I grasp her hand. It’s warm, maybe slightly sweaty. She does seem dressed a bit too warm for the weather. Combat boots, jeans, a white tank top and a leather jacket. She also doesn’t look like any writer I’ve come across. “A writer for who?” I ask.
“For whom,” she corrects. Then laughs, looking away as she pulls her hand back. “Sorry, I know English isn’t your first language. I must seem like such a brat.”
“You’re not and don’t be sorry,” I tell her and then gesture to the seat beside me. “Please, have a seat.” I pause and watch as she plops down beside me, immediately putting her boots up on the back of the chair in front of her.
“This is nice,” she says, hands folded behind her head and completely at ease. She looks around idly. “Do y’all always hang out here?”
She’s a curious young thing. “In the stands?”
“Yeah. Most interviews I’ve done have been in an office, maybe the locker room or media room.”
I study her. A button nose, full lips painted red, making her wide mouth the focal point. Pale skin that glows against her dark hair. “How many interviews have you done, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She rolls her eyes. “Why? Because I look too young to have any experience? Or because I don’t look like your typical sports journalist?”
“Both.”
She laughs, a hearty guffaw that comes from her belly. It makes me smile.
“I like your honesty. That will be good for the interview, at the very least.”
“So what publication are you with?” I ask her.
For a moment she looks sheepish, or maybe shy, though I already can’t imagine her ever being the latter. “My own, actually. I decided to start my own sports blog, focusing on travel and football. In fact, I only got to Portugal a week ago.” She pauses, meeting my eyes and holding them for a long second. “You’re my first interview.”
My brows raise.
She places her hands on my knee, just for a second, as she leans in, as if she’s confiding in me. Her hair swings in front of her face and I have to keep my eyes glued to hers so I don’t look down her shirt.
It’s extremely hard not to.
“Listen,” she says quickly, “you’re my first interview for the blog. Not in general. I went to the University of Houston, wrote tons for the sports paper. I’ve done all the stuff I needed to do. But, see, soccer…sorry, football, is my life and it’s just not taken seriously enough back home. I needed to come to Europe. I needed to find my own opportunities.”
“That’s very admirable.”
She laughs again and leans back. “Yeah. Or stupid. But either way, here I am.”
“Here you are,” I tell her.
It’s rather amusing because my brother has only recently started acting as my agent, and he’s been adamant about getting me only the best opportunities. This means big publications and appearances at key events and talk shows, etc. It doesn’t mean first-time blogs with someone fresh out of university.
But looking at Ruby, I know exactly why Marco said yes to her.
Because my brother is a womanizer and Ruby is young and gorgeous.
Because I know he’s already asked her out and if he hasn’t, he’s going to do it right after this interview.
I would have a word with him about that but, since I actually don’t mind being in Ruby’s company, I decide to let it go.
Until the next time he does this.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, squinting her eyes as she studies me. She’s leaning forward again, elbows propped on her knees, really looking at me, like she’s trying to read the truth.
“Not at all.”
One final squint and then she nods, smacking her palms against her thighs.
“Okay! So, let’s get rolling.” She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out an iPhone, putting on a microphone app. “Tell me, Luciano Ribiero, where were you born?”
I bristle slightly. We’re going way back here. She should know enough about my past to not need to cover it.
“Is that a bad question?” she asks, frowning.
“Have you done any research about me at all?”
She smiles and it makes my dick move.
Shit. This couldn’t be more inappropriate.
“Done any research?” she asks. Her voice becomes even throatier. “I’m your biggest fan.”
Now I have to laugh. “You are not.”
“I am. I am. I swear on my mother’s rosaries, it’s true.”
“Your mother’s rosaries?”
“She was hugely Catholic. Before she started doing meth. She’s in prison now but I’m not ready to call her a relapsed Catholic just yet. Not sure if there’s anything besides God in jail.”
I start to smile, because surely she must be joking, but she looks completely serious. I stop myself.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She waves her hand at me, her chipped red nail polish catching the last rays of the sun. “This is about you. You were born in Lisbon, right?”
“Yes. Technically Cascais, just outside. Have you been?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll have to go. It’s beautiful.”
“Maybe I will.” She pauses and gives me such a loaded look that I can’t tell if this is her way of getting me to tell her I’ll bring her there, because it won’t take much coaxing. She clears her throat and gives me a quick smile. “I have done my research about you, I just like to hear it from your mouth. You’d be surprised how often the internet is wrong about everything.”
“You can say that again.”
Another soft smile. “So, you were born in Cascais, to Alice and Duarte Almada.”
A smile before the blow of my father’s name.
“Don’t worry, I won’t talk about your birth father,” she says. “I know that must be uncomfortable for you. He left when you were, what, six?”
“Four.”
“That must have been hard.”
I stare at her. Usually when we go down this path in interviews, the journalist has to fake sympathy. Not so much here.
“It was about as hard as you can imagine.”
