I did ask my friend Laura—she’s one of the Madrileñas, a group of girls I’m studying abroad with—about Fred. While she didn’t know much about him, she said he doesn’t really date much. Which could be perfect. Maybe he’s looking for some honest, no-strings-attached fun, just like me.
“What do you think of Spain so far?” he asks.
I grin. “I’m head over heels in love with it. I wish I could stay for another semester—”
“Why can’t you?”
“Lots of reasons,” I say with a shrug. “Mostly because I’m signed up to take the MCAT in June—”
“MCAT?”
“It’s this big standardized test you have to take to get into medical school back in the states. It’s eight hours long or something ridiculous like that. Totally brutal. I am so not looking forward to it, but my mom wants me to take it, so…yeah, I guess I’m doing it. But I’m enjoying Madrid in the meantime. I really loved Salamanca. One of our classes here is this study abroad experience class—our program takes us to places all around Spain. We’ve done Barcelona, Granada. A bunch of other cities. But Salamanca was my favorite.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never been. I hear great things, though.”
“You’ve never been?” I tease, elbowing him. “What gives? Why haven’t you been to Salamanca yet? It’s amazing. Is there not a football team there?”
“Not since I’ve been in Spain.” It’s his turn to shrug. “And I suppose I’ve been busy here in Madrid with the squad. We travel a good bit, but I don’t get to really experience the places we go. I also don’t get a lot of time off, and when I do, I usually like to go home to Germany. But one day I’d like to explore Spain a bit more.”
My heart thumps. This is my chance—I can ask Fred out now, or forever hold my peace. I’m not imagining this connection between us. The beer, the Harry Potter stuff, the honest, searching way he looks at me…
“So, let’s go,” I blurt before I can lose my nerve. “Let’s go to Salamanca. It’s an hour and a half train ride, so we can do it in a day. It’s an easy trip. I’ll be your tour guide so I can—um—you know, repay this favor.”
“I told you, you don’t owe me anything,” he says, his grin fading.
“Whether or not that’s true, you need to see Salamanca. Trust me, Fred, it’s awesome. Please, please let me take you. I think we’ll have fun together.”
He slows his stride. His grin is completely gone now. I think I’ve turned him off—damn it, I didn’t mean to be pushy!
He turns and faces me. Now he’s looking at me, really looking, the two of us standing in the middle of the field. He’s close again; I can make out the freckles that dot his nose and cheeks. I don’t know what to make of his expression. He looks…uncomfortable, I guess.
Shit.
“Rachel,” he says, quietly, “are you asking me out on a date?”
I swallow. “Uh. Maybe? Yes?”
Keeping his eyes locked on mine, he takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose. He tugs a hand through his hair, still wet with sweat.
“Listen, you’re a really great girl, and I appreciate the invitation—”
“Oh,” I say, letting out an embarrassed laugh because I don’t know what else to do. Also, I want to die. His honesty was such a turn-on before, but now it’s just uncomfortable. “Oh, God, this is awkward. Sorry. I’m so sorry, Fred, I thought—I misread—”
“I like you,” he says. My pulse skips a beat. “A lot.”
“Well. Um. Thank you, I guess?”
“And I’m attracted to you.” His gaze moves down my body. I feel it as a physical caress; I have to close my eyes. “I don’t know if you felt it at the party…”
“Yeah. I did, kinda.” God, did I. I’m feeling it now.
“I felt it, too. Any girl who can carry on a conversation about Quidditch…Christ, Rachel, suffice it to say girls like you are few and far between. But as much as I want to—you know. I can’t.”
I open my eyes, confused. “You can’t? Do you, like, have a girlfriend or something?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, yeah? But I know you’re heading home soon, which means you probably aren’t looking for something serious right now.”
“I mean, yeah, I am leaving,” I say. “So, starting something serious really isn’t on my radar. It can’t be.”
