Entry Three: January 18, 2008

~Eva~

“Thank you for accepting,” the man, who seemed familiar, mentioned. I glanced up, meeting his intense gaze. I smiled weakly, “It’s fine, really.”

“No, it means a lot to me. I felt bad that you were yelled at in front of a crowd for something I caused. And you really looked like you could use a nice cup of coffee,” he returned kindly. I smiled, “That’s true. Coffee was high on my priorities at the time.”

“There we are, a proper smile!” he grinned. I blushed slightly, ducking my head down.

“So, what’s your name?” he asked, taking a sip of his own drink. I glanced down into the murky depths of my own. “Eva,” I answered softly. “Bueno, it’s nice to meet you, Eva, considering the circumstances. I’m Xavi,” he said. He didn’t offer a hand, but a smile. It was infectious, and I was unable to stop myself from returning it, which only resulted in him smirking a bit wider.

“So do you live here in Barcelona?” he questioned, lightly swirling his cup of coffee. I nodded, “Born and raised.”

A mischievous look appeared, “Barça or Espanyol?” I arched a brow, “Does that matter?” He nodded in affirmation. I shook my head, wondering if all men were like that. “Barça – always has been,” I responded.

His grin widened, “Perfect!” I couldn’t help but smile, “What, being a culé?” He nodded vigorously, “Wouldn’t want it any other way.” “So you would have been severely disappointed, had I been a Madridista?” I teased. He shuddered playfully at the thought, “Don’t even joke about it!”

I glanced around, and saw people were still staring. It couldn’t be at me anymore.

“So, why are people still staring at you?” I questioned. He winced, “I guess I should have warned you. Um…you might be in a few tabloids tomorrow, claiming you’re my new girlfriend.”

I slumped slightly in my seat, “And why would that happen?”

“I’m a footballer,” he mumbled. “And you play for Barça?” I ventured. He nodded, “How did you know?” “One, you asked Barça or Espanyol. Not many people care about that rivalry unless they are on one of the two teams or have lived here in Barcelona. Two, the fact that you speak Catalan suggests that either of those could be true. But the real give away is the look in your eyes when you mention Barça. The affection is there, when it clearly isn’t for the other team.”

He blinked, “I really show…affection?” His question was soft. I nodded, smiling slightly, “Your love for your team is blatant.”
A slightly bitter expression passed over his face, “Which is probably why I can’t keep a girlfriend.”

I looked up in surprise, “What?” He glanced back, apologetic, “Sorry…it’s just, my last girlfriend broke up with me because I love football too much.” He sounded incredulous even as he said the words, and probably not for the first or second time.

“The way I see it, it’s not your fault,” I shrugged, drinking the last of my coffee, setting the empty cup down to the side as I observed him.

“Really?” he asked skeptically.

I nodded, “I assume this love of football didn’t come overnight, meaning she knew it was there coming into the relationship. So it seems to me she liked, maybe loved you for what you are, not who you are.”

He looked at me, completely stunned. “That’s…that’s what you think?” he questioned.

I nodded, “I mean, I have a limited perspective of it all, since I only have known you for twenty minutes at best, and have known your name for about five, but your passion for football is apparent. There’s no hiding or mistaking it. The only thing a woman who didn’t like it would go into a relationship with is the hope to change you. Thus, she doesn’t love you for who you are. It’s probably great that you’re a footballer because you make a good amount of money and you’re famous. But you are supposed to love her more. That’s what I get out of this.”

He shifted in his seat, his eyes darkened as he thought. I glanced at my empty cup, and then grabbed it. “Well, thanks for the coffee, Xavi,” I said, standing. My chair scraped along the tile flooring, attracting more attention. His name rolled off my tongue with ease.

He looked up, and stood as well. I threw away the empty cup, and he mimicked my actions, following me out the door. Darkness had fallen completely over the city, lights illuminating the streets.

“Can I drive you home, since I kept you out so late?” he proposed.

I shook my head. The last thing I needed was to tell a professional footballer that I was homeless. “No, I don’t mind the walk.” “Please, let me,” he pleaded.

I looked at him in surprise, and took a step back. He frowned, running a hand through his gelled hair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so…so forceful. It’s just…no one has ever seen it that way before. They think I should change. You see me differently. I was…I guess I was hoping to talk more.”

I smiled at him, taking in his defeated posture. He wasn’t even looking me in the eye anymore. “How about you buy me another cup of coffee, and you can talk all you want,” I proposed.

He looked up eagerly, “You mean it?” I nodded, “You don’t have a game tomorrow, so sure. Eight sound good?” He nodded eagerly. “And you sure you don’t want a ride? It’s pretty chilly out,” he said. I shrugged, “Nothing I’m not used to. I’ll see you tomorrow, Xavi.” As I walked away, his voice followed me, “Until then, Eva…”


~Aurora~

I crossed the club mechanically. People danced to my left, and to the right, people ordered their drinks. I weaved through the crowd, sending a passing glance at the people who had blocked my view. They were the typical customers in this place, rich clothing, and ignorance to most of what happened around them.

That was often the life of the rich, those born into it, not those who’d worked to rise above.

We, the kind that worked for our positions, we valued more. We learned not to take anything for granted, because we knew how easily it could all be lost, and we remembered what it was like before we had it all.

I finally broke free of the crowd, and spotted him again. He was already waiting, having expected my arrival, his eyes already set on the exact place I appeared from. The corner of her mouth tugged upward as he gestured with his head for me to come. I felt my feet move regardless of my will, and soon, with drink in hand, I stood before him.

Our eyes met again, and I felt weak, and helpless.

It was as if his eyes looked into my very soul, he saw beneath the layers of clothes and defenses, and he saw me – just me. He didn’t see a manager, he saw a woman. I shivered, and remained standing.

“Bona nit,” he said, his voice even deeper than I imagined. It was rich, and smooth. His countenance was so contrary. I thought his voice would be rough, rugged like his appearance, but it was more than refined. It was enticing, so much so that I sat in the booth opposite of him, my drink clinking slightly as I set it on the table. Words seemed to fail me, so I settled for nodding in response.

“I’m Carles,” he said when I failed to speak. I managed to respond to that, “I know.”

He arched a brow, though it was mostly obscured by his hair. I smiled shyly, “I’m a huge fan of Barça, capità.” He looked momentarily surprised before leaning in, smirking. “Oh?” he questioned. I nodded confidently. Drill me, grill me – I stood by Barça through thick and thin.

I lifted the sangría to my lips, downing the tangy drink with ease, hiding the slight shudder that ran through my body from its intensity.

“So, why am I here?” I asked, confidence growing as my inhibitions began to slip, courtesy of the alcohol.

“I thought that would be obvious,” he said, his dark eyes shining in the dim lights. The song changed, even sultrier than the last. I sighed, “Is it?” He nodded, “You felt it, no?” It all rushed back – the spark, the warmth, the electricity, the rush – that single moment.

I nodded, “Yes, I felt it.”

He looked pleased, “Bueno. So, what is your name?” “Aurora,” I answered. He smiled slightly, “Not a Catalan name.” I shook my head, “I was born in Colombia.” He nodded, taking a swing from his own drink.

We fell into a comfortable silence, taking each other in. His eyes ran up and down my form, and I did the same to him. He wasn’t wearing the normal tee and jeans combo he was often pictured in. His jeans were a dark wash, and he wore a black oxford. The top buttons were undone, revealed his tanned chest. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his powerful arms shown. It took all of my power not to stare.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked out of the blue.

I agreed instantly, since I had wanted to all night. He held his hand out after standing, leading me to where the other couples were already swaying.

He placed my hand on his shoulder, my other following naturally. His one fell to the small of my back, the other on my waist. Once again the touch was electric, and I shivered under his power. Overwhelmed, I was led in the slow movements that he spun us through.

For such a muscular man, he was quite graceful, and his movements were exact.

Cliché as it was, the others on the floor seemed to disappear around us, and only he and I remained. We looked directly in each other’s eyes, not caring about anything else.

The song ended all too soon, and all of a sudden we were back in the club, surrounding by dozens of others, all of whom were far from important anymore. Carles seemed to notice my thoughts, and his hand slid up, and took my own. “Want to get out of here?” he asked.

I nodded, not even thinking of the implications of his proposal.

He paid for the drinks, and led me into the crisp night air. “Where are we going?” I questioned, following him without question. He didn’t answer, and instead led the way through the city streets.

At last we came to a stop. Before my eyes was an ice skating rink. I look up at him in awe. Never had I expected something like this. We rented skates, and made our way onto the ice. We wobbled around the rink together, hanging on to each other tightly.

Several times we ended up falling together, but simply laughed.

By the time we finished, we were shivering, but were smiling constantly.

“I had a good time,” I said as we came to a stop back in front of the club, where both of our cars were parked. “So did I,” he answered truthfully. We gazed at each other, another moment rushing by, nearly sending me staggering.

“Will I see you again?” I asked suddenly. “It depends. I would need your number for that,” he replied, a casual smirk appearing. I grinned, and reached into his pocket, taking out the sharpie I had seen him use to sign several autographs through the night. I grabbed his hand, pushing up the sleeve of his coat, and scribbled my cell number on his forearm. I capped the marker, and returned it.

As I began to walk off, he called after me, “Don’t you want mine?” I grinned, “I already have it, numero cinco!”