has an agenda. Everyone puts on a mask and pretends. It’s all an act; it’s all fake. The same is true for a good chunk of the status-obsessed student body at Meryton. I guess I’ve been waiting for Fred to quit the cutesy Harry Potter act and show his superficial true colors. You know, he’d use the Quidditch angle to get me into bed or something, or he’d brag to his footballer friends about getting laid by an American chick. I’m so jaded it’s not even funny.

  But Fred keeps being honest. He keeps being so damn real. And it’s taking me off guard.

  “Are you usually so discreet?” I ask, casually tossing the question between us.

  “Always,” he says. “I like to keep my private life private.”

  My heart skips a beat. I admire that about him—that he doesn’t kiss and tell. Maybe chivalry isn’t dead, after all.

  Still, I’m more curious than I should be. I’m just…gah
, I love how real he is. How genuinely at home he is in his own skin. He could care less about impressing anyone, or flashing his talent or his wealth in peoples’ faces.

  I’m also loving the fact that Fred is so sweaty right now. Alexsandr was sweaty, too, but Fred takes the I-just-spilled-my-blood-sweat-and-tears-on-the-pitch thing to a whole other level. There’s almost something medieval about it, like he’s some powerful, sexy blond warlord just returned from slaying his enemies in battle.

  I blink. Since when have I had such an, er, active imagination?

  I think I just need to make out with this guy, pronto.

  “This was a really awesome thing you did for me today. The driver, Valentina, the tour—now this.” I nod at the field. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I owe you, big time.”

  He turns his head to look at me. The light, searing and bright, catches on the mussed whorls of his hair. His eyes get all squinty again when he grins at me. “You don’t owe me anything, Rachel. I promise it wasn’t much work at all to put this together. You’re a friend of my mate’s girlfriend—I was happy to do it.”

  We’re on another practice pitch now. This one is bigger than the others; there are bleachers off to one side, and huge billboards for Madrid’s sponsors hug the edges of the pitch.

  I’m fighting a serious case of who the hell am I? I mean, I’m in Madrid, walking across the field where the best soccer team in the world practices.

  I’m with Fred Ohr, a super hot, super talented defender. Probably the most talented in the entire Spanish football league.

  Probably the hottest, handsomest, most gentlemanly guy I’ll ever have the pleasure of meeting.

  I’m gonna hit on this guy. If it works, who knows what sexual awesomeness the next three weeks can hold? If it doesn’t work, then I have nothing to lose. I’m leaving the country, for God’s sake. I’ll never see him again.