“Figured as much.” Fred spears a hand through his hair again. “But I am looking for something serious. Someone serious, I mean. I suppose I’m just a relationship sort of bloke. Which means—”
“Right.” I look down at my feet, grinning tightly. “Means you’re not interested in a casual date. Casual is pretty much all I can offer at the moment.”
He lets out a breath. “Exactly. I hate to be lame—”
“You’re not being lame. You’re being cute. And honest. Not to sound like a total asshole—or make soccer players sound like assholes, I mean—but I never would’ve guessed someone like you would be so committed about being committed. I’m jealous you know what you want. I sure as hell don’t.”
I’m jealous of that someone he’ll eventually find and get serious with. Fred seems like a really freaking great guy. A genuine guy. And yeah, I still think he’d be an even better lay. Not that I’ll ever find out.
Disappointment presses down like a thumb on the center of my breastbone. Not only is this embarrassing. It’s a total bummer.
Then again, what did I expect? Fred is famous, for God’s sake. He’s hot. He knows what he wants, and I have no doubt he’ll find it with some very pretty, very lovely girl here in Spain who also happens to like beer and sports.
I am not that girl. Fred and I—we’re clearly not mean to be.
I just he was less…deliciously ripped. Talented. Genuine. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so disappointed.
“I appreciate that,” he says, and the depth in his eyes lets me know he’s telling the truth. “I was raised by a single mother, and she taught me to respect women. I just can’t…you know. Use someone. It feels wrong.”
I grin. This guy is honest—he’s real—to a fault.
“I get it,” I say.
“Do you hate me?” he says.
“Of course not. I mean, I may crawl under a rock and die when I get home tonight, but besides that…”
He grins. “I’d still like to go to Salamanca, though. If you’re interested in going as friends, I’d love to.”
“Really?” I say.
“Of course. I’ve got a few days off coming up, which doesn’t happen often. We’re playing Galicia at home on Saturday, and then we don’t have another match until the following weekend. I have Sunday and Monday off—would either of those days work?”
I look at him. I’m picking up on it again—that loneliness I saw in him at that party. Does he really have nothing else to do on his rare days off than visit Salamanca with someone he just met at a party? He said he doesn’t have many friends on the team. Now I’m wondering if he doesn’t have many friends, period. I didn’t really think about this before, but I imagine it is difficult to meet people—good, genuine people you want to be friends with—when you’re famous, and living in a foreign country on top of that.
I feel for him. I want to help with his loneliness.
Only I wish I didn’t also want to screw his brains out.
Ugh.
“Yeah,” I find myself saying. “Sunday is perfect.”
He runs a hand up the back of his head again, mussing his hair. It’s an adorably shy gesture that somehow manages to be sexy at the same time. “Great. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me too,” I say, turning away from him. The way he’s looking at me now—it’s too much. He’s too real. Too sexy.
“Wait just a moment.” He reaches out and puts his hand on my arm, looking up at the sky. “The thing that I wanted to show you—it’s about to happen.”
I look up, sucking in a breath at the charge of electricity that moves throu
gh me from his touch. The sky is a blank slate of purple now, darkening with each passing heartbeat. We’re breathing in synch, Fred and I, long, unsteady inhales and exhales that cloud above our heads.
I hear a pop, then another, and another and another, and I blink as the beehive-like field lights come on, illuminating everything. The grass and the bright white chalk lines. The massive goals. The stands and the training facility in the background. The enormous breadth and width of the field itself.
It’s like I’ve been plopped on the pitch in the middle of a night match. The sky above might as well not exist; it’s all about the field, what dramas happen here, what tragedies and triumphs are about to go down. Forget up close and personal; I’m actually inside this world now. The world of professional football.
Fred’s world.
My heart’s in my throat. “Oh, wow,” I breathe. “Fred, this is…it’s incredible.”
“Still gets me every time.” I look down to see him pulling up his sleeve. He holds up his forearm—his thickly muscled forearm, the skin crisscrossed by veins and ridges of sinew—to show me the goosebumps there.