She nods, her gaze momentarily going across the stadium and I can see the glow of the low sun in her eyes. “I was eight when my mother was arrested. One day she was at home and the next day she wasn’t. It’s not the same and I’m not trying to one-up you. I just know what it’s like, that’s all. Sometimes you think it would be easier if they were dead instead of still out there, living away from you.”
It’s impossible to keep my eyes off of her. When she’s not looking at me, I find it easier to take her in, like I’m watching some rare creature through a blind, a creature that I understand. Because I do understand. After my father left my mother for another woman and jetted off to Brazil to start a new life, with little to no contact with me, I sometimes thought it would be easier if he had died, then at least it wouldn’t be rejection, then at least it would be some closure.
Of course, I never dared voice that to anyone before.
And yet here is this Ruby, a stranger to me, so plainly speaking the things I don’t dare say.
“Anyway,” she says, flashing me another breathtaking smile. “I promise you I’m not a downer. Just wanted you to know that you can trust me, that’s all.” She glances down at her phone for a second. “So then how old were you when your mother remarried?”
I raise a brow. “You really are getting into the dirt, aren’t you?”
“The best interviews are the ones that showcase someone’s humanity, who they are, not what they do. I’ve read a lot of interviews about you. They all talk about the same things…your injury, your future. I want to know who Luciano Ribeiro is, the heart of you. You just have to trust me that I know what to do with it. I’ll protect you.”
There’s a strange worldliness about her, and yet she’s so young. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” she says. “Six years younger
than you. And before you ask your next question, my blog is called Ruby’s Replay.”
“I wasn’t going to ask that but that’s a good name.”
“Thanks,” she says enthusiastically. “Now, where was I?”
“You said you’d protect me.”
“I’m not a vulture, is what I’m trying to say.”
No. You’re definitely not.
“Okay. I trust you. Ask away.”
She sucks in her bottom lip for a long, heady moment. I swallow. The air around me has gotten hotter suddenly.
“So, how old were you when your mother remarried?” she asks, launching into it.
I have to give her credit, she’s good at what she does, making me want to answer the personal shit.
“I was five. My mother and Tomás, my stepfather, got together very fast.”
I try not to sound bitter about that. It’s hard to blame my mother for wanting to move on when my dad left, I just wish…well, no point wishing at this point.
“Tomás Ribeiro,” she says knowingly. “I heard that he saw your mother standing at his stables one day and instantly fell in love. Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“No,” I say slowly.
“Because you’ve never fallen in love at first sight.”
“Is this your segue into my love life?”
“I don’t do segues,” she says with a laugh. “I jump right in. And anyway, everyone who says they don’t believe in love at first sight has never had it happen to them.”
“Well, do you believe in love at first sight?”
“Nope. But it’s never happened to me. Maybe one day I’ll believe.”
“Guess it won’t be with me,” I tell her, flashing her a warm smile.
“Too bad,” she says, making her lower lip pout in a mocking gesture.
Christ, I wish she wouldn’t do that. She has no idea how hot she is, does she?
Or maybe she does.
“So,” she says, looking away. “At the time, Tomás was just thirty and running his own father’s stables. Breeding and training Lusitanos, right?”
“That’s right. I’m surprised you know what a Lusitano is. Everyone always gets them confused with Andalusians.”
“I know horses,” she says, then looks somewhat uncomfortable for a moment. She taps her fingers rapidly against her knee. “Then your mother gets pregnant and they get married and then, bam, they have your brother, Marco. And then when you were six, they shuttled you off to boarding school to play football. I just can’t believe that. Six. How did you handle it, being so young?”
I paste a smile on my face, the one I put on when I need to bury the truth.
“I handled it just fine,” I tell her.
She tilts her head, her eyes running over my face, searching.
I know she doesn’t believe me.
How can any six-year old handle being sent away, while their baby half-brother is doted on and allowed to stay? I was basically abandoned. Marco came into the world and Tomás decided I was extra work and off I went. This sport became my family. I had nothing else.
But I keep those truths locked inside.
“Okay,” she says carefully. “Your father, Tomás—”
“Stepfather.”
“Your stepfather is still a very prominent man with Ribeiro Stables. And Marco, he’s now your agent. Seems like everyone in your family is successful.”
I nod. They are successful and prominent and exactly why I’m not about to slander them to her, or to anyone. I have a lot of baggage I carry with me, baggage no one else knows I still deal with, but it’s mine alone to tackle. I won’t let my pathetic childhood steal the spotlight from this interview, because that’s what it will do. It’s why I get so annoyed when journalists try to dig deep, because they know there is so much to work with, so many soundbites I refuse to give.
Even though Ruby here seems different, she’s still the press. A small sports blog might not seem like much, until they get the interview that no one else can.
Suddenly I’m aware that this may have been Ruby’s angle all along. Pretend to be small, act quirky and laid-back, get me to spill what the media has always wanted me to talk about, how I really feel about my stepfather, or Marco for that matter. Then either post the interview and get traction, or sell the interview to the highest bidder.
“Something happened,” she says, her already low voice dropping a register. She reaches over and waves her fingers in my face. “Something changed. Here. Now.”
“Nothing has changed,” I tell her. “But I do think we’re running out of time. Marco said it would be a quick interview.”
That was true, though we aren’t running out of time. I just want her to go onto questions about the game, about the team. Right now I’d welcome being asked if I’ll stay with Sporting.
“Okay,” she says, then shrugs. “We can hurry it up. I know I can go on a tangent sometimes and there’s nothing more annoying than when an interviewer talks more about themselves.”
That hasn’t been the case, but I let her think that.
She gives me a quick smile. “Onto the game. You went to boarding school for football, and then when you were twelve you were accepted into the Sporting Academy. How much do you think your loyalty to the team lies in the fact that they are the ones that taught you, therefore they are the ones that own you? And that you owe them?”
Holy shit. Why did I think the questions were going to get easier?
I shake my head slowly and can’t help but grin, impressed. “Are you sure your blog is called Ruby’s Replay? I’m not going to find out this blog has millions of subscribers?”
“One day I will,” she says. “But not today.” Beat. A twinkle in her eye. “Are you going to answer the question, Mr. Ribeiro?”
“It’s Luciano.” I adjust myself in my seat, straightening up. “Do I feel loyalty to Sporting because I went to the academy? Of course I do. They taught me everything I know, it feels right to stay with the team that has always been there for you. It’s what the fans expect, it’s what Lisbon expects. I don’t know why people think I’ll go to Benfica.”
“That’s not where I think you’ll go,” she says. “You’re going to go somewhere else. Man U, perhaps. Inter Milan. Barcelona. You’re going to go to another team and become someone else’s hero. Just not Sporting. Because you’re too good for that.”
I can’t help but blink, taken aback by her bluntness. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you were my biggest fan.”
She laughs, her head thrown back, displaying a smooth pale throat. You’d think I was turning into a vampire from the way I was staring at it. “Oh, you are surprisingly naïve.”
“Me?” I jab my thumb into my chest. “What now?”
She leans in and whispers, enough that I catch a whiff of sweet perfume. “I lied about that. I only started doing research on you last week after a guy I met at a café told me he was your biggest fan.”
Well shit.
“But,” she adds quickly, “I quickly learned why he’d say that. I did my research. I’ve watched and rewatched your best games. You are pretty fucking good.”
“I’ll try not to let that go to my head,” I say wryly. “But it’s hard to believe you now. You swore on your mother’s rosaries.”
She shrugs. “She swore on her rosaries all the time too. Told me she wouldn’t do drugs anymore. Told me she wouldn’t drink anymore. Told me she wouldn’t violate her parole. She lied each and every time.”
I don’t want to talk about myself anymore. I want to talk about her.
But then movement catches my eye and both of us look over to the aisle where Marco is walking up the steps toward us.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Marco says, sliding his hands into his pockets, wearing a slick new suit that must have cost a fortune. He comes to a stop beside us.
“Not at all,” Ruby says to him, though I’m not sure I’d answer the same.
“I hope m
y brother is behaving,” Marco says, glancing at me only briefly before smiling at her like a dumbass. I know that look. I’m pretty sure that’s how I’ve been smiling at her too.
“He’s as charming as I imagined,” she says, and now she’s smiling at him this same way.
Figures.
“We were just wrapping up,” I say, getting to my feet.
She gasps and reaches out, grabbing my forearm, my skin alighting where her fingers press against me. “Noooo. We’re not done. We’re just getting started.”
“Then how about you continue this interview tomorrow,” Marco says. “That way, Luciano, you can go home, do whatever it is you’re wanting to do, and I can take Ruby to dinner.”
Ruby’s hand falls away from my arm and she stares at Marco.
Bold fucking move, brother.
“Dinner?” Ruby asks.
Marco’s shoulders lift in that way he’s perfected. All the women fall for it. He pretends to not care, and I don’t even think he’s pretending half the time. “If you want. You said you’ve only been in Lisbon a week and I doubt you’ve been to Cave 24, the best restaurant here.”
She laughs. I loved the sound of her laugh when it was for me, not so much now. “Listen, I’ve been living in a hostel and subsisting on those famous little pastries for days. You can take me anywhere.”
“Good, it’s settled,” I say, squeezing past Ruby so she has to tuck her legs in to let me pass.
“Why don’t you come too?” Ruby calls out to me as I pass by Marco.
I glance at him and see the pure disappointment on his face. As the older brother, I really shouldn’t indulge my petty side and agree to crash their little date.
So I take the high road. I always do.
“I’ve got plans,” I say to her. I pat Marco on the shoulder. “Have fun. We’ll continue the interview another time.”
“I’m going to hold you to that!” Ruby yells at me as I head down the stairs.
My hope is that she’ll go out with Marco, he’ll screw her over like he screws over every other woman, then she won’t want to finish the interview and then this whole thing will be forgotten.
But something deep inside tells me it won’t be that easy when it comes to that girl.
The One That Got Away: A Novel Page 3