Chapter Five

August 16th, 2011 – Barcelona, Spain

It was strange for it to be so hot during August, but it was the first time I had ventured out of the Southern Hemisphere in my life.
I looked down at the suitcase by my side. All of my life, packed up in this one bag, save what was in my backpack.

I finally spotted him, trying his hardest to blend in. Two suited men, who looked like guards to me, stood on either side of him.

However, people all around him were gawking. I nervously tucked my hair behind my ear, closing the distance. One of the guards reached down, taking my suitcase from me. “Thanks,” I murmured, flashing a nervous smile. I saw the flashing of cameras off to my right, and I turned my head to avoid the bright light.

“Of course they’re here,” I heard Leo mutter. He led the way, the guards clearing a path for us out to the waiting car. My things were placed in the trunk, and we were finally given sanctuary as the door closed. The windows were tinted to give us privacy as the car pulled away from the curb.

Leo’s knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel tightly.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. He glanced over as we reached a red light. “You have bruises on your neck,” he muttered. I sighed. The incident with Carlos had left hand-shaped bruises along my neck, and while they weren’t prominent against the darker tone of my skin, they were visible close up.

I looked down at my lap, unsure of what to say. It was my fault, after all, that he was upset. “Sorry…” I muttered at last. “No, don’t you dare apologize for Carlos…” he spat.

“Oh…sorry…” I said, falling silent.

We drove the rest of the way to his house in silence. Once there, he got out, and went to the trunk to get my things as I got out. I watched him haul the giant suitcase out, and close the trunk. He began to pull it up the driveway as I scrambled after him, “Hey, I can take that.” He looked back at me, “Lia, did Carlos never things like this for you? Carry your bags? Open doors for you? Things like that?”

His question stung. “You don’t need to remind me of how horrible of a boyfriend he was, Leo. I understand,” I whispered, coming to a stop.

Tears prickled in my eyes, and I resisted the urge to just run away. But this time, I really had nowhere to go.

He froze, and noticing my reaction. He dropped my bag, and quickly gathered me into his arms. “Shit, Lia, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just hate him…I hate him so much. I’m sorry,” he whispered, pulling me into a hug. I melted into his arms. I really didn’t want to fight with him. I had done enough of that with Carlos.

He finally pulled back, picking my suitcase back up, and we walked into his house. It was grand as well, but in a more simplistic way. There was nothing ornate about it, but it was beautiful.

“Welcome home,” Leo said, smiling at her.


August 16th, 2011 – Barcelona, Spain

I sat on Víctor’s sofa, looking out of place in his modern house in my casual jeans and hoodie combo. Then again, his outfit wasn’t much different, but he held himself in a way that radiated power, like he belonged in such an expensive setting.

“Here you go,” he said, handing her a bag, “Presents from across the pond, as the British say.”

I smiled, though I thought it was all unnecessary. I reached in, and pulled out a hat that was camouflage, and read FBI on it. “This is so tacky,” I said, laughing. He grinned, “I found the tackiest looking vendor in DC and got it.” I grinned, sticking it on my head, unashamed. I’d worn worse, not that I would admit that to him. The next item was even tackier – a tye-dye tee with I <3 DC on it.

“I take it back, this is tacky. It makes the hat look tame,” I decided, earning another laugh.

I reached in again, and found some American snacks, which looked decent. He’d also gotten be a cowboy hat from Dallas, in pink to be obnoxious, and an inflatable floatie rings from Miami.

“Did you hit up tacky street vendors in every city?” I asked incredulously. “Yeah, pretty much,” he laughed.

I pouted as I removed the last tacky souvenir, a pair of flip flops with Miami written on them. He chuckled, and pulled out another bag. “More goodies!” I said, clapping my hands together eagerly. He tossed the bag over, and I caught it easily.

I gasped as I pulled out a beautiful green jersey – his, from last season. “I was hoping you’d wear it to the game tomorrow…if you can come. Felipa too, if it isn’t too late for her…” he said, rubbing the back of his head.

I grinned, “I’d love to! And Felipa is going to be so excited!”

He gestured to keep going, and reaching in, I found a beautiful jersey in my daughter’s size. I gaped at him, “How did you know what size to get?” “I’m psychic,” he replied, grinning, proud of himself. I flipped it around, admired the Blaugrana colors. I noted that it displayed Puyol’s number. “And how did you know her favorite player?”

Víctor chuckled, “I stalked your Facebook. Does she really call me Señor baldy?”

I blushed brightly, “What else did you see?” “Other than a few embarrassing pictures of you, nothing too condemning – but you were definitely right.”

“About what?” I asked curiously. “Felipa. She is the most beautiful girl on the planet,” he answered, completely serious. “What about me?” I asked, trying to play down how much his words moved me. “You, Ariela, are a woman,” he said, licking his lips.
My mouth snapped shut as we gazed at each other.

I wasn’t sure what was even happening anymore. How could anyone be so perfect? How and why did he care so much about my daughter, whom he hadn’t even met yet? I had been nervous to introduce them, because then it would become that much more real…that much more likely to end. It was selfish, but I was afraid.

“Can I meet her? After the game, I mean?” he asked suddenly. I nodded before I even thought about it. How could I deny him anything after that?


August 16th, 2011 – Barcelona, Spain

“The guys brought me back this stuff from America,” Leo explained as I examined the blue box skeptically. “Why on earth do they call it ‘Easy Mac’? Macaroni and cheese isn’t hard to make from the beginning…” I asked.

He shrugged, “I guess it’s an American thing.”

He grabbed the box, and dumped the noodles into the pot of boiling water. I was sitting at the counter, watching him cook this stuff Americans called food. I still had my reservations. I looked at the small packet he’d put down, and frowned when I realized it was cheese in powder form. “Is this even eatable?” I questioned, pointing to it. He chuckled, “I haven’t heard anyone dying from it yet.”

Soon the macaroni was ready, and he stirred in the powder cheese. It was bright yellow, and looked radioactive. I looked at it uneasily before taking a bite.

“Well?” Leo asked.

“It’s disgusting,” I answered, taking another bite. And then another. And another. He laughed, “Really?” I nodded, ignoring his grin. Ok, it wasn’t as bad as I thought…but the color was still off putting, and the yellow stuff wasn’t real cheese. That was impossible.

He was beginning to eat some for himself when the doorbell rang. I groaned, “Let me go hide. I look like a mess…” He rolled his eyes, “Stay put. You look fine.”

I slumped forward, continuing my meal.

Three men came in after Leo, all stopping to look at me curiously. Had they never seen a young woman in jeans, an old hoodie, and hair in a messy bun in Leo’s kitchen before? Apparently not, by the way they looked between us several times. I just ate, deciding that was better than worrying about it. Leo could give an explanation.

“Guys, this is my friend Lia from Rosario,” he said, nodding his head in my direction, “And Lia, this is Gerard Piqué, Carles Puyol, and Cesc Fàbregas.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said after swallowing.

“Is that the macaroni we got you from America? Isn’t it delicious?” Gerard asked, gesturing to Leo’s bowl. The star striker nodded, pulling the dish toward him possessively. The defender laughed, before flashing a smile my way. “Leo didn’t tell us you’d be visiting? Are you coming to the game tomorrow?”

I nodded, “Yeah, Leo got me a ticket.” “And she’s going to be staying here for a while,” Leo added, I’m pretty sure directed to me more than his friends. I nodded, shoveling in more macaroni.

They ended up talking about football, and I was sad to say I really had no idea what was going on. It’d been impossible to keep up with European football, especially in Argentina, especially while in college. I was content to just listen to them rattle on, seeing the passion for the sport written all over their faces.

“So is it true you paid 5 million of your own money to come here?” Leo asked, finishing his macaroni. Cesc nodded, “Yeah, that part is true.”

“You must really love the club,” I said, speaking for the first time, though I wished I hadn’t when they all turned to look at me. Each had on a different expression, all four wanting an explanation. I sat, fiddling nervously with my fork, unsure if I should continue.

“What do you mean?” Cesc asked at length.

“Well…I saw in the news you were captain for another team, right?” I said, unsurely. He nodded encouragingly. “Well, that shows that you had gone far with that club, that you fought for them, and loved them. But you were willing to give up that role of leadership and pay a large sum of your own money to come here. You don’t do that just for trophies. You do that out of dedication and love,” I shrugged. Hell, it was why I left Argentina, in a sense.

“So you don’t think I just hate Arsenal for their lack of trophies?” he asked, stunned. “Hate is a paralytic, you stay put and complain. Love in a motivator. That is what will lead you to put up with bad press, and all that you’re facing,” I said simply.

I stood, and walked to the sink. I grabbed Leo’s bowl on the way, and washed both. After putting both on the drying rack, I started out of the room.

“Where are you going?” Leo asked. “To unpack,” I answered, thinking of my large suitcase.

“Lia,” Cesc called after me. I turned, looking at him questioningly. “When you come to the game tomorrow…will you cheer for me?” he asked. It was such a simple question. But he’d been criticized by Arsenal fans, and even some Barça fans. Many thought he was a traitor. “Of course,” I smiled, and then continued on my way, hoping I’d said the right things to make him feel better.


August 17th – Camp Nou, Barcelona, Spain

The seats Víctor had gotten for Felipa and I were amazing, right at midfield, near the bottom. We would be able to see all of the action with ease.

There was only one row in front of us. Both Felipa and I were wearing our new jerseys. She was bouncing excitedly, eating the candy she’d snuck in, not that I could really do anything about it. At least she’d stay awake because of the extra sugar.

Looking around, I saw a lot of Messi jerseys in the stands.

The woman in front of me was wearing on, though hers looked particularly nice. In fact, the longer I looked at the jersey, the more authentic it seemed. I was beginning to wonder if it was when I noticed old bruises sprinkled along her arms. My curiosity, as well as concern, was peaked. I wanted to know who she was, and who had left that hand-shaped bruise on her forearm.

I was trying to think of a way to strike up a conversation when Felipa accidently dropped her box of candy into the seat in front of her.

The woman scooped it up, and turning around handed it back.

My eyes widened as I recognized her. She was the woman that was photographed with Messi at the airport the yesterday, and had the media in an uproar. She smiled kindly at Felipa and me before turning back around, her gaze focused on her phone as she idly texted. “Thank you,” I spoke up at last. She turned back around, “It was no problem.” Her Spanish was accented.

“I’m Ariela,” I said, hoping to befriend her. She looked like she needed friends, something told me that, though I wasn’t sure what. She smiled a bit wider, “I’m Noelia, but call me Lia.”

“This is my daughter, Felipa,” I added.

She turned her attention to my daughter, “Nice to meet you.” My eyes widened in realization, “You’re from South America!” I blurted. She nodded, looking nonplussed, “From Argentina, to be exact.” “Do you really pronounce the ‘ll’ differently?” I asked before I could stop myself. She shot me an amused look, but nodded.

“Sorry…I’ve always wondered that…” I said sheepishly. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to ask,” she said dismissively.
“So, are you a Barça fan?” I questioned, genuinely curious. She shrugged, “I haven’t really watched them play. I’m a Messi fan if anything. I didn’t get many La Liga games over in Argentina.” I nodded in understanding. “Well, you get to see the big rivalry for your first game then.” She grinned, “I was assured it would be intense, and that a fight was probable, and red cards guaranteed.” I nodded, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“I also heard the Real Madrid coach…was it Mourinho? I heard he is nasty,” she said, frowning as she tried to remember his name. I nodded, “That doesn’t do it justice. He is the most irksome…I can’t continue without swearing…” I looked down at Felipa, and she nodded in understanding.

Suddenly El Cant del Barça started playing, and everyone stood, ready to sing.

The game was about to begin.