I tug at the sleeve of my jacket. “I have them too!”
“Brilliant, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Brilliant,” I say, trying on a very bad British accent. “That’s exactly how I’d describe it. Totally random thought—but d’you think you could play Quidditch at night?”
He blinks, like he’s surprised by the question.
“Hm,” he says. “Never really thought about it before. But I don’t think you could. The rules let you fly—”
“—as high as you want,” I finish, biting back a grin. “Which is pretty damn high with that Nimbus 2001 I was talking about.”
He’s grinning, too. “God, you’re a nerd.”
“Pot,” I gesture to him, then to me, “meet kettle.”
“You really want to know what I think about playing Quidditch at night? Because now that I’m mulling it over, I’ve got some opinions…”
I laugh. How fun is this, indulging our inner Harry Potter fans together?
“Of course you do,” I say.
He smiles down at me. Our faces got really close all the sudden. When did that happen?
For a second I think…I don’t know what I think. My eyes flick to his lips. They’re perfect; I imagine they’d be deliciously kissable. My own lips feel heavy, tingly.
This can’t happen. Fred just told me that this can’t happen.
I meet his eyes. They look hungry. A little scared. He makes no attempt to hide what he’s feeling. And that, more than anything else, is what’s turning me on right now.
I fall back. Look down, rolling my lips between my teeth. Stop. We’re just friends. Friends, not future fuck buddies.
“I should get going,” I blurt. “It’s late, and…I, uh, have homework?”
He looks away. “Right. Of course. Sorry to keep you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Thanks again for today. Not a lot of people get to experience this.”
“Don’t think anything of it.” He clears his throat. “I told the driver to wait for you out front. I’d drive you home myself, but I’ve got to stay for an appointment with the masseuse. Before you go, though, can I, um, possibly get your mobile number? That way we can make the arrangements for Sunday—”
“Yeah,” I say. We’ve been communicating through Rhys and Laura up to this point; the thought of having Fred’s number in my cell phone makes my pulse hiccup. Seriously, I need to stop. “Of course. Sure.”
All the way back to my dorm, I ride a tidal wave of—of every good feeling that exists, I guess. The skin on my cheeks still tingles with the memory of the kisses Fred left there before I got in the car to go. As a matter of fact, my entire body is tingling. I can hardly sit still.
This doesn’t bode well for the let’s-just-be-friends thing Fred and I talked about; these tingles are definitely not the friendly kind.
He’s not interested in me—he just told me he’s looking to settle down with someone, someone who wants a serious relationship, like him. I am not that someone. Which means I need to wrangle my attraction into submission and move the hell on. There will be other guys. Guys who are as chill and as honest as Fred.
So, yeah. In the meantime, I’ll just keep my hands to myself. I’m not stupid enough to fall for a guy I can’t have. I can control my attraction to guy, no problem. Fred is no different from all the other guys I’ve wanted but haven’t touched.
I’ve kept it in my pants before. I can definitely do it again.
Definitely.
Chapter 4
Fred
Later That Night
I sit down on the edge of my bed and suck in a breath. My knee is on the mend, thanks to a brace and lots of icing, but it’s still sore. Valentina is doing a brilliant job with my rehab. Still, I wonder what Rachel would do.
I wonder how her hands would feel on my skin as she examined me. Her touch would be gentle, confident, and she’d be wearing this tight black dress underneath her lab coat—
I blink at a sudden rush of heat to my groin. Jesus Christ, fantasizing about Rachel playing doctor on me is the last thing I need to do right now. I just told her I only wanted to be friends, for fuck’s sake.
But I can’t stop thinking about her. About our conversation. About the way she looked at me.
And now I think I’m starting to want her.
I grit my teeth, trying to get my body under control. Bloody hell, I’m attracted to this girl in a way I haven’t been attracted to someone in a long time. It was all I could do not to kiss her right there on the practice pitch. The way she looked at me after the lights came on—they way she joked about Quidditch—I bloody loved it. It made me feel…I don’t know.
I suppose it made me feel like I was finally at home on that pitch. I’ve been with the squad for two years now, but I still fight a nagging sense of being lost here in Madrid. I haven’t really “found my people,” so to speak. The lads are nice enough, but there’s something superficial about their obsession with showing off their money. Hot cars, hot girls, hot parties—they can’t brag enough about their exploits. And here I am, a virgin who loves wizards and cheap beer.
Needless to say, our interests don’t quite mesh. I’ve tried to make friends. But no one likes beer and books quite like I do, and I just can’t get excited about dropping six figures on a bloody car. Coming from such a big, close family back in Germany, it’s been an adjustment feeling so out of place. I miss being around people I know—people who know me.
I haven’t felt known, not once, since I’ve been in Spain.
But I felt known tonight with Rachel. I felt like she could see inside my skin, like she understood what made my pieces and parts come together.
And I was tempted to kiss her, because I want to understand her, too. Because I think she might be one of my people.
If that makes any bloody sense at all.
I tug a hand through my hair. Of course I want to know the girl I can’t have. The girl who is leaving the country in a months’ time.
I glance down at my phone. I set my alarm—eight A.M., like always. Then I pull up my contacts.
My thumb hovers over Rachel’s number. I shouldn’t, but I hit the text icon anyway.
You awake? I text. Knee’s bugging me. Thought you might have some advice.
She texts back right away. I heard beer helps, she says. Bavarian beer, in particular. Something about the hops they use being an analgesic. Science!
I smile. What I wouldn’t give to have a pint with her now. But that’d be crossing a line. Friends don’t get pints together on random Wednesday nights. Do they?
Looking forward to Sunday, I say.
Me too, she types back. I’ll be sure to bring my koozies.
***
Saturday Night
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I walk out of the locker room. Bloody hell, I’m knackered. Tonight’s match was one of the most
physical I’ve ever played.
I hit the button at the bottom of my phone, and the screen blinks to life. I’ve got the usual texts and missed calls—mum, my sister, my agent.
And then Rachel’s name pops up at the top of the screen. I ignore everyone—everything—else and open her text so quickly my phone freezes for a moment.
OMG! she texted at 9:37 P.M. That call was bullshit! The guy clearly had it out for you. I watched the replay and he def tried to bite your finger off after the whistle blew. Totally deserved a red card AND a punch to the face. Hope your finger is ok?
My exhaustion disappears. I grin, even as I shake my head. Part of me still feels like I’m being punked. Rachel cracks jokes about Quidditch, about Bavarian beer. And now she wants to talk football penalties?
Seriously, how the hell do I not want this girl?
They had to remove the nail and one knuckle. Lost a lot of blood, but I’ll live.
Major blood loss never hurt anybody, she replies. Also…you’re joking, right?
I am. Finger is fine, I reply, biting the inside of my cheek. God, I wish I could call her. I’d love to chat right now; maybe help me get rid of this second wave of adrenaline that’s suddenly hit me. Did you watch the whole match?
Always do. All the girls in my dorm freaked out when you took your shirt off, BTW.
I rarely take my shirt off after a match—especially when we tie. But I took it off tonight because I had a feeling Rachel would be watching. It was shameless of me, I know. No use egging the poor girl on.
I did it anyway. Maybe because she’s got me all hot and bothered, and I want her to feel some of my pain.
What about you, I type. Did you freak out?
I freaked out when I thought you lost your finger to an overpaid striker with a mullet, she replies, ignoring my question.
Christ, she’s a smart one. Not rising to my provocation is the right move. It’s totally wrong of me, I know, to wish she’d flirt back.
You think Cruz is overpaid?
Lessons In Losing It (Study Abroad Book 4) Page